Sunday, September 30, 2007


The timescale of love

I remain furious at being in my thirties - the tedious decade of serious po-faced hell where woman wave their shrivelling ovaries about and men just get fatter and more dull. I'm lucky, in the sense that I got married when I was very young, but if I had not got married then - I would never have got married because although I sound exactly like my mother - if you don't get getting married over with, by the time you are twenty five - you are fucked.

The reason is this - at twenty six - women start to feel like they are "in a place" to settle down - they feel sprightly enough to face the entire day of hideous gruelling pain that is childbirth, and convince themselves that the dolty boy they are dating is interesting enough to watch- watch sport for the rest of their days. So the girl gets excited - tells her mates she is ready to settle down, that they should start planning the hen occasion, and buying pieces of genital shaped chocolate, and that they need to think about what they will wear on the big day.

The trouble is, that men at that age have generally managed to earn just about enough money to buy a stupid large television, or some overpriced shoes, and they have a gaggle of idiot friends called "Pie face" and "Shedders" that they can go skiing with and fight over who gets to fuck the chalet girl. In short - these men start to have a fairly high opinion of what type of a catch they really are. The spots of adolescence may have faded to silvery pock marks. A few extra quid here and there will help mask the aura of fucking tedious spoddery that may have lingered on in the early twenties, and money will always attract the gash, and the bloke might just start to swagger about a bit and fancy himself rotten, or declare himself to have "an edge" which staggeringly does seem to pull some women. Idiot ones, but still, cat is cat.

The girlfriend, on the other hand, will start leaving magazines around open on the diamond pages and trying to drag the bloke off for country weekends spent picking flowers and walking in the dark, hoping for the big moment - and if she is bloody minded enough, she will keep this behaviour up as far as the age of about thirty two when she will give up on the idea of marriage, settle for whatever else she is doing in life as the meaning for her existence - start thinking about adopting Chinese babies or a slightly itinerant lifestyle, or opening a shop in the country or "writing a book" or whatever, but it sure won't involve the silly boy of her late twenties.

At this point the male immediately sets out to couple up and breed. If the woman hasn't been strong minded enough to give her idiot the elbow, he will start pestering the girlfriend to start IVF or get married and move miles away from all of her friends and work, and just moon around after him. By this point in the chick's career she might be doing rather well for herself and be enjoying success that she herself has earned, rather than waiting around for happiness that depends on some balding, conceited cunt, so she will either tell him to shove it and move abroad and start dating much younger men, or she will settle for his idiot plan and spend the rest of her life waiting for him to die, whilst making her children's lives an utter misery, because she has devoted her life to meeting the needs of her moron partner, neglected her own dreams and basically resigned herself to the life of an emotional zombie. This won't entirely pass the male by, who, after congratulating himself for having been big enough to marry the whore, will then be confused as to why she isn't beside herself with gratitude. This confusion will turn to anger, which will spur him on to go out and find someone who jolly well does appreciate him. Once he has cleared off, the wife will be stuck in the arse of the country with kids she didn't actually want, and the man will feel slighted that, by doing the right thing, he actually did the wrong thing, but still out of bloody mindedness and a desperation to prove that he was right after all, will then proceed to ruin the life of his second wife, by hurrying her into the breeding- moving-to -the -country -where -he -watches- her- for -signs- of -happiness cycle, again, being disappointed when she seems unhappy, fucking off and repeating until his money runs out, or he alternatively he will give up on women entirely, and actually discover that he is quite happy without them.

I am forever listening to people going on "The only point of being alive is to form relationships with other people" I don't agree one bit - people are a fucking nause and quite why they think it is okay to team up and breed more people out of boredom or misery, I can only imagine it is out of unspeakable arrogance. That is all.

Thursday, September 27, 2007


Perfectionists can eat my shit

Look away, Christian Fundamentalists. Frankly you really ought not to be here in the first place. My soul isn't up for saving and if you are getting some kind of superior thrill by disapproving of the utter shite I spout, then I suggest you remember the sin of Pride.

The reason I am being so incredibly sensitive towards Creationists is because I am about to rant incoherently about evolution and I just can't face the tedious "God made fossils as a joke" Or "Galapagos finches have a special beak because Our Lord felt that area of the earth deserved birds with alternately lengthening and shortening beaks, not because without those adaptable beaks the poor, thirsty fuckers would desiccate in a drought and afterwards their great gangly unnecessary beak length shrunk because Jesus felt they were not comely creatures". Fuck off. Things evolve and mutate for a reason and that is survival. No change, no life.

So, it irritates the knackers off me that we still have perfectionists in the world - those petty minded cunts who spend hours talking about and achieving small things in a flawless way. Perfectionists are actually rather mediocre creatures, dabbling away single mindedly at the one thing they can do. I don't trust people with really good handwriting, for instance, and not just because I write like a beetle, but because handwriting is really gay. People who practise calligraphy should be shot to pieces in plastic lined rooms for being weird. Handwriting is a poor example, the lower end of the perfectionist food chain, but still, for wanting to be in the perfect gang, those cursive writing, gothic scribe types need a frightening and slow-paced death.

Perfectionists taint the environment of those around them, since their little area od perfection inevitably requires the involvement of a small team of onlookers and helpers. They are the parasites of the office - causing all other work to slow and fester while they fiddle with their lame projects, make secretaries cry and try the patience of all around in the pursuit of some small gain. And the absolute narcissism of the perfectionist is just beyond staggering - the houseproud wife who rules a clean-lined prison cell with gestapo grip as her family plot their escape, the really fucking slow carpenter monkeying with joists and angles - who cares? Or the ruthless businessman cheating sleep to cheat his clients with sharp practices and flawless accounting - just fucking fuck off. The joke is that perfectionism precludes survival. The caveman taking an extra minute to whittle his flint axe into the ultimate cutting edge would be better served getting to his feet and fighting with a blunter surfaced weapon than spending that extra minute letting the enemy with worse tools steal a march on him. Perfect engineering fucks up at the first sniff of a bit of rusty oil, whereas the old banger car will creak into wheezy life with a few turns of the ignition and a bucket of two stroke.

Perfectionists need a crowd of givers, a crowd of people willing to take hit after hit to support their single minded miserable goals, which ultimately lead to heartbreak as the perfectionists either fail, or succeed, and then feel obliged to raise the bar - opening the chance for a world of pain, as one day they realise they are not perfect, and retreat into whiny, self pitying, self regard and get busy blaming either those around for not being supportive enough, or blame themselves, which is just another outlet for their merciless vanity.

I get that most human pleasure and satisfaction needs to be reasonably hard won. Empty joy tends to beget pain, although I will see through a monster hangover as payment for a cracking night out. That said, there is no need to be so hideously hard -nosed, small battles won will do - tell the rude person at the post office to fuck off, get the last packet of frazzles from under the nose of some dithering bitch in the supermarket, walk through the rain to buy your fags, but for Christ's sake don't make a meal of it. That is all

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