Friday, February 29, 2008


Life, Art and American TV

When I was a small child I knew three words of Spanish. This was thanks to American children's daytime programme Sesame Street. Now I am a grown-up I can say, quite truthfully, that everything I know about American Presidential Elections, I learnt from the TV show 24. I think I am not alone in this.

I am not grateful to 24 for teaching me about it - I have never wanted to know anything about American politics and Americans used not to be bothered whether anyone else knew either, twenty years ago they were quite self-contained about their internal affairs - rather like the Chinese - concentrating more on their own sovereignty and less on interferring in other peoples business and washing their dirty linen in public. Now it's a different story of course - a really long and tedious one, and their political motives leak into everything they fucking do - including making entertainment.

For me, the best bits of 24 were watching people die from biological warfare, close-up footage of a nuclear bomb exploding, torture scenes, showdowns between CTU agents and terrorists, all the many, many moles in the American intelligence services and the really impressive facial recognition software and satellite imagery used in counter terrorism. The worst bits of 24 were the Presidential Primaries and all the White House chat, tedious in fighting between administrative staff, worthy monologues about what is good for America and fatuous glimpses into the work-life balance of a Yank leader.I suppose there is some good in it, in that 24, showed the American people a black man as a good president, and this, perhaps, has gone some way to smooth the passage of Obama to his current witterings and ravings from podia around the country. In the same way that smoking in films encourages children to take up the habit, so the subconscious message of a man of colour doing a good job in the oval office may filter through to the dumbass, narrow, passport-free minds of a lot of the American voting public. However, if I were Mr Obama, I would sleep with a gun under my pillow because in series five, President Palmer gets shot through a hotel window. That is all


Monday, February 25, 2008


Legalise Grafitti

I am all for legalising things. I think prostitution should be legalised and tarts should be on a register and pay tax and have enforced disease screenings, and I think drugs should be legalised and dealers should pay import tax on their shit and junkies should be dished out what they need on the NHS, and screened and helped and I think grafitti should be legalised because it is pretty harmless just scrawling on walls that no one looks at anyway, and there is a lot more harm done with it being illegal.

The harm I am talking about is the "street" cool reputation grafitti has. It makes me want to shit. Don't get me wrong now, I admire the hand eye co-ordination one must need to make a picture out of colourful deodorant - I could not do grafitti art as I have the fine motor skills of a snail. And some of it really looks quite nice. When I am on a train, which I frequently am these days, the underside of a bridge is only enhanced by tags and squirly shapes, and as for the train carriage having some decoration inside or out - well why not? It can only be an improvement on the miserable colours and vulgar antimacassars and lame posters about art sported by provincial trains in this country. And the other day I saw a train that just said "Legoland" all fucking over it. I hate lego - it makes your feet hurt when you stand on it and the little figurines have square heads with a great bulbous wart on their scalps - fucking Scandinavian horrible shite it is. No - go on now, you grafitti artists and spray your phrases and shapes and pictures all over the trains - crack on with it, you have my blessing.

But would you all give it a rest with making a fuss about the monkeys who do the spraying! There is a constant stream of broadsheet newspaper writers, wide -eyed and wanking, spouting their brave, edgy thoughts on the artistic merits of one shadowy can-toter or another. Just fuck off to the Slade if you are a good grafitti artist, or Monmartre if you are shit and do art and sell it and stuff if you want to be famous,or just squirt paint on dirty walls if you have no talent but enjoy defacing things - I don;t care either way as long as you shut the fuck up about it. Quit trying to get "recognised", it is fucking tedious. I won't even broach the subject of those spod writers who promote underground culture,pretending to be coming up from the streets - one day the warm fuzzy street-cool feeling these cunt writers seek, will be provided by their own blood, as they drown in it, after being shot by a gangsta, irritated by nosey social tourism. There's no need for me to get involved- I'll save my ire.

When I lived in Beijing, the Chinese were busy pulling down all their shacks (the hutongs) and there was a song and a dance from all the tedious expats "Oh the heritage!" they moaned from their warm condominiums "Oh it's a part of history gone!" as the inhabitants of the hutongs were hoiked out of their damp freezing sheds and rehoused in tower blocks with indoor lavatories. "oh the quaintness the city is losing!", as Beijing prepared to build itself gaga, in preparation for the Olympics and the vast amounts of cash and employment opportunities a massive international event would bring to the city.

And one bloke who was against the hutong- pulling- down thing, used to go about and draw a picture of a face and an AK47 on the walls of the next area destined for the bulldozer. He became this underground hero - and all the shitty little expat magazines would carry stories about him, making a "point" with his pictures. I was quite fascinated by the stories and set out to find one of his artworks - and do you know what it was? It was a fucking chad - that is what it was, one of those simple looking faces, a chad with a vague outline of a gun. Not only was this secret hero a total fame whore, but he was no good at grafitti at all - utterly shite at it. And don't give me any "post modern" or "Irony" excuses please, the only non phoney thing that man was, was a genuine class A cunt. Self-promoting grafitti artists and other attention-seeking urban warriors - fuck off.

Saturday, February 16, 2008


Observations of a passenger

Fat women may well like to wear high heels, as it gives an illusion of height and thereby the illusion of a lower BMI. However, fat bitches, if you wear heels and then spend fucking ages blocking my way, as you make slow progress up the tube stairs, with your fat arse wobbling on a pair of metal spikes, then you deserve to be tied to a chair, naked, on a circle line train at rush hour and made to eat quivering slices of your own porcine flesh, until you choke on your rancid blubber.

I am not going to give you my seat. Ever. I don't care if you are pregnant - give up working, you selfish whore and think of your unborn child breathing in all that second hand BO. Nor do I care if you are old and are staring at me with cod eyes - that sort of miserable face is the reason you are on the tube in the first place - because your family hate you too much to give you a lift anywhere, or you are a selfish loser, who failed to provide adequately for your children, resulting in them being a bunch of asbo toting chav layabouts, who punctuate their days with bouts of aggression and alcohol abuse, instead of working hard and saving up for a car to take you places. Or maybe you are so socially retarded that no one ever wanted to breed with you in the first place, and your miserable tube-seat bothering genes will die a lonely death, and be devoured by the worms that chew through your cold carcass, after making short work of a social security coffin.

Is that a fucking oversized three wheeled pushchair I can see? Aren't they for jogging off road? This is a train, you fucking slacktwatted brood mare, not farmer palmer's petting zoo. Get a sling, or a folding buggy if your child is large, and fuck off the rush hour train while you are doing it.

"Sneeze into a tissue" Fuck off you labour party cunts. I'd say, you'll be telling me how to wipe my arse next but I saw a sign saying "please wash your hands" in a public lavatory the other day. Sweet Jesus in Heaven.

"Chinese Poetry on the Underground". We all hated the English, gay poetry on the underground when it first appeared years ago. A few exotic squiggles on a tea stained piece of paper doesn't make "A vase with a flower, tumbles. White cranes cry in the darkness. For every mothers tear there is a baby's smile", or whatever the fucking trite bollocks it says on those things, acceptable, any more than a nice pair of chopsticks can make sea slug taste palatable.


Friday, February 15, 2008


Foot Eater's Meme thing

The one who pretends to be an undertaker, tagged me in a meme thing. I expect he thought he was being clever, asking me to name seven things that I like, as simplistic thinking morons would generally assume that I am only capable of hatred. But what is hatred if it is a lone reaction? Just as a cock can survive without balls, so can hatred live a life of solitude and survive. But to bear real fruit, hatred needs a little love. So here you go... here it things I like.

1. Foreskins. God put them there for a reason - to hide the hideous purple glans weeping fishy snot. Not only aesthetically improving, foreskins are also something to play with, and they generally mean you are in bed with a non american. Women who start up "Oh smegma, blah blah", Fuck off you frigid dykes.

2. Muscovy Ducks. Nails-hard, mute birds, with strange red matter piled on their beaks and around their eyes. Larger than gay, mallard ducks and happy to survive with the smallest amount of water, originally from Moscow these birds can't believe their luck, that they don't have to contend with solid rivers of ice. Particularly satisfying to watch those horrible middle class English mothers having to explain Muscovy ducks to their over-stimulated, priggish, little offpring at the local park: "Ducks go quack mummy don't they?" "Yes Jasper, but Muscovy ducks are mute and so don't go quack they just hiss" "Are they a snake then?" "No, Jasper, they are still a duck but they just don't go quack, instead they go hsssshhhhh hssssshhhh" "But how can they be a duck if they don't quack" etc etc.

3. Quorn. I dread to think what it is made of. "Mushroom" it says. I remember in biology at school learning about how one day we would recycle ALL of a poo - not just the watery bit, and there was a diagram showing how you could whirl your shite around in these great big drums, like the insides of washing machines and all of the protein and any decent bits left in the poo would whip out with the force of gravity and be collected and transformed into a new, fashionable and highly technical form of food. I have a terrible sense of taste due to years of smoking fags and to me, a quorn sausage is entirely the same thing as a real sausage and as for the faux ham stuff? Could be straight off a pig's arse. Genius, love it.

4. Facebook. I'm a pirate, a ninja, a vampire, I have hundreds and hundreds of hatching eggs, I poke people morning noon and night, odd men crack on to me on it, I can nose around and see who my friends have as excuses for friends, I can gawp at peoples' photo albums and all without having to crack a smile, feign politeness, speak to or get off my arse. Ideal for lazy sociopaths.

5. Peugeot Partners. They are french cars so I should hate them, but I don't. They aren't awfully well made and the seats make your arse ache after a couple of hours. They can't go faster than 100 km/hour. But the chunky square van shape makes me all gooey inside, and you can load masses of stuff into the boot. Not the ones with windows in the ceiling though - they can fuck off, poncy wannabe cars, and not the rear double door ones either, unless you like being wallopped on the backside by cheap french metal. Throw them away when they go wrong though - as Peugeot are shit for parts.

6. Baths. I love baths and it infuriates me how awful women's magazines make bathing out to be some kind of "special" me-time thing you do with horrible medium -priced dry white wine, bubbles, music, books, candles etc. Baths are for thinking in and should be got into, sat in - possibly for a very long time, and then got out of. People who read in the bath should have their nostrils slit. Baths with other people are OKay as long as the conversation is good and not tedious. Arguing in the bath is classic - it is hard to have a proper barney when you have wet hair, but always worth a shot.

7. Trains. I love trains and no I am not one of those autists at the end of a platform. Like baths, they should be treated as something to sit on, think in and then get off. I once met a living god on a train and his disciple assistant tried to get the ride off me - which was cool. I also had mumps on a train (the bad bit of mumps where you feel awful like you are dying of the flu - not the pumpkin face bit. And not the same train as the one with the living God). Sleeping on trains is the best because you are multitasking. Crossing borders is good. I once went all around Wales on a train. That was fucking crap though. Wales is a weird place.


Tuesday, February 12, 2008


What would you say to this?

So I have moved to England now. It is alright so far - I love the food. I ate a steak made out of mushrooms, a banana that tasted of apples and they have these things they are crazy about which look like red bogies - goji berries they are called. I did not eat them. The English like deceitful foods, and I am enjoying joining them in their deceit. They have a dish called dogs in blankets and a toad in the hole as well. Perhaps it is to keep the French out.

My sister Maud lives in England as well - she has just had an enormous child - I mean vast. He had hair on his legs when he was born, he was that grown up, and it is a fine thing to have a large child - they are hardier and look like they will survive a cold winter. I like large children. But she has to endure this shite from all these whores with small babies. "why is he so large" they ask her - I mean really, how the fuck would Maud know that? "He is large, your baby is a runty wee shite", is the correct answer

The non-baby conversation here is equally appalling though - I don't mean to be unkind but, fuck me, it is! Here is a transcript of a conversation I can only describe as having gaped at the other day and I would ask your advice, readers, especially any English ones, what the correct response to this tirade is. To set the scene - there are some women talking about stuff over coffee. Woman one says "Oh, Guess what happenned yesterday? You'll never guess". I looked blankly at her and said "I can't possibly imagine - please, go on, will you tell me what happened". "Well" she says. "Robert" (that is the woman's husband)"Robert came home last night and do you know what he did". "No" I said "I can't guess - do tell me". "Well" she says "He drove to the Chinese and got a take away, and brought it home, then he laid it all out on the table on our china and we ate it - and then do you know what he did?" "No" I said "I can't possibly imagine - please, go on do tell me - I'm almost going bananas here with the anticipation". "Well" she says "He took the things through and loaded up the dishwasher WITHOUT BEING ASKED".

I really didn't know what to say to this. I mean - it should not be a culture shock really - it should not - it's not far is it? I've lived in China, Germany and Morocco and come out the other side. I have been arrested in Uzbekistan and talked my lying arse out of custody, I am a professional gobshite. But this woman had me - I had no answer for her at all.I mean - reading between the lines, her man Robert must be an almighty cunt who rarely lifts a finger - and perhaps his normal behaviour on coming home is to back his car repeatedly into the garage door, whilst beeping the horn to the rhythm of Bohemian Rapsody - followed by a bin emptying session over their front garden, a foray into the kitchen culminating in a table dance with the pepper mill hanging out of his hole - but I doubt it. I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Robert and his extraordinary domestic charm but I imagine he is as tedious and parochial as her.


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