Monday, May 26, 2008


The Arrogance of Man

Insomniacs are tiresome people - whining and whinging about their inability to perform a fairly simple human function - marvelling that they are so special and different to ordinary "sleeping" people and implying that, in some way they occupy a more important place in the world than people with regular sleep patterns, that their importance is what keeps them awake - the fear that if they were to shut an eye - the world would collapse around them into the hands of inferior beings. I find anxiety disorders equally tedious - the fretting control freak, a taut, nervy machine on constant alert - just fuck off and get over yourself.

Given the choice, many people would swap sleep (in return for absence of tiredness) to give themselves more hours to carry out the meaningless shit they do, or to add contrived purpose to their actions, be it a God, a sense of value in their work or an inflated view of their personal influence on the lives of others. Thankfully the option of extended yawn-free vigilance still remains at the mercy of chemicals - no one has yet invented anything safe to keep idiots alert for longer than the power of a few lines of coke or some pro plus.

Control junkies aren't special in their ability to be annoying - indeed most things about human beings are irritating - from the artist constantly trying to better nature when at best he can rival or imitate, to the person who yearns for more hours in the day - a slightly different soul to the insomniac, Philip Challinor, before you start, insomniacs are addicted to tiredness and wear it as a yashmak of superiority, the "more hours in the day" cunt is the man who has just lost sight of his own value, he may sleep well at night. Although being awake may mean that a person has more control over his actions, he makes choices when to move and how, what actions to perform, it does not necessarily make those waking actions any more pleasurable or impressive than those that take place in his sleeping life. Just as a constant background noise masks the respiration of the world and the paintings in the art gallery block the view of the sunset, so does waking life seem to overpower the sleeping brain. The opiate of control is such that we become stupid to the constant presence of control-free pleasure, going as far as to play bluff and double bluff with ourselves, controlling our lack of control with drugs and substances from those as mundane as alcohol, to exotically post- gap- year ayahuasca in order to relax our grip, and experience that which was there all along.

As we have little recollection of what happens in our sleep unless it is a night terror or a particularly vivid dream, sonambulism or other such showy behaviour, it does not mean that sleeping is any less enjoyable than being awake. If in the waking hours our memories were reduced to be extremely short term, it would merely mean that pleasures would be quickly forgotten, rather than absent. Too much is made of pleasure simply being the answer to an ache, the act of living is a pleasure in itself.
That is all

Saturday, May 24, 2008


Live Blogging the Eurovision Song contest

Romania: Up where we belong in Romanian.

UK: Very eighties. Terrible dancing

Germany: Extruded spicegirls who can't sing for shit

Bosnia Herzegovina: I now understand why the former republic of Yugoslavia is divided up. A frightening pastiche of lunacy inspired by too many Gwen Stefani videos.

Armenia: it was like watching lebanese MTV - barking outfit, big hair, lots of emotion

Albania: relatively painless belly dancing tune

Israel: Yawny Yawny cunt cunt. Same old croony bollocks

Finland: Why would a heavy metal band want to be in the eurovision song contest?

Croatia. Genius old men in trilbies with a classic band name singing a eurotrash rip-of of I will survive. I hope they win.

Poland: Orange lady breaking in Shergar's teeth, who means well, but warbles too much.

Iceland: Oh fuck me, I think I am in hell. The lyrics make me want to shit. "This is my life, what will be will be". Fuck off. Please. And sing in icelandic for christs sake - I'm sure they have a vocabulary for trite nonsense, as well as three hundred words for hot water. Just fucking appalling.

Turkey. I normally like their stuff, but I think I might be in for a change. They've raided the magician surplus stores for the outfits. I like the melody but hate the guitars. No - it's alright I suppose.

Portugal: Ooh she has a nice voice. Clown makeup though, which undermines a rather serious and passionate song - but then they say that clowns have an air of tragedy about them. Alright if you are happy with a song that only uses four notes. I am.

Latvia: Jesus Christ. I don't know if you have ever watched childrens show the wiggles. The Wiggles are four creepy Australian men who cohabit with a pirate, and people dressed as dogs and dinosaurs, and they sing and dance in an exhausting, overenthusiastic manner. Fuck - I mean I hate pirates. We are supposed to hate pirates. Pirates are sea vermin, thieving, deformed cunts.

Sweden: Harmless easily generated bollocks about heroes. I like it. Well I don;t like it, but I don;t hate it as much as some of the others and she seems to be in tune.

Denmark: He's doing the lambeth walk - I swear. His singing is bearable but his dancing is just like a slowed down version of St vitus. There's a knee going all the time and an arm shooting out. and they are dressed like the cast of Oliver. And have a shave.

Georgia: Katie Melua is from Georgia and I loathe her. I think this woman is blind so I suppose I should give the big hand to them for wheeling out someone with a disability. It's pretty heavy going and yet strangely bland.

Ukraine: She's got the same dress as the Swede. But, accessorised with wonder woman armbands which are very cool. I like the song. I'd put it on my ipod and run to it - which is high praise as she'd be in the company of Power Ballads.

France: Some cunt in a golf buggy. I don't want to watch anymore. He's singing in English. What will the campaign for plain French - the anti le jogging brigade, have to say about that? It's typical of them, the fucking frog cunts - you go over there and they pretend not to speak a word of english and the Dordogne is full of people like my mother shouting slowly at po faced women in banks then on this contest they wheel out some beardy fuck who can sing in english. Je t'en prie.

Azerbaijan: Angels screaming. Their voices are horrible. it's all quite horrible. I hate operatic rock, it is so tiring to listen to and I want to give everyone a locket to suck. Oh - they are both men. I thought the long haired one was female but I spot a beard. Ghastly.

Greece: I like this, but she is frighteningly like Danii Minogue. Maybe they have the same surgeon.

Spain: Dear God. I don't know if it's the wig, the fisher Price guitar, the odd rap. I think he must be a Basque, or from Galicia. Julio Iglesias is Galician as is Fidel Castro and they have all this weird, witchy shit going on there. I went to a Galician party where they recited incantations over a lit bowl of moonshine liquor - it was foul. Like this song.

Serbia: At least it isn't the fat Lesley who started the show off. Heavy on the eyeshadow. Pleasant but drony.

Russia: I wish they wouldn't start songs all curled up on the floor. It's so tedious. He's in white, for Christs sake, all white, which as well as being very gay, is also not what you should wear for writhing on the floor. A more suitable writhing costume would be some hard wearing denim or an all in one.

Norway: It started well but then turned a bit euro on its arse. She has a good voice though.

That is all


Monday, May 19, 2008


I fucking hate DVDs.

The picture quality, as far as I can tell, is not better - and even if it is, so fucking what? The extra features they have on them are totally pointless - deleted scenes were probably deleted for a very good reason. I tried to listen to a director’s commentary once and lasted about 30 seconds before wanting to switch it off.

But what I really hate, what makes me fucking livid, about DVDs is the inability to fast forward through the copyright warning, or the stupid graphics of the company that made the fucking thing, or indeed any piece of crap that the makers of the disc have decided that you may not fast forward through.

How dare they? How fucking dare they dictate to me what I have to look at on my television! It is annoying enough when it is a DVD I am watching, but when you have a screaming baby and the only thing that shuts it up are the cunting teletubbies, the 10 seconds or so that the copyright warning is displayed, while you ineffectively jab at the fast forward button which only serves to make a little ‘forbidden’ symbol appear on the screen, feel like a fucking eternity.

These days, to enable me to be the winner, I switch off the television during the copyright bit, or shut my eyes and put my fingers in my ears. Ideally I would only buy pirate copies, which presumably don’t have that bit. The picture quality isn’t as good, but so fucking what?

Ball Bag

Saturday, May 10, 2008


Recycling makes me want to shit

I like Third World countries, for their daily rubbish collections. The places still stink to high heaven - it isn't as if moving small piles of rubbish around makes much of a difference to the overall stench- merely that ones own unnecessaries are taken off and don't have to linger in a corner of the property looking unpleasant and attracting flies.

In England people make a terrible meal out of their rubbish - fiddling around washing dirty containers, salvaging old bits of card, rinsing out plastic bottles and storing the lot in hundreds of different municipal bags. I heard someone use the word "triage", recently, to describe the act of throwing something away - what an obscenely cuntish thing to say - just fucking appalling.

I have taken bottles to the bottle bank before, and enjoy the noise of the smashing glass as I have a deeply violent streak - but the same frisson can be achieved by chucking bottles into my own bin and further improved by the thought that they might sever a fucking lazy, bimonthly- binman's artery into the bargain. Or I might smash the bottle into the bin and then remove a piece and use it to slice the face of anyone mentioning rubbish separation to me. Years ago, when I lived in Germany - the Krauts were crazy about recycling- and they got so competitive about washing butter wrappers and scrubbing out the last smegma of quark and dithering about whether waxed paper counted as gruene punkt or not that the resulting energy wasted by a recently reunified country in "Das Trennen", could have been used to do far more useful things like rebuild Dresden faster, or teach everyone to be nicer to Turks, or to dress less like cunts.

And what about compost? What the fuck is that? Horrible pots of decomposing kitchen waste - rat buffets stinking out back yards, people bothering over potato peelings, shitting their pants if a stray sliver of runner bean makes it into the black sack. If a carrot is capable of rotting in a bucket, then why can't it fucking rot in a landfill? What is the point of having millions of small rotting points heating up the country, instead of a few, nice, big, tidy, official rotting pits? And don't give me: "Oh organic waste gives lovely compost for the garden" - what if you have no garden? and besides, commercially produced compost is not expensive, not at all, to make your own would just be taking the food out of John Innes' mouth, although I am yet to meet someone who actually used their vile teabag, peeling and eggshell sump on their plants. Where I live, a lorry comes and collects bags of rotting vegetable matter - not on the same day as the ordinary rubbish, nor in a dustcart with jaws that can take masses of bags as it chews them all up to a small size - no a strange, large lorry, with wire sides and the engine of an American cadillac car, guffing out leaded fumes, takes the bags of "organic waste", on an entirely separate journey, and drives it miles and miles to a specially designated rotting station.

It is such a Protestant thing to do, fiddling with rubbish. I bet recycling was created by an Anglican clergyman, who, at a loss with what to do with his parishoners, decided that separating rubbish into diferent piles could fill up the time when normal people are saying novenas or making a special devotion to a saint, or confessing their sins. I hate compost and people, who save their vegetable peelings, should be fed to pigs.

Noreen is Right!

Recycling is such a load of fucking cunt.

Not content with telling me want I can and can’t put in my own fucking bin, they are telling me that some of the things I do put in it have to be washed first. They want me to wash my fucking rubbish before I throw it away. I don’t fucking think so.

At first I sort of joined in with all this nonsense. The blue bin they gave me made a nice change, so I put my paper and milk cartons and things in it. Then a stern looking man came to my door and said he had been looking through my bin (the pikey fucker) and had found a windowed envelope and a cereal box in it, which was very much against the rules apparently. He said I could put envelopes in the bin, but not windowed envelopes and I could put cardboard in it, but not cardboard cereal boxes for some fucking reason.

After that I stopped fucking bothering, fearing another speccy cunt would knock on my door and tell me off for throwing away the wrong kind of rubbish.

Then they started collecting my bins every 2 weeks, presumably to force people to recycle (remembering of course to wash their rubbish before binning it). So now my bin is full a week before collection and I have to take what is left over to the local wildlife reserve and fuck it into the lake. Now how is that helping the bloody environment? If anything it is making it fucking worse.

Ball Bag


The Spider Seller

A person who sells exotic spiders must be obese, with arms that can't lie flush against their side, as the triceps muscles are swollen pods of fat. And their eyes - the eyes of a spider seller would be flat flints, deep-set and round - just a little too small, begging the company of six more. And their hands would never be at rest, twitching, fidgeting, pulling and plucking at imaginary gossamer, and the mouth would be a lipless hole, set above a perfectly domed and very white and boneless chin. That is all.


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