Thursday, October 23, 2008


Guided Rolling

Crown Bowls and Lawn Bowls are boring, grass-based sports that old people play. I don't really see how old people can like playing them, because both sports require an element of lunging and knee bending, activities that most elderly people make an almighty fuss about, second only to "having a fall" and slightly above making pincer movements with arthritic paws. However - bowling is a great way for the old to get the ride, they do not have "My Single Friend" websites, and although time is not on their side, and they ought to be packing the fun into every geriatric moment, most old people wouldn't be able to get their heads around speed dating and would spend the whole of the date dithering, and wondering where to sit. So the Bowls is a fine way to get a look at some old lady or old man's arse as they bend forward, to roll a ball towards another ball.

People who are not old, should avoid rolling balls in straight lines, it is just weird. Non-French people, who play boules or petanque and look around themselves for approval when they pronounce the word with a bit of the old French accent, need shooting through the hole. French people who play boules and petanque are cunts - but we knew that anyway.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008


A Disappointment of Belly Bars

I massively prefer the company of English women in their early twenties, to the older hags that populate this island. The young ones are more fun and rarely have children - they seem to breed very late over here. When they do - English mothers spend all of their time talking to infants about the semantic difference between "Can" and "May" which is a spectacularly dull thing to talk to anyone about, especially a child - no wonder their children are so vile or autistic or have the ADHD - I would too, given that sort of yawny-fuck parenting conversation. But I digress.

Young English women look very peculiar - they seem to wear all their clothes and accessories at once - a dress over trousers, a belt, two or three scarves, a hat, earrings, necklaces, gloves, bangles, tights, socks, leg warmers, boots, six or seven rings, sunglasses concealing too much mascara and really enormous handbags that you could put a roadkill deer in. In Morocco the girls either wore big djellabas and headscarves, or tarty clothes about six sizes too small for them, and their figures were on the generous side - so I notice the eclectism and slightly scatty bagladyness of the English younger woman, as a less showy, female display tactic.

I got talking to some young English women recently, and they were telling me about the group holiday they had been on during the summer. A lot of fun was had going out to the clubs and sunbathing, and someone had bought some clothes and someone else had got the diarrhoea from eating a dodgy paella - nothing out of the ordinary. Anyway - as they were recounting the japes, a girl with vellous hair on her cheeks, furrowed her brow and lowered her voice. "Oh.My.God" she said "Nightmare, though". The other girls all gasped and nodded their heads in unison. "Becks, yeah. Becks had a shock errrr". Becks - a girl with a very straight, and slightly thin bob and large nostrils, looked confused: "What are you on about?" she said. The one with the furrowed brow shook her slightly-curled layers impatiently. "How can you have forgotten?" she said "Your belly bar - that's what!". Becks flushed a deep shade of aubergine. "Oh. My. God". She said "I think I blocked it out - that was a nightmare". The other girls all nodded their heads. "Becks lost her belly bar", they said, slowly.

I know what a belly bar is - I am not that old, and although I would never wear one for two reasons - the first being a dislike of gratuitous pain, the second that I have had three children and do not have the stomach I once did - so have no desire to draw the eye down there with a piece of metal wedged through my navel, I generously get that both men and women think this sort of jewellery looks hot. But this losing of the belly bar sounded horrendous - perhaps the piece of cheap metal worked its way into the abdominal cavity, an accident that could only be undone by a complicated procedure, requiring strong magnets to locate the adornment, and maybe the use of a great, big, sharp machete to chop the fucker out, ideally from a spot uncomfortably near to the spleen, or even snuggled up next to a kidney, making it touch and go whether a vital organ would be damaged in the removal process.

It was not nearly as dramatic as I would have liked - the girl with the purple face's belly bar had fallen out into her knickers, and then got lost in the sand. She then forced another friend (one who had recently had laser eye surgery)to hunt up and down the beach for hours, but the search was not successful. That is all.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008


Father Kevin and the Djinns

Sorry I have been away. I was talking to a priest. I like talking to priests a lot- clearly I have to tone down the language, and I do skirt generously around the many omissions and deficits regarding my personal pursuit of the One True Faith during priestly chats. But a good confession and a spot of extreme unction before I die, should square away any rampant promiscuity, erratic attendance at mass and my dislike of communion wafer texture (I have a sensitive gag reflex - although not when I have a cock in my mouth, which to me and to the men that have been in my life, should help to prove the existence of Our Lord). Yes, I do like talking to a priest - they have all had a decent classical education and have been around the block a bit - we have a lot in common, me and your men of God.

In any conversation, I like to take the helm - other people tend to choose tedious subjects to talk about -usually a glorified version of talking about themselves; wittering on about their children, or the price of stuff they have being buying recently, or where they have been, or would like to go on a holiday and I really don't care about any of those things at all. I spend enough time in my working life listening to people going on and on about themselves- in my free time I like to talk about more serious and philosophical things.

So I decided to talk about Djinns to Father Kevin, and to find out whether or not he would be prepared to kill a cow, in order to appease evil spirits. He kept on: "I don't believe that killing a cow would get rid of Djinns anyway," and I was saying "Even though I am a vegetarian I would kill a cow with my bare hands to placate the Djinns". So then Father Kevin was all: "I don't even believe in Djinns" and I had to point out that if people, perhaps as a result of the savage, uneducated, simplicity of their Non-Catholic lives, chose to believe that there were Djinns - then there were Djinns. It was a matter of these heathen folks' perception -something that might not feel like a problem in one person's life, could be perceived as a highly stressful event in another's. Catholics might not register Djinns as a threat to their spiritual lives - but if we are in a society where Djinns are perceived as a threat - they are a threat, it is as simple as that. So, therefore, in a society where the Djinn is a feared mental aggressor, killing cows to appease them is necessary, whether you personally believe in Djinns or not.

Then Father Kevin got out the trump card, and said that killing a cow to appease a Djinn would be an occasion of sin, which I think is bollocks, and he only said it because he wanted to talk about Tridentine mass and praying for the conversion of Jews.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008


Arma Virumque Cano

I don't mind that Twenty Major has got tired of blogging - after all the novelty wears off on most things. Maybe he has a VLOG now or is busy on twitter, or maybe he is just rubbing his cock against the manuscript of his next book, or perhaps he has decided to spend more time out of doors.

His last post was a guff of explanation, and a trail of bloggers (most of whom have been far quicker off the mark than me - Jesus, it's been a week or something) have been mourning and going on "Oh he has his reasons" and "blogging is not what it was", which is a monumentally gay thing to say. The "blogosphere", Irish or otherwise, is like the floor of a labioplasty operating theatre - littered with cunts (there Twenty, a terrible joke in your honour) - who cares if other bloggers support you, or don't support you or whatever - leave them be. There are more people blogging now than there were when I started, and that is great - good for them. I mean - most of the stuff, on most blogs, is pure liquid shite, but everyone is entitled to write their shite on the internet without some cunt editor telling them to be accurate or spell nicely.

The hardest choice for a blogger is whether or not to relinquish his freedom. Do you become your readers' bitch in order to get more of them on the stat meter, or do you ignore them altogether and write whatever you like? Obviously, if you get into the money side of things, this choice is removed somewhat, as you have to dance to someone's tune - get the gogglers on your blog, get the bums on the seats, whatever. But there you go,the choice may be tricky, but all outcomes are good - you can sell your writing, or not. Win, and, oh look! What is that? Another win.

And as for the idea of communities - well it makes me feel a bit dirty. It's like your woman who got obsessed with a man she "married" on that wacky game "second life" - you become a nutcase if you start getting dependent on the internet. The internet is a space beyond a computer - fill it with whatever you like, and use it to fill voids in your life, but don't let it stop any voids being filled with tangible things. Before any of the real soppy ones start up with that: "My internet friends are my real friends" bollocks - I am not suggesting that strong relationships cannot be facilitated by the internet - in fact - my relationship counsellor friend claims the internet has put a lot of business her way, as people are more frequently finding their real soulmates on the other side of the world through a computer, and parking their spouses- I am just saying that the internet should be used wisely. Remember the film Sleepless in Seattle? Well there you have it. The Man In It was in the same town as The Main One - was he not? She could have met him off-line, by being sociable in the Starbucks, the introverted whore -sometimes people do not see what is under their noses. The internet, although it broadens the mind and experiences on a virtual level, often replaces the need to discover what has been available all along in the real world. The nice distance a screen gives you is a useful tool for the shy - but you won't learn decent social skills, or get the ride off something other than your hand or a prosthetic genital, unless you haul your pasty arses out there and talk to peoples' faces. Anyway - I don't want to get into the great discussion of what is real or fake, and whether or not virtual life is actually more real than real life, if that is what we want it to be, because the next thing will be that someone will be talking about wormholes, and then that cunt Stephen Hawking will be on here, blarting away: "space-time continuum this and that", and someone else will pipe up about how modern life is becoming like The Matrix, only we are conscious and wired to computers willingly, and it makes me very feel tired and old.

So - and I've edited to add this in case I do not make complete sense (!), in short, to conclude, to sum up - blog communities - nice, but not necessary. Blog, or don't. If it isn't fun - then definitely don't do it. I'm not gnashing my teeth for Twenty, because I get that he is tired of blogging- if you don't like that, fuck off.

Virgil asked his slave to burn the Aeneid, when he was on his death bed as it "wasn't perfect" and writers have a habit of shooting themselves in the foot in order to be all dramatic and artistic. However, after long reflection, I have decided that Twenty Major did not want to emulate that boring old cunt, epic as the adventures of Dirty Dave and the other ones were.

I think the death of Twenty Major was an act of euthanasia. See, Twenty's lot were on their way to liver failure really, with all the drinking and unhealthiness. It is nicer to kill them off before we have to witness them vomiting up blood, turning yellow and shrivelling up (although I would watch) and if they were to take the pledge, the gap in each of their lives would be too great and their collective imaginations too shrivelled by absinthe to dream up anything to occupy it. They'd die of broken hearts.

So long Twenty, you old cunt.


Wednesday, October 01, 2008


Don't Waste Your Time Kicking Love's Withered Carcass, Jonathan

The death of love is a terrible thing for most people. They fight and struggle to keep it alive, wring their hands, furious and bereft, keening and weeping, until, finally, they embalm love's corpse, like a great big pickled communist leader, and there it stays, still indoctrinating from beyond the grave, lying in state before the world.

Love is a myth, like riches*, gods and ghosts. A myth, which, when acknowledged as a distant concept can enhance a life, when taken on as a full raison d'etre is just disastrous and embarassing.

Many people approach love as if it were a mystical, sacred thing - in fact Sting - who is a Big Cunt, called one of his albums "Sacred Love", the fucking eejit, playing that cretinous lute and chanting "sacred this, sacred that".

I hate sacred things- sacred is a pompous expression, as is faith, and I can't abide people talking about that either. Life is simply, mindlessly dull and love is invented to make people feel that they have done something spectacular, when actually they have just exchanged some cliches and removed their underwear. And as for people who come out with: "when you meet the one - you just know", which is utter shit, as one can meet the one, and then the next one, and then the one after that and then a whole load more ones, varying according to one's age, location, vulnerability, predisposition to agoraphobia, languages spoken etc - well people who say "when you meet the one, you just know" are the most awful, boring cunts in the world. I'd shoot them, but it would cut short the pain they suffer, which I rather enjoy watching, when "the one" turns out to be a mindless whore, or a borderline nonce, or just a really committed Ipsich Town Supporter, or a keen online shopper.

Most of my sceptism stems from looking at people and their "ones", and finding it difficult to see what is so magical about love's equation. I can always spot what it is that has caused the couple's connection - what the joint focus is, and this is often the cause of their undoing.

I think "love" is like taste or smell - although one person might think lemons taste the way they do on their tongue - another person's lemon might taste to them, like my sensation of the taste of walnut . Anyway - the point is that as long as both parties decide on a name for the taste and call it "orange" even though it is actually lemon to one and walnut to the other - the relationship will stand up for as long as they both agree that their relationship tastes of oranges, and they buy into the rebranding of lemon and walnut as "orange". The moment one party questions the flavour - the magic has gone. So, if love eludes you, or "the one" turns out to be "the cunt", that's just because you haven't persuaded someone to share in a collective myth yet, or the other person in your partnership has stopped believing in the myth. Not a drama - just a return to reality and there can be positives - take when my brother Francis told me the truth about Father Christmas. I had a shit Christmas that year, I cried and was disappointed - but by the next one I had grasped that I could get up for a pee in the night without worrying about bumping into Santy in the corridor, and I could behave like a little shite all year around and my parents would still have to get me presents, as they were getting the others presents too and needed to treat us all the same - see? Be positive - this is it.

But above all, do not go prodding around trying to revive tattered, old feelings, or obsessing about whether or not you actually have "love", it is really unimportant. Like the thing people in London go on about, about there always being a rat six feet from you - there may be a rat, there may not be. Whatever the truth actually is, if there is a rat, it won't stay there for ever - you can be sure of that, but then again, there might well be another rat a bit later - or indeed no rat at all. The fact is that you don't often actually see a rat. Or perhaps the truth is that you only notice the big ones. Did you see a rat? If you haven't seen a rat, is it a comfort to know that there might be a rat nearby? I don't fucking want to see one, thanks - and I don't really see how thinking about rats is that helpful. But there we go - for some Londoners it seems an essential thing to do.

People who "believe in love and think they have the one" get really angry with me when I tell them my thoughts on the subject. "You are like Richard Dawkins, but about love" this woman said to me recently. I had my own dilemma then, because I was quite pleased at being compared to someone famous, but also quite annoyed because I think Dawkins is a bit of a tit, and so then, was fettered by my own feelings.

*Riches, Philip Challinor, are a myth. Don't argue with me about it, I am not in the mood.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Subscribe to Posts [Atom]