Sunday, January 15, 2017

THE WOMEN-EATING BARBARIANS OF TIERRA DEL FUEGO!

Since on board Her Empress's Starship Beagle, I have, as supernaturalist, been much struck with certain facts in respect of the obscurantism among the ruling elites and in the distribution of wealth and resources among the inhabitants of this remarkably blue planet. As ship's chief psychic worker, it behoves me to accumulate and reflect on all manner of verisimilitudes that might have a bearing upon the matter of the interplanetary proletarian liberation struggle, whose morphology often consists of a volcanic eruption: a spike in the geo-political relations of the inhabitants of the planet leading inevitably to change. Progress, evolution, revolution as the fundamental tectonics of eusociality dictate...


So it is that, as a drifting, privileged young starman, I find myself aboard the re-commissioned Starship Beagle bound for Tierra Del Fuego with a task that is in essence one of social surrealism. I am to be shuttled to and fro across the vast galactical distances between consciousness of the familiar (Benedict Cumberbatch, Bush House, Conan Doyle, Louise Mensch, William Ewart Gladstone's notable bag), and of the other, more exotic, more domestic variations (Croxteth Young Guns, the Great Grunwick Dispute, Los Angeles Compton Gang Map, 1975 Icelandic Women's General Strike.) 


How great would be the desire in every admirer of magical naturalism to enter, if such were plausible, into the slipstream of an alien social class! yet to every descendant of the one and original primordial form into which eusociality was first breathed, it might be truly said that at a distance of a mere four and a half million light years from their native soil, the glories of another way of thinking are opened to the intrepid.   


Surely there is no one, with the noteworthy exception of Messrs Wallace and Galloway, who can feel more sensible than I do of the necessity of change. The proletarian revolution shall be a fully-fledged hybrid, but the insurrection is the bastard mongrel that can engender it.   


I endeavour, until journey's end, to circumscribe an inspirational model of revolutionary praxis, malaise, vertigo, spasms, flatulence, colics, cramps, headaches, chest palpitations, blistering, tachycardia, fainting, tinnitus, insomnia and depression notwithstanding. Adieu.


Abu Erasmus Wedgewood Benn Stardate 2020 BCE

Saturday, January 14, 2017

SAY SOMETHING…


“Sing your life. Any fool can think of words that rhyme.”  S. P. Morrissey

Something about riding the tide of populism, all the pundits being wrong, again, and having that thing on his head approximating hair. Something about not being able to find the words to express how you feel about the contents of the package delivered by courier on the evening before the big race. Something about neo-Wahabi jihadi terrorists and sons of God by the name of Jesus or something or other. Something about the self-styled King Herod of Assyria slaughtering the innocents on Spanish April Fools' Day, December 28th. Something about faulty flaps. Something about the way she ablutes attracting him like no other lover. Something about 46% more celebrities dying than usual. Something about the Fame Plague growing really serious when the C-listers started clogging up social media by all dying mysteriously young. Something about Dai Young still being alive despite the obvious. Something about the snowflake millenials sexting in class. Whatever. Something about protecting people from RADICALISATION being a team effort! Something about transgendered inmates and Howard's penal reform not stopping it all kicking off big time, on the inside. Something about jail as a holding centre for the IT literate underclass. Something about the head of the NSPCC getting to the bottom of child sexual abuse. Something about the precariat and the rich not giving a flying traveller's cuss one way or the other. Something about the undesirability of desire, now that you're 50 and have become invisible. Something about snow in the Sahara during another Christmas heatwave. Some bollocks or other about One Nation Conservatism and something about the dysfunctionality of the system from the much-lambasted leader of the Capitalist Workers' Party. Something about it doing what it says on the tin. Something about her name being a modal verb for uncertainty, as it were. Somewhere around £35 a head! just to go to a dinner with ex-government minister talking Ed Balls about the worst excesses of gender essentialism. Something about an advertising and marketing platform masquerading as a radio station, soccer franchise, Labour Movement, soft drink, Presidency of The Free World (sic). Something about (sic) meaning you don't really believe it, of course. Something about people in Bangladesh being forced to sleep sitting up. Something about still being exasperated by them still printing stories about them still building houses on flood plains, as we are inundated by yet another surge of publicly-funded merchant banking. Something about Mai '68 and the Situationists that would freak her out. Something of the grammar school about her. Something about the catfish in question actually being cheap, for a 200-pounder, at only £165,000 sterling. Some government rot, tosh, twaddle and codswallop about it being your duty. Something about it not being about preventing anyone from having political and religious views and concerns but about supporting them to use those concerns or act on them in non-extremist ways. Something about her repressive control obsession. Something about drilling for oil at the poles, despite already having enough to piss past, on and all over the Kyoto protocols. Say something about the secret torture chambers/ prisons known as Facility 1391. Ahem.

Sarcastic comment about Donald Trump. Go home.

ELIZABETH TAYLOR IS DEAD


"In your struggle against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood."  Hebrews 12:4
"Solitary brother, is there still a part of you that wants to live?"  Adamski, Killer 
Simply because you have the technological capacity to send a communication to a lady does not necessarily mean you should.  In a meme gone mad with rage, pain and paranoia, the perils of perception are such that no end of contusions may result.

At 11.28am, Ahmed Abdullah is destined to ignore the fabricated advice of international best-selling writer, Elizabeth Taylor, as he ambles along the humanitarian corridor that his fellow boarders have opened up, in the hope that he may use it - so that they might ridicule his diction, mock his grammar and ape his non-native pronunciation: a normal morning among the competing male egos of the elites and their lackeys.

If another suicide crisis is to be averted before the end of the trope, Ahmed needs to re-order his randomized anxiety into an Elizabethan tale of finite misery - or at the very least an email, going forward. Please find enclosed: An account inspired by President Assad's acid dislike of naturalism in Western literature. Or somewhere along the lines.

Under the watch of government troops loyal to Damascus, Ahmed Abdullah walks to the computer room that is soon to be dismantled to make way for an old-school common room replete with board games, ping pong and table football in a doomed attempt to wean addicts of technology off their hand-held contrivances that contravene their human rights and reduce their peripheral compassion.

As if they care.  

The immediacy of power is a great deal more irresistible than verses from the New Testament that the Chaplain bothers them with each assembly. That, and the humiliation of the other; to which those boys with even a scintilla of distinction to the normative schemata of mind control are subject.  

Notwithstanding all that nonsense, Ahmed is much more afraid of himself than either the other caricatures of classroom contempt that are his fellow students, or even the persistent martial gaze of Assad-friendly soldiery lining the humanitarian passage. His homeland insecurity has left such an indelible mark upon his psyche that only suicide will obliterate it.  Ahmed has already answered Albert Camus' existential poser to his own satisfaction. It is indeed the only philosophical enquiry worth its salty candle this side of The Queiq River Massacre, in which the remnants of his extended family were snuffed out.

For Ahmed, it is not a question of whether to, but how to. That's why he is headed to the computer room: to commune with cyber-space. Since there is nobody left in the fiction that passes for real life for him to email, he merely wants to organize his thoughts, to put them on paper, as it were, to direct a missive to a higher order, before committing his sinful deed. Then at least, for once in his short, insufferable existence, he might be able to understand himself, if not to forgive himself before his singular act of self-actualization: that is to say, his upcoming suicide.

Ever since circa 1978, when the US intelligence community had the audacity to recommend its virtues to the Afghan muhjadeen, the coward's way out, as it is so misnamed, has become fashionable amongst the disturbed and put-upon youth of his generation, most of whom have never even heard of Sri Lanka, still less the Tamil Tigers.

Other thoughts pop into his head. Along with the how to, there is the question of the who else? The conventional blaze of eternal glory route entails extra planning and the involvement of a network. He is not sure he has the will power. Besides, is this an act of revenge or despair? Though no lone wolf, he thinks it best to go it alone. Is it his compassion or his intuition of the super ego that gets the better of him?

In any event, more pressing matter presses itself against the crotch of Ahmed's underwear. Morals have taken a back seat. Faecal matter has poked its tortoise's nose against cloth and been squeezed back too many times for Ahmed not to recognize the signs. Generalized fear and anxiety plays havoc on the movements of millions of his compatriots. Ahmed is no exception. It is not helped by the horrendous English boarding school cuisine that is so disgusting that foreigners are blamed to disguise its awfulness. Sauce Hollandaise. A la carte. Cordon Bleu. Gordon Fucking Ramsay. Pardon my French!

Ahmed takes a detour to the latrines, symbolically located next to the hastily-erected government shelter, and so only good for one thing: emptying the bowels. On the framed sheet on the wall, headed Toilet Inspection, privately-contracted operatives from the migrant diaspora have scrawled the exact time and their initials in the columns marked Filth and Clean. Under the under-used Comments section, Ahmed has written the first mini-draft of his suicide note: a one-word commentary on the quandary in which he finds himself: precarious. On the back of the temporary cubicle door, as he releases, potentially, his last ever long, beige snake into the community, he reads the more conventional and conservative missives of his academic colleagues. BENEDICT SUCKS COCK. AHMED IS A FILTHY FOREIGN BUM-BANDIT! And, in Ahmed's humble view, in careful lower case along the rim of the door, the most considered and eloquent graffito in the whole latrine: Helmut Lang's dormitory activities are legendary in Westphalia.  

Ahmed takes advantage of the pause in the tone of generalized despair to carry out a SWOT analysis, as he has been instructed to do in Ms Ruth Lee's Business Studies for Hedge-Fund Ninjas class. The threats are obvious to Ahmed. They await him, inside and out. The software of his mind computes as much. As it competes with the hardware of his brain, in its on-going attempt to make sense of the dangerous opportunities that, as Ms Lee has pointed out, often present themselves in the form of a crisis, Ahmed's intellect is subject to the dissonance of conflicted cognition. In a word, he is confused; in two, fucking confused.

Suicide is a mortal sin, and a sign of weakness. Of this, there is no doubt. And yet, to realize it effectively takes such strength of resolve and imagination that, while it may not be the glorious endeavour that it is frequently cracked up to be, at the very least it is, provided it is carried out alone and hurts no other, an act of courage. And, whatever your perception of the whereabouts or the celestial contents of the hereafter, it is incontrovertibly true that it is a door through which there is no coming back: therein lies its bliss. Peace through cessation of hostilities. One way out of the pain. EXIT THIS WAY.

But there remains the question of the public gallery, not to mention dialogue. He is, after all, Ahmed Abdullah, not Albert Camus. This is the Home Counties, not France. Or even Belgium. So much Gallic internal rumination is not good for the soul. Ahmed decides to speak with somebody. His electronic correspondence with cyber heaven can wait.  

Fortuitously, he spies his Form Master lyricizing along the corridor of humanitarian interventionism. The forces of might and right stand back and nod assent as Miles Lesser does his utmost to versify:  

 "Blaze out ye beacons 'til fire and brimstone burn,

Blaze out ye beacons 'til everybody learn.

By their works shall ye know them,

By our deeds shall we defeat them."

Ahmed coughs and waits for Lesser to notice him. Ordinarily, the master is garrulous, but unendurable. He trots out the platitudes of post-modernity that are compulsory at Fatherhouse School, and institutions like it. In an Elizabeth Taylor story, one might say that he is a preposterous old trollop and get away with it. Such a claim, however, would be strenuously denied by sources in Damascus.

"Mr Lesser?" chances Ahmed.

"Ah! The boy Abdullah. Why are ye not in the Rec building? Or perhaps it would be more germane to ask, why ye are not out in the grounds Pokemoning with the others?... I've heard it said that young Phillips-Redman Smythe is merely 23 virtual creatures away from victory."

"It is not allowed for me to have smart phone, Mr Lesser, in the case I... er... you know?"

"Quite. Quite. Anyway, what appears to be troubling the boy Abdullah? You have the palest of countenances. Are you ill? Not still dwelling on that pesky war in Mesopotamia are we? Eh?"

"Sir. Actually. Yes."

"Remember, Abdullah, to study the holy texts. Whether it be yours or mine, it is of little consequence. The power of anecdote. It is the antidote that overwhelms mere facts and figures. In dark times such as ours, theology trumps reason. Thank God. As the primal Dr Janov reminds us, the mind doesn't always behave rationally. But the brain couldn't care less. The brain is an organ. It doesn't think. It feels."

"I feel despair, Mr Lesser."

"Ah. The perils of perception. Mere bread and butterflies, young man. Bread and butterflies..."

"But I have fear that I may try to..."

"Despair is not an option for the desperate."

Abdullah bites his lip, gently twisting his mouth to the right and looks down at his black brogues.

" I need to talk with someone."

"Remember the power of narrative. Read scripture. Read stories. Dickens. Dahl, if you must. One profound anecdote. One image in your mind. A heightened emotional spike can shift perceptional reaction more than all the talk in California."

"I am, how to say, unused to be so very alone. It is like to cycle on the left. I feel out of my water. Like the fish without a river."

"This is England, Abdullah. Rivers we have aplenty. But this is an English boarding school. One does not reveal one another's nakedness. It's not the done thing. Perhaps you should see the padre. He does the under the shell stuff. I do poetry and generality. Pure abstractions of the mind. If you require the specificities of the soul, I recommend you visit the Chaplain's Office, or failing that, a soothing balm from the Matron may cut the English mustard."

Ahmed counts the cost of his emotional numeracy. He feels cold. Miles Lesser, the English master, leaves the boy to his devices, explosive or otherwise, and takes his shrugging pragmatism off for a revision session with the Upper 5th on the Romantic Poets, Coleridge and Shelley.

Meanwhile, in a Byron restaurant and bar across town, miles out of bounds to the younger boys, underpaid migrant workers are stalked by immigration officials. Amid the carnage of his mind, Ahmed feels the guilt of survival. For the purposes of satire, he has been well placed in the English minor public school system; a type of Christian Madras for the six per cent of the population whose extreme managerial tendencies are out of control.

"Outside of its obvious control function in established religions," Ahmed recalls Mr Lesser saying, "guilt, at the personal level, is not a useful emotion. Like myth-busting, guilt has a limited impact on the good. It makes you feel bad for a while, but the misconceptions of the mind remain. On sociopaths, it is clearly wasted."

Besides, there have been numerous airstrikes since breakfast. Ahmed's lack of appetite and inaction has intensified. Malevolent thoughts return and, as if in the Elizabeth Taylor best-seller he heard on his digital radio last night, a look of total loss betrays his inner turmoil. Western modernity is so sure of itself that it activates his gag reflex.   

"Show not tell... They have no idea," thinks Ahmed.

As he stems his repulsion, a make-shift maternity hospital south of Aleppo (Halab) is destroyed by the aerial assault of a civilizing foreign government, while in the politely hostile town closest to school, the forbidding arms of immigration and customs officers snatch recalcitrant migrant workers from the clutches of their criminal employers in the name of a mandate from the people.

Like the existential anti-hero of North African colonial expansion, Ahmed has been driven to a strange despair by the Arab malaise that dare not speak its name. He seeks an escape route from occidental captivity and the near orient's insidious influence. He wants to flush out dark notions of revenge. He resolves to take flight from his thoughts. He goes bicycling.

Purposelessly, he sets out into the pleasantly green Buckinghamshire countryside. It is not long, however, before the spectacles of memory re-direct his focus inwards. He sorely misses Samira's celebrated smile. His elder sister's strict adherence to the veil did not restrict her access to smiles. Many were the smiles she received in Florida where they holidayed, a long time ago now. Samira was beauty incarnate. The hijab only served to throw into sharper relief the spectacular splendour of her symmetrical perfection. So, as Samira smiled at the world, the world smiled back. She tended to place her faith in the benevolence of humanity.

Now she is dead.

And now Ahmed, the war child, believes in nothing. He has borne witness to nothing but rapacious violence. His inner voice sings to the magnificent tune of the One World Orchestra that he once heard on an MP3, when such trifles still amused him, before he realised how unpleasant it is simply being Arab. These days magnificence is not as prevalent as Samira had surmised. Ahmed's nagging credo is the cynicism of the eight spoken words of the KLF, or was it the KLA? "Humans against killing. Sounds like junkies against dope."

All the rest is just so much Western sentiment. This extreme tendency tends to tail his every mood swing. The jolly public school boy bicycling jaunt is not helping. He dismounts and turns his hybrid cycle around towards the direction of Fatherhouse, where no father dictates, where no mother berates, where no sister awaits. How he would love to get nagged at, or told off or even hugged.

He sits down at the wide screen, addresses an email to himself at ahmedullah1559@gmail.com and begins to type:  

Dear Elizabeth Taylor,


You never know, it might help

Tuesday, January 03, 2017

ALL THE PRESIDENT'S WOMEN

The First Lady

US Americans. US Americans! I can't believe anyone would say that. Under pressure or not. Not us Americans, but U... S... Americans. I mean that's not tongue-tied. That's just plain dumb. The kind of dumbness that's beyond stoopid. And who would put a the in front of Iraq? The Iraq. The Iraq such as. Such as. Such as what? Something has to follow such as. How can she not know that? It's not like a for example, which you can stick on the end, after you listed a load of stuff. Such as what! Such as dumb down, social control, conformity, Alasama Alikum, Alabama Fudge Cake, Falun Daka is good in Alaska. Say something after it. Anything moron! Mind you, who's the bigger moron? The moron or the mormon who marries the moron.

The Second Lady

God help me, is it my turn again this weekend already? I really hope he's clean this time. The most powerfullest man in the world should take responsibility. Excuse me Mr President, but it's your own goddam dick. Forgive my impure thoughts Lord, but this is a democracy is it not? Sides whatever happened to Cleanliness is next to Godliness. In God we trust. In soap and water we wash.

The Third Lady

Polygamy. Polygamy. Polygamy. They're all obsessed with that. It's just another family arrangement. That's what the godless feminists and liberals want. Different social set-ups. Well sisters, you got the balls to share your husband with three other women? How's that for alternative? Putting the group's needs first, sharing, co-operating over intimacy out of love and respect for belief. I know it's patriarchal I'm not the stoopid one. But you think dancing around a pole or directing a multi-national isn't?

The Fourth Lady

"The Sons of The Commandment have had their day in the Whitehouse. Now it is our time." What does that mean? Is it anti-Samaritan to go against the Jews? Not all the Neo-Cons were crazy Jews like he says. Israeli or Jewish? What's the difference? Is one of them in Europe? And why are we in The Iraq? The Blackwaters? I know them. They're the ones doing the waterboarding we're not really doing. Cos it's actually like real torture. I gotta stop talking to them State Department guys, I get all confused. I really gotta look at a magazine. I don't care that it promotes materialistic values. I gotta have something to occupy my mind. The anti-depressants take a month to work says the Whitehouse Doc. Another 10mg of the white ones'll maybe do it. I think the Doc likes me in the way that all men do. Oh! Here we go again. Smile and relax...

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE BE UPSTANDING FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND THE FIRST LADIES OF AMERICA.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

50 PENCE DOWN THE CHARITY THESE DAYS

Maybe I should start my story here, lying beside an H-shaped swimming pool in Beverly Hills on my 27th birthday, taking in the spectacular sunset through the LA smog. Maybe I should shoot from the hip and start where the fancy takes me. Maybe, even though I’ve already done my laps for the day, I should go for another swim. Maybe I shouldn’t get the story started at all. Maybe I should just tell her to go back to London. Maybe I should smoke the second of my cigarette ration. Maybe I should get in the car and drive and drive and drive until the Hollywood bubble is bearable again. Maybe I should ring my mum. Maybe I should write the bloody thing myself, I mean to say, how hard can it be?
Maybe you shouldn't've binned that first one, that bitter hack of a scribbler, bald pate and podgy chin like an un-photoshopped Nick Hornby. Maybe you should take a leaf out of Elton’s voluminous tome and wipe your over-ample arse with it! Maybe you should just get your agent to cover my expenses and politely tell me to kindly fuck off.

Maybe we shouldn’t overstate the straightforwardness of the project. Maybe we should only do fifteen hundred words this morning’s session and break for decaf and Zumba. Maybe we should... Maybe I should lighten the load for you. Maybe we should start at the beginning for a change: after all, the poolside scenario in celebrity-infested Beverly Hills is a well-trodden treadmill. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve got famous in the first place. Maybe I should ingest another spoonful of psychotropic chemicals. Maybe we should focus on the human experience; the smog motif makes a powerful statement of emotionality. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to the seven and half billion voices in my heart. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the Tupelov went down and the Red Army Choir perished. Maybe we should ignore the faulty flaps and cut straight to the singing career.
Maybe I should show them my sad face; the one I can see from inside here, the one I glimpsed in the mirror this morning, the one that knows how it feels with clarity and certainty. Maybe I should emote about Uncle Arthur.

Maybe we should kick off with that sentiment writ large through the LA smog, the oppressive nature of celebrity over which you triumph with lower-middle class, girl-next-door grit and state-capitalist four-quadrant appeal . Maybe we should start with my Nan, she was always moaning about the London smog, she reckons it took her old man, that and the drink, and the fags, and the heroin.

Maybe we should separate out the family strands before we delve into the allegations. Maybe we should run with the Beverly Hills kudos, you’re a bit of a hottie in your prime, etc., etc., and yet despite – or dear readers, hint, hint, maybe because of – the A-list celeb LA lifestyle, the squillions of dollars, and You Tube hits, basically you’re a gawky teenager from the Home Counties struggling with the male gaze, big boobs, early periods and being a ginger.

Maybe I should just give you a slap, ghost girl.
Maybe we should go with the thing dad used to say about reaching for the Moon on a stick, or whatever. Maybe we should save that till the end. Maybe I should hold onto the preface about the allegations until we get the legal jazz back from the lawyers. Maybe you should interpret the hollow feeling at our core as fragmentation of psyche. Maybe you should take it as a moot ontological point not to be glossed over with shiny pics and lipstick and short tight dresses shaped out of nationalism and fear. Maybe you should have done a jokier sort of thing like Sporty did, darling.
Maybe we should go avant-garde and forge it into a constructivist statement on technological Armageddon. Maybe the ghost writer should keep her big conk out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t edit out the implicit racism and have you bang to rights, you anti-Semitic cow. Maybe I should tell them about dad and his affiliations.
Maybe we should take that break now. Maybe I should take another tablet. Maybe you should end the story here by the pool, lying.  

Thursday, December 22, 2016

A CONTiNENTAL DOG's BREXIT

The two Frankfurters entered the diner first, followed by the Hamburger, the Berliner and finally the French toast. The thinner of the Frankfurters, bathed in eau de Cologne, considered the German chancellor's stance vis-a-vis the American-Belgian Waffles crisis with the curious detachment of a captain of industry at three removes away from the Munich beer hall putsch of 1923. The fatter of the two Frankfurters, his deliberations consumed, was more than happy to accommodate US-style additions, provided the syrup agreed to be one of his myspace friends. All four had gone Dutch to spite the French toast. Buttered on the untoasted side only, she was actually British and proud of it, no matter how many sprouts Big Brother Brussels left all over the plate.

To scotch the Welsh rabbit's plans, the Danish pastry had saved everyone's bacon by squeezing orangemen till the pips squeaked in each of the Six Counties. As part of a negotiated settlement, the Ulster Fry was to be covered in haricot beans and artificial sweetners. Pound for pound, it was still a full English whichever way your baguette was buttered. The Celtic Tiger roared. He had more important fish to fry: kedgeree for starters, then depleted cod stock and finally skate on a bed of thin ice, topped with a neo-liberal sprinkling of tax breaks for business class customers, all at M3 motorway prices. No self-respecting Pole would touch it with a bhaji.

Meanwhile, Asti Spumante was drinking espresso au terrace with an off-duty cigarette who had been forced alfresco by the frying pan, so the French poodle could give his "Make the Trades Unions Bleed" speech in all major European languages, except English. Tipped off by the waiter, the creme Catalan caught wind of the US subprime market collapse in good time to rake off 8.5 billion Euros for gateaux re-construction in the Black Forest. The Portuguese man-of-war, full of Middle Eastern promise, nevertheless continued to swat the Spanish fly. The cheap Sicilian red, who was never up at this time of day, had spent the night on the bio-diesel with the famous Russian salad, who had got the Venetian Blind drunk and left the Greek cross under the table, totally shished off his kebab, much to the delight of the Turkish coffee, who never ever touched a drop of the Tatar sauce.

The waitress, who wore her hair in a French roll coated in egg and milk (lightly fried), a style more suited to Southern Mediterranean than Nordic tastes, asked in her best dog, "Is there anything more you desire, monsieur?

She was addressing Rex the Dog.

Rex, the biggest canine star of his day, was known as the King of Dogfooding. In the advertising game, he was the dog who always ate the dog food. Rex would never turn up his nose at the product. Back in the day, there was nothing more embarrassing, or costly, on a live TV commercial than the dog not eating its Lassie Chunks. But this really wasn't his cup of tea at all. Even though he'd never been much for sheep herding, he hated wordplay with a passion bordering on collie. It was time he hightailed it. He'd already waited far too long for the waitress to notice him in amongst all the sticky puns.

- I don't suppose you could fetch me a bone and a people bag to go, woofed Rex softly.

As he pushed open the door to leave, a dispute over the provenance of the idiomatic infusion broke out between a couple of inebriated English peers, who had been down and out in Paris, London and other world-renowned European capitals more times than Rex had had dog's dinners. Lord Lipton of Lambeth Walk insisted the brew was rightfully his, while Earl Grey of Essex claimed the oil of Bergamot entitled him not only to possession of the dog's cup of tea, but to full droits de signeur over the waitress too. Pretty soon they were at it like humans. Rex was best off out of it. Pity. He'd been looking forward to that Vienna sausage.

HOODWiNKED

A gang of hooded youths was loitering with intent outside the launderette. Underemployed, undereducated and under the influence. I crossed the road to avoid missing them.

- Oi you lot! You make me sick.

I shouted at them. It felt good.

- You shiftless, pusillanimous packets of puke.

I shouted some more.

- Why don't you turn your white trash baseball caps round the right way, pull up your baggy arsed socks and get a fuc...

- And what was their reaction?

- Don't know? You lot turned up and brought me in. And I tell you something for nothing. If I...

- Look sir. It's better for you, we arrived when we did. Now back to the questionnaire.

- Bloody forms.

- The sooner we do this, the soon...

- Ok Ok.

- Do you watch a rolling news service? Please don't tell me which one. It'll invalidate the result.

- Yes. Almost every day. 'Cept Sundays when I go...

- And do you read a newspaper?

- Yes. The Daily...

- No names.

- And do you take a local newspaper?

- Which one?

- Any local paper at all.

- I read the ones that come through the door. The Week...

- Please...

- Sorry.

- Talk radio?

- Radio?

- Yes, do you regularly listen to a talk radio station?

- Well as it happens, I listen to one of them through-the-night shows. It helps me sleep sometimes.

- Thank you. Well... according to this, Mr. Mentality, you're a high risk category.

- Is there anything you can do for me?

- How long has this pattern of anti-social behaviour been going on?

- Ever since I turned 40.

- Youth offending is a growing social problem and one of the major causes of distress in the over 40's. I'll be frank. Unless you can break your cycle of offensive behaviour, then your chances of being able to fully re-integrate into the wider community are slim. Have you ever considered voluntary work with teenagers?

- ....

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

EVERY WORD IN THIS POEM IS FAMOUS

except the first eleven...
John Lee Hooker Jelly Roll  
Eleanor Rigby Mark Kermode 
Spencer Davis Eric Sykes 
Esther Ranzten Jesus Christ  

Angela Merkel Sister Bliss 
Tony Hancock Charlie Chuck 
Neneh Cherry Yoko Ono
Isi Noho Muzzi Izzet 
Emile Heskey Luther Blisset 
Lucy Parsons Perry Mason 
Googie Withers David Jason 
Marmalade Atkins Maxim Gorky  
Mhairi Black Stephen Hawking 
Imelda Marcos Indira Ghandi 
David Hockney Andy Pandy 
Rosa Luxembourg Rosa Parkes
Julie Andrews Petula Clarke 

Miguel de Unamuno Kasuo Ishiguro 
Kenzaburo Oe Richard Madeley 
Liam Brady Harry Palmer 
Douglas Bader Mack The Knife 
Emma Goldman Mozzam Begg 
Barrack Obama Doctor Legg 
Stanley Kubrick Big Bill Werbeniuk
Osama Bin Laden Mimi Van Doren Jeremy Corbyn 
Arthur Daley Alex Higgins 
Dr. Jekyll Michael Stipe 

Nicola Sturgeon Bessie Smith 
Siouxsie Sioux Sharon Stone 
Beryl Reid Calvin Klein 
Bazooka Joe Ronnie Lane 
Mott The Hoople Kwai Chang Caine 
Giannina Maradonna Claudia Schiffer 
Silvio Berlusconi Lena Zavaroni  
Snobby Roberts  Katy Perry Haile Berry 
Charles Bukowski Henry Chinaski  
Greg Rusedski Konstantin Stanislavski
Keyser Söze László Bíró  
Edna O'Brien Darren Bent 
Julian Clary Norman Lamont 

Mickey Mouse Minnie Driver 
Jeremy Clarkson Malcolm X 
Johnny Rotten John Lydon
Judy Finnegan Homer Simpson
Chairman Mao Manu Chao 
Lady Chatterley Marie (Skłodowska) Curie
Larry Grayson Grayson Perry 
Lee "Scratch Scratch Scratch" 
Perry Como Larry Sanders 
Gary Shandling Moll Flanders 
Col. Sanders French & Saunders
Oor Wullie Billy Holliday 
Bradley Wiggins Morwena Banks
Prince Buster Bloodvessel  
Shabba Ranks (Shabba!) 

Inspector Gadget Lieutenant Columbo 
Sgt. Pepper Col. Mustard 
General Motors Capt. Bligh 
Moby Dick Dastardly & Mutley 
Cagney & Lacey 
Thelma & Louise
Officer Dibble Jimmy Riddle 
Nelson Mandela Mother Teresa 
La Pasionara Salvador Dalai Lama 
Rafa Nadal Bananarama 
Sgt. Bilko Steven Biko 
Dave Dee Dozy Beaky 
Mick & Keef Joseph Conrad 
Buster Gonad Tyson Fury
Suzanna Vega Elliot Ness
Thomas Midgley Mr. Wrigley
Michelle Shocked Vincent Van Gogh 
Minnie The Minx Robert The Bruce 
Atilla The Stockbroker Dr. Spock 

Mr. Wendel Mr Whippy
Lisa McKenzie Leon Trotsky Winston Lennon 

Noam Chomsky Antonio Gramsci 
Normski Beyoncé Adamski
Fyodor Dostoevsky 

Ziggy Marley Iggy Pop Ziggy Stardust 
ROBOCOP...

SUICIDAL LIFESTYLE - A HAIKU

You're killing yourself.

- Yeah, I know I am.

But 

really 

fucking 

slowly.

Monday, November 21, 2016

PLEASE GIVE ONE MONTHS’ NOTICE OF YOUR DEATH


Please allow plenty of time to complete the forms

and to collate the information

that you shall need to support your application

to die

Please give at least one months' notice of the death

Please contact the Office of Ex-human Resources


beforehand in order to arrange the demise


Please tick here

if the deceased requires an afterlife clause

Please do take the time to perish thoroughly

and remember to check with your local authority;

some accept corpses in the green bin, others do not

Please do not become defunct in the loading bay

Please replace the handset and die again

Please place your death in the bagging area

Please extinguish all breath before the deadline

Please do not miss the deadline
or you will incur a penalty


Please return the Step Up To The Pledge!

sponsored death forms by Mar 31st

(if reg. UK taxpayer you can claim 25% more!)

Please note: one month following the deadline

Google Death* will automatically alert

"trusted contacts" of your earthly departure

by either social media via text message

 
For elderly demisers, please make cheques payable to:

Ethical Deaths

Co-Operative Bank

PO Box 20

Skelmersdale WN8 6WT



Please seal your kidneys/pancreas/liver*

in the jiffy bag provided

and pop it in the bin at your nearest

@amazon/pickup-point/easydeath.com

 

Please sign the petition

To help stop this happening at stopdeath/org.uk/live

 * Please ensure vital organs are packaged individually

& placed in the appropriate baggage, marked “unemotional”

FRIDAY 27th NOVEMBER, 2015


Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

WD40's three quid a can
DP60's a pound a tin in B&M

Yes, we can 
Yes, we can
Yes, we can bomb Pakistan
Afghanistan Iraq

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

It does exactly what it says on the tin:

The Hitler Youth wing of the Tory Party
has been accused of sociopathy

Now then, now then, now then!
A strong economy starts with a strong defence

They need people to die

There's a farm where they clone chief execs - 
the guilt emotion replaced by a lump of jelly
and a lexicon of jargon, going forward... 

They need people to die

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

It's corrosive now
It can only get toxic
Cut it out. Move on.
Severed connections
Wash your hands. Job done
Put the WD40 away

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

700,000 they needed to die

Changed his name to Gomez
in the long run
healthier for the both of you  
no to
anymore

Logically
Psychologically
Emotionally
BLACK FRIDAY!
sucks big fat pants
at £6 a pair
made by midgets
kept in jars
and fed maggots
by psychopaths

Blustery, windy but surprisingly mild,
going forward...
fast 

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

We've found the feminist sub-text
It was buried under a mound of laundry

We're freaked out by our own normalcy
We've normalised the weird
We've skied in Dubai in June
We've basked in Abu Dhabi heat in Aberdeen
as Macronesia sinks to its knees

Collectively, we've cocked up
Some more than most
Scatologically, we bathe our gentialia
in fizzy bottled water because we can

Yes, we can 
Yes, we can
Yes, we can bomb Pakistan
Syria Libya Gaza


A plastic ocean of toxins
at 5p a bag
Now the chlorine gas has subsided
Phosphate falls from the sky
700,000 lost souls forever

They need people to die

Who pressed the Aleppo Button?

Four Tet on the jukebox
Life beats on on Radio One
Black Friday has gone 
to meet its maker 
Hay fever in December
7.4. million online orders in one day

And the Congo at war since 1962
As the chief exec upscales  
and rallies his ground troops
and Amazon drones
for the Christmas invasion, going forward...

Ramadam Mubarak

They need people to BUY...

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt

Sat on the deck in a t-shirt
watching the Arctic melt





Saturday, November 05, 2016

THIS IS THE DAY WE WILL FORGET

This is the day we will forget

It’s 11 o’clock on the 11
th of the 11th
It is time for all to remain silent
for a minute or more
for the many
who lost their heads
to amnesia to empire to history

Today is the day a decent person

ignores the memory
of the non-people who never lived 
Stories of indiscriminate slaughter
of Malaysian and Kenyan villagers
in forgotten wars
are not the source of self-righteous remembrance

No solace is sought
for those whose commemoration
would be a political act of treachery
Now is not the moment to contemplate
unsavoury truths or entertain extremist views
to point-score, to muck-rake

This is the day we bury those deaths
At 11 o’clock of the 11th month
Scots Guards will not go rogue
And innocent throats will not be cut
There will be no recall of ISIS-style massacres
MADE IN THE UK

No recollection of famines
torture, brutality, Bloody Sundays
British gulags or concentration camps

Now is not the time for Mau Mau
Because 1948 is not 1916
The Easter is falling; winter is rising

This is the day to neglect
the poppy fields of Afghanistan
where the Help For Heroine programme
opiates the local economy
in the name of peace and freedom...
and the liberation of women

Today is the day we listen
To Elgar and comply
Lest we forget
To forgive the crimes committed by
The Great and the Good
The dead are honoured,
but those they killed are not

The merchants of death have prospered
The Blair Witch Project 
dares to wear its poppy
Here lies Anthony
like Margaret and Winston before
Try not to wretch;
Contain your alienation
This is the day to hold your nose
And think of the fallen and the nation

The fabrication of propaganda
is not on the agenda
The fabrication of propaganda 
is not on the agenda
This is not the moment
to resurrect the memory
Of sexed-up excuses for outright murder
With impunity and arrogance
In the name of profit and power

Which way did The Belgrano go? No!
Now is not the time to ask
Now they’re all dead;
Lest we forget

This is the day the stories 
of other heroes are silenced
This is the day to belittle
the bravery of those loathe
To kill and to die in the name of a flag
And a face on a bank note

This is the day to remember


Or this is the day we will forget