I saw in the New Year with Montrose. Did you see it yourself? Some chat, some song, and (insert a gentle chuckle of fond recollection here) more than a little laughter. Oh, a fantastic time was to be had. That’s the great thing about Montrose, it’s like a wonderful party and they allow you look in the window.
The night was made up of the cream of Montrose, past, present, and future. The faces of the future provided the highlight of the night for me. Just before midnight, during the countdown, The Joe O’Shea was wheeled out and it smiled and waved at the audience and then Miriam kind of twisted off the top half of it and inside it was The Craig Doyle and that waved too and got applause and then Miriam twisted the top off The Craig Doyle and inside it was The Brian Ormond and that did a little wave and everyone clapped and then Miriam unscrewed the top off The Brian Ormond and inside it was The Aiden Power and that waved at the audience and got a clap and then, as if that wasn’t enough, Miriam twisted open The Aiden Power and inside that was The Donal Skehan and it sang Auld Lang Syne and then Miriam breastfed it and put it in a little cot and everyone in the audience went ‘ahhhhh’.
Bowman was on too. He has intelligence. He spoke about his book. It’s about the history of Montrose and it’s called Fifty Years in Plato’s Cave by John Bowman (aged 69 and a half) Montrose Books, €99.99. It sounds brilliant. There’s pictures in it and you can colour them in and everything.
Did you know they’ve been making telly out in Montrose for fifty years? Yeah! Fifty years. You wouldn’t know it though. It doesn’t show through all the vitality. ‘Daytime Telly, All Day, Every Day’, that’s what it says on the plaque over the foyer door. Miriam spoke of the early days of Montrose and how deValera was wary of the telly’s potential influence. I felt like telling Miriam that Dev needn’t have worried. He need not have worried at all. The telly is in safe hands in Montrose. Very safe hands. Incredibly safe telly altogether.
Anyway, then everyone did the Huckle Buck and said goodbye and then it was closedown so I said my prayers and went to bed and looked forward to waking up the next day in 2012. The future! It's going to be great!!!
Hold on a second! Was that a dirty prod presenting Night Light? Ah listen, all this multiculturalism is going too far. Dev wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’m writing to Arthur in Mailbag!
The Christmas family reunion and the niece and nephew were being very sullen and uncommunicative. They are at that difficult age. You know the age. Forty somethingish. Anyway, I was told that if I wanted to get through to them I’d have to do it on their turf. ‘Turf?’ I asked, confused. ‘Yes, the virtual world of the computer game they got for Christmas.’ So, I went to the other room and found the pair of them sat in front of the telly, which was hooked up to some sort of apparatus. They were holding control consoles and moving little animated creatures around the screen. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked them. ‘We’re playing Beaver Bedlam’, one replied. Their game shared the same name as a short film I had recently enjoyed on Spankwire but I thought better of mentioning the coincidence. ‘Can I join in?’ I asked. They threw me a console and I sat between them. There were little beavers swimming around in a river on the screen. ‘What do I do?’ ‘Collect the wood.’ ‘What wood? Where?’ ‘Collect the wood! COLLECT THE WOOD!’ ‘I don’t see any wood.’ There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen. ‘Jesus, what was that?’ ‘You’re dead. Here, give me the thing.’ The nephew grabbed my console. He sighed and pressed a button or something that brought me back to life. Then he handed me back the controls. ‘OK, where’s the wood?’ ‘There! Look! See?’ ‘I see it!’ ‘Collect the wood! Collect the wood!’ Sweaty and anxious, I managed to collect some wood. ‘Now what?’ ‘Build the dam!’ ‘A dam? How?’ ‘Apply for planning! APPLY FOR PLANNING!’ ‘Quit shouting at me.’ ‘JESUS! APPLY FOR PLANNING NOW!’ There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen. The niece obliged and brought me back to life this time.
I was in the panicked process of applying for planning when everything started flashing and this demented electronic melody filled the room. Then a badger appeared in the corner of the screen and it started dancing. Then the niece got up and started copying the badger’s every move. ‘What’s going on now?’ ‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’ ‘What badger? Badger what?’ ‘COLLECT THE WOOD! COLLECT THE WOOD!’ ‘What about the badger?’ ‘COLLECT THE WOOD! BOOGIE BADGER!’ ‘Just calm down a sec and let me know what’s going on?’ My heart almost stopped at the dreaded sound of that familiar squeal. Blood filled the screen. ‘YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD!’ ‘Right. OK. Relax. Bring me back!’ ‘No.’ ‘No?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘You’ve used up your lives.’ ‘Well, can you give me a new life?’ ‘Don’t be stupid. That would be unrealistic.’ ‘. . .oh, right.’ I got up and was leaving the room when the niece called me back. ‘You owe us a tenner each,’ she said. ‘Me? How come?’ They both made the spaz face (the one where you tuck your tongue under your bottom lip) and waved their arms about going ‘nuuuhhhh’. This did little to illuminate me. Finally the nephew spoke up. ‘You built the dam without planning. You were fined. Weren’t you paying attention?’ I shrugged and paid up. I left the room. My heart was a little heavy at the thought of the distance that had grown between us. Back in my day you’d be happy with a Boba Fett figurine and a can of Lilt. These days you are lost in a bewildering virtual universe with bizarre rules and requirements. These days you are a panic stricken God, looking through a window into another world, urgently trying to alter the fate of dam building beavers and dancing badgers. ‘It’s no wonder they keep failing the Junior Cert’, I said to myself as I sloped off to my quarters to enjoy the other Beaver Bedlam that’s more to my liking. I couldn’t get into it though. Just as Daphne Delights was hitting her stride, I heard the little shits in the other room: ‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’ I found myself panicking and pressing any key in sight in a futile attempt to get Daphne to put down her rabbit and collect some wood. She didn’t of course. She was preoccupied. Lost in her own little world.
Are you looking forward to the fuckin Crimbo yourself? I bet you are. You look the sort. Family reunion this year is it? Are you going to eat up your pudding with a little spoon and pat your little belly? Are you going to pat your little belly and wander around the sitting room with a hot toddy in your hand talking about the year you’ve had? I bet you are. I can hear you now: ‘Oh, 2011 was rough on the office stationary supply game but we knuckled down and things will pick up again next year please God.’ You’ll be going on like that to your siblings but they won’t be listening. They’ll be thinking about something else. Your mother will be smiling at you though. She’ll be smiling and nodding encouragingly but make no mistake, she’ll be silently wishing you were struck with a sudden case of lockjaw and forced to shut your yap. You’ll eventually notice that you’re not appreciated of course. After about eight hot toddies you’ll notice and you’ll emit some cutting remark about your sister’s choice of career. It’ll all kick off then. Oh, there’ll be shouting alright. It’ll be like the final scene in a Mike Leigh film. Everyone’s kids will get upset because the grown-ups are fighting and your mother will sigh and go to bed early.
It’s going to be a disaster. Mark my words. You, in your little party hat, trying not to look at your Uncle Gerry as he sits there next to you adjusting his newly fitted colostomy bag for comfort. That won’t stop you stuffing your fat face though. It’s the same every year: your lips smeared in chocolate while homeless people are turfed back out onto the road, freezing to death after being served a paltry plate of mechanically separated meat product by the Knights of Columbanus. Jesus wept. Enjoy your fuckin Crimbo! . . .sucker.
The following embedded video features the sound of the Universe (Caution, flashing lights and groovy effects):
That is it. The sound of the Universe. The overarching and comprehensive sound of everything in existence. NASA pick it up on their radio telescopes. It’s a bit 2001: A Space Odyssey isn’t it? It’s kind of weird and sci-fi-ish. There’s a strange harmony to it. It’s exactly the kind of cool sound you’d expect. Imagine if farts sounded like that. I don’t think people would find farts so funny or humiliating if that was the sound they made. I think letting a really big one rip would make you seem pretty cosmic and mystical. Farts would be a status symbol if they sounded like that. We’d be shovelling the beans down us if arse coughs made that kind of noise.
But I’m digressing. I’ll get to the point. The point is that NASA trained their radio telescopes on the planet Earth, seeking not to hear the sound of the planet itself and everything on it but just to record the sound of humanity. The exclusive and overarching noise of human beings. The combined symphony of men, women, children and babies, their actions and interactions. Here is what NASA picked up:
Yeah, that’s it. The sound of humanity. The sound of an avant-garde jazz band tripping in the dark and falling down a long flight of stairs. It’s a bit of a cacophony. I’d imagine farts would be considered in even less esteem if they sounded like that. Imagine if you were at an important job interview or sitting in a silent meditation group and that racket escaped from the back of your trousers. You’d never live it down.
But anyway, I don’t think we should despair. I reckon one day the avant-garde jazz band that is us will reach the bottom of the stairs and rub our heads and replace the cracked symbols and broken drum skins and fix the dints in the trombones and we’ll get our act together and start to make a noise that sounds half decent. I mean, that’s got to happen eventually. I’m just not sure how far down the stairs we are yet or how far we have to go. There’s no way of knowing. We can’t see what’s to come. God turned off the lights. God probably pushed us. Maybe God is a fan of avant-garde jazz bands making that kind of din. Maybe he likes to freak out to that kind of stuff when he’s not chilling out to the Universal vibe. Takes all sorts I suppose.
Continued from the Previous Post. . . Chapter Three: The human brain is mainly concerned with two things. The survival of the human body is the first and making the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience is the second. The human brain learns how to do the latter with the information it receives from the telly. The telly knows how to make the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience because it was told how to by the shops. The shops are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post). Chapter Four: Sane human brains being guided by the insanity of The Market is one of the many paradoxes the human brain must endure in its search for ways to make the survival of the human body enjoyable. Another paradox is found in the existence of consciousness and indeed conscience. Conscience is a by-product of consciousness and serves to create moral and philosophical reasoning that may or may not be reasonable. Different human brains will favour different reasonings and often find themselves in disagreement. An example: Wife: I think the people of the world would find contentment in a non-merchant capitalist society based on a principle of direct and inclusive democracy. What do you think? Husband: I think you should quit yer yapping coz I’m trying to watch the golf. Wife: I think you’re a monster. Husband: I think that cat you adopted is a monster. Now make me a sandwich. Disagreements like the above can lead to the survival of the human body being a less enjoyable experience. To prevent this, human brains, once again, resort to the information filter known as the telly for guidance and the telly resorts to the shops which are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post). But: There Is No Alternative! And that is the story of the human brain. The End.
Introduction: The human brain is the most important organ in the human body. This is because it tells the other organs what to do. The human brain tells the whole human body what to do. The human body is just a vehicle and the human brain is its driver. The human brain tells the human body to do things like sit down or get up or stand up, stand up for your rights, get up, stand up, don't give up the fight. Ah no. That last part is a joke. I’m only having a little joke. The human brain doesn’t tell the human body to do things like that. No. Most of the time the human brain will just tell the human body to do things like get out of bed, go to work, make a cup of tea, insult the wife, and all that sort of thing. Chapter One: The human brain decides everything. The human brain decides what is nice and what is not nice. The human brain decides what is scary and what is funny. An example: The human brain uses the human eyes to watch the human body’s wife coming in the door with a large bag of groceries. She suddenly trips over a mangy stray cat that she insisted on adopting even though it is unfriendly and ugly. The human body’s wife lets out a yelp before landing flat on her ass. The groceries fall out of the bag and roll about on the floor around her. The cat hisses and runs away. The human brain decides that this is funny and laughs. ‘Ha Ha Ha!’ goes the human brain and then the human mouth copies the human brain and says ‘Ha Ha Ha!’ Then the human body’s wife nurses her sprained ankle as her human brain wonders how her human body came to be married to someone so inhuman. Chapter Two: The human brain makes decisions based on information it receives. The human brain is designed to take in information. The Universe is huge and full of incredible events and observable phenomena, all unfolding and taking place at once. If the human brain was to absorb the events and phenomena of the Universe all at once then the human brain would cease to function properly. This is called going insane. To make sure it does not go insane, the human brain absorbs information in small doses and places that information in context. The human brain does this by using a filter and that filter is called the telly.
Please return for the rest of the story of the human brain in the next post. To be continued but, for now, here’s a song. . .
I'm in Dundrum Town Centre. The usual thing. A look around. Meet the girls for a latte. Away In A Manger is wafting from the PA system. Little Saoirse is being a pain. Banging her fists on the buggy. Banging her fists on the buggy and wailing like a wild thing. Away In A Manger, I wish, I wish. That man is here. You know the one. The oddball. The one who looks right at you and roars things. His eyes. That stare. ‘Playing holy songs’, he says. ‘They’re playing holy song and the Antichrist owns the place’, he bellows and laughs. Laughs a big mental laugh. Saoirse wails louder and the place is packed and I’m feeling a bit unhinged. I can’t face the girls like this. I go into the toilets and roll the buggy into the disabled cubicle. I take a deep breath and wee snort of Peruvian. I’m back on form. I’m ready for anything. I meet the girls and speak about myself and boots and bags and bags and boots and myself. ‘You’re on rare form Collette’, says Mairead and tells me how she found little Kirsten’s lost mitten down the back of the Corsa and how the poor mite got streptococcal throat. Then a silence falls and we know it is time. We stand and leave and head up to the top floor for a dose of henbane. We park the buggies, climb out the skylight and strip off. We perch naked on the parapet and squawk like mighty birds of prey. The henbane’s really complimenting the coke and I am soaring over the world. I am the air and the cosmos. I am the wings in the night. I am the moon. I am the Goddess. I am RAGE! And I will swoop down and behead the tubby pieces of shit in tight fitting soccer tops that pass for men below me. They are looking up and imploring us to come down. ‘Jesus girls, come down. What are you at? Come down’. I’ll come down. I’ll come down alright. I’ll swoop down and rip their heads from their fucking necks. I’ll shower the upper mezzanine in thick dark blood. I will no longer be tethered. I will no longer be tamed. I will no longer be marshalled and corralled. I will no longer push that squealing tyrant throughout the obstacle course of boots and bags and bags and boots. A new day is coming. A new day. And the suburbs will know fear and they shall abase themselves before The Ballinteer Recreation Centre Mother and Toddlers Coven of the Dark Lady Lilith. Lilith who spurned the obsequious Adam. Lilith who defied God. We, the sisters of Lilith, will shake this world and rule over those who cower within it. They will awake and hear us cackling in the starry sky above their homes. Soaring and swooping over the uniform rooftops of their battery farm estates. And they shall worship us, as sure as they worship their soccer teams and their boots and bags and bags and boots. And we will suck their souls dry of what little nutrition remains. And we will take them in our talons and we will carry them into the cold black air and we will release their carcasses and howl as they plummet down down down onto the sad little automobiles that scurry along beneath us and lo’ there will be an unmerciful pile up on the M50 and screaming and flames aplenty.
Remember now, that’s The Ballinteer Recreation Centre Mother and Toddlers Coven of the Dark Lady Lilith. We meet every second Wednesday morning. Perhaps you’d like to join us. Call Emer or Toiresa for details.
I was talking to this elegant woman at a party recently. She was very successful and dynamic. I knew she was successful and dynamic because she kept mentioning how successful and dynamic her life was. All her talk made her seem kind of insecure to my eyes but that’s grand if not a tad endearing. We’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.
Anyway, it dawned on me that I quite fancied this insecure woman. She was nice looking and made me feel like she needed protecting in a way. ‘If I wasn’t so lazy I could probably be the guy to protect this woman’, I found myself thinking. Then she seemed to realise that she’d been talking about herself for a while so she asked about me. ‘So Mr. Fugger what is it you do?’ she asked. I was at a bit of a loss. I gave an awkward chuckle as I mentally scanned the litany of defeat that had comprised my life up to now (I certainly wasn’t going to mention this blog). I found myself blurting out the line: ‘oh, not much, y’know, I’d rather be happy than successful’.
Then there was a bit of a lull in the conversation. I crouched down to get another can of Royal Dutch from my hold-all. As I came back up, I saw her observing me over the glass of wine she was sipping. Observing me through narrowed eyes. Then she mumbled something about having to catch up with the party’s host and walked off into another room. ‘Grand’, I said and gave her a thumbs up as she departed.
I saw her once more before she left. She air kissed me goodbye and said it had been great chatting. I stayed on at the party after that. I found some Captain Beefheart CDs and insisted they be put on. I ended up being the last to leave. I was pretty drunk but, y’know, it was a party. Eventually the host showed me to the door. He said he was tired and had to get some shut eye. ‘Ah, no worries’, I said, ‘I was bored anyway’. I gave him a thumbs up.
The host seemed a bit uptight as he waved me off. He’s a fairly uptight guy at the best of times but sure we’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.
I finished my last Royal Dutch on a bench by the Grand Canal. I spoke to a few swans but they were sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings. ‘Stuck up arseholes’, I shouted at them and flung an empty can in their direction. Then one of the swans popped its head out and peered at me. I could’ve sworn it rolled its eyes. I finally realised it was time to go home. I gave the swan a thumbs up and wandered off in some direction or other.
Instead of stopping passers-by and asking ‘excuse me, do you know what time it is?’ my brother thought it was hilarious to stop passers-by and ask ‘excuse me, do you know what time is?’ ‘All I have to do is remove the word ‘it’ from the sentence’, he laughingly used to point out. It was half a joke, half an experiment. He kept a record of the replies he got in a journal. His favourite answer to receive was also the most common. This answer was: ‘I’m not sure’. With this answer, the passer-by had set themselves up for my brother’s killer blow. ‘I’m not sure’, a passer-by would say and my brother would roar at them ‘why do you wear a watch then, you big eejit?’
There was one occasion when an elderly gentleman entertained my brother’s question and attempted to answer it. ‘Time is the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future, regarded as a whole’, said the man. My brother stared at him and said nothing for a moment. Then he spoke. ‘Don’t be so fucking naïve’, he told the old man before going on to explain that ‘time is a trap’. The old man departed, perturbed. ‘What did you mean by time is a trap?’ I asked my brother. ‘Ah, it’s just something Dickie Davies said on the telly’, he replied before going indoors to catch that day’s sports results.
Passers-by rarely took issue with my brother accosting them. I think it was because he was such an intense looking kid. It wasn’t that you’d be in fear of physical violence from the guy. It was more a feeling that he could cast a spell on you, a hex or something. There was something in his eyes that hinted at incomprehensible knowing, even though he was only eleven years old at the time. Whatever time is.
No more need for costly medals, uniforms, and specialist training. Warfare is now considered unskilled labour and is fought for minimum wage. Our operatives are no longer in the field. They are in something that resembles a call-centre, staring at consoles, operating drones. The dot reaches the centre of the graph. They press the button. Ka-Boom! It’s a piece of piss.
From the ‘About Us’ section of the Ground Control Solutions website: ‘Vibrant. Dynamic. Supportive. G.C.S. (Ground Control Solutions) takes pride in meeting your defence or foreign intervention needs in a professional and accommodating manner. Our friendly and conscientious staff members guide the latest unmanned aerial hardware to desired locations with speed, efficiency and an agreeable degree of accuracy. G.C.S. is a combat system control industry leader and two time winner of the Sir Arthur Harris Memorial Award for Remote Pilot Precision. Why not take advantage of our current two for one package? Offer must end soon.’
My brother worked for G.C.S. when he was just eighteen. It was summer work. He didn’t like it much. The shifts were long and the wages shitty but it was the only thing going and he was saving for a drum kit.
He used come home exhausted and slump in front of the TV. The news would be showing some North African kip being turned to ashes. ‘I wonder if that’s our crowd’, he’d say. He wouldn’t know and asking was a sacking offence. It was said that G.C.S. often worked for both sides in a conflict. Business is business. Things got a bit hairy after our own country got mixed up in a bit of international tomfoolery and G.C.S. was reportedly bombing the very cities in which it operated but, like I said, business is business.
A moral argument for this form of warfare is that it cuts down on casualties, for one side at least. Unfortunately that argument didn’t hold true when G.C.S. was contracted to take out its own centres. To refuse to do so would have resulted in legal action. A survivor said it was my brother that actually operated the drone that blew him and his workplace to bits. He was looking at the graph and commented on how the topography seemed familiar. He pressed the button. We never found his body. I’ll say it one more time, business is business.
Hmm. All that complicated banking tomfoolery has made The Market seem a tad unappealing hasn’t it? But worry not. You can still play The Market and keep it simple and straightforward. I, Fugger, the people’s blogger, am here to show you how. You too can be a winner!
‘But Mister Fugger, The Market is callous and evil’, I hear you bleat. Well yeah, so what? Life is not about being nice and neither is The Market. Life is about getting as much as you possibly can and so is The Market. The Market is an inclusive game that anyone can play so quit occupying Wall Street and start making a living there. All other forms of revenue generation are obsolete. Buying is the new working. Selling is the new earning. You can’t beat The Market but you can play The Market.
What you want to do is invest in companies that produce things that are going to be in demand. Take a look at the world around you and speculate on its future, a bit like a science fiction writer would. What’s coming down the line? Right, well, for starters, the world is fast becoming an environmentally degraded shit house. What would people want in an environmentally degraded shit house? That’s right! Breathable air. Buy shares in fresh air. The more polluted the environment becomes the more demand there will be for fresh air. It’ll come in spray cans with names like Mountain Valley Gust and Odeur du Vie. Check and see what corporation is making moves re: fresh air, keep an eye on their shares and BUY BUY BUY!
Right, we’re off to a good start. What else happens in an environmentally degraded shit pile? What do people do? They choke yes, very good, but what else do they do? That’s right! They protest! They riot! (If they aren't doing so already over the bailouts, guffaw!) So, how can we profit there? I’ll tell you how. Invest in batons, water cannons, tear gas, pepper spray, rubber bullets, tasers, cattle prods and plastic zip tie handcuffs. Find out who makes these things, keep an eye on their shares and BUY BUY BUY!
If riots are coming wars are probably coming. Diminishing reserves of natural resources are going to make nations desperate. There’ll be land grabs all over the place. The towel heads and sand nig nogs (not being racist, just using the terminology of The Market) will be going crazy and they’ll need weapons and all the things associated with weapons. Missiles, guns, armoured trucks, tanks, electrodes, body bags, coffins. The French and the Russians profited greatly during the Iran v Iraq war of yesteryear. Over one million died. Many more millions were made. Remember that! Keep an eye on arms manufacturer shares and BUY BUY BUY!
Once you’ve made enough money on The Market you can start sponsoring election campaigns and that means what you say goes. You’re making policy! You’re king of the world! So, look at what’s around and see what money can be made. Keep those wars coming (there’s no money in diplomacy) and keep those fumes pumping (there’s no money in the oxygen this silly planet provides gratis). Take stuff from people and sell it back to them. Remember, you can only do this if you have bought a politician so find out who’s for sale and BUY BUY BUY!
Finally, buy the media. Seriously, just buy the lot of it. Tell everyone the story of the world and give it any ending you want. Don’t worry about the journalists. They’ll do whatever you say. You don’t even have to pay them that much. They are happy enough with just the attention. So, don’t just go down the shops and buy the paper, no, enter the market and BUY BUY BUY the paper.
Once you own the media you’ll own people’s minds. Just think, you’ll be the majority shareholder in human consciousness. You’ll own the world and the minds of the people who live upon that world. You’ll be a God! Maybe you can be THE God. Let’s face it, that other guy’s stock has fallen. God’s stock has fallen so it might be just the time to BUY BUY BUY!
Praise be to The Market! Hallowed be your name! See? I told you that you too could be a winner. Now get out there and BUY BUY BUY!
My legs are depressed today. The rest of me is grand but the legs are fed up. They won’t bring me anywhere. ‘What’s the point?’ they seem to say, ‘we move you around but you never seem to go anywhere’. It’s a funny attitude to take. I don’t know what they expect. I could try forcing the issue. I could make them stand up and walk about by sheer force of will but I’m reluctant to try it. The last time I gave it a go the legs attempted to run me under a bus. So I’m at their mercy. I’m stuck here by the computer all day. I’m as bad as you.
Unless!!! There is one thing I can try. One thing that never fails to boost leg morale. I just show the legs the motivational film. Have you seen the motivational film? You haven’t? Oh, it works wonders when you get a spell of leg depression. Here it is:
Ah, I feel a twitch already. My feet are tapping. The legs are cheering up. This is it. I’m standing. I’m moving around. I’m off down the shops. Milk, butter, eggs. A look around Oxfam. See if I can pick up a James Herbert paperback for a euro. This is the life! This is why we were given legs! This is why we crawled from the sea and learned how to boot other creatures in the hole.
Did you know that humans are the only creatures that are able to boot other living things in the hole? It’s true. It’s a scientific fact. Sure, angry donkeys and deer and so on can do it but the human being is the only organism that is able to boot something in the hole in a premeditated way. You know, as in singling out the hole especially and taking aim. Maybe that tells you something about our species. Maybe we're not all that nice. God, that's a depressing thought. I better think positive. I don't want the legs buckling under me. Hmm. Maybe the hole booting fact indicates that we’re born hole booters, as in born to boot life in the hole. Yeah, that’s probably it. That makes me feel pretty good actually. That makes me feel empowered. Right, I’m off! I'm going to walk these legs down the mainstreet, search for some second hand Herbert and boot life in the hole. RIGHT IN THE HOLE!
(pictured above: say goodbye to this sort of thing)
I love those new plastic handcuffs the cops use in America. They make people look like some of the products you see in the shops, you know with the little plastic bands attached to seal things up with the barcode on them. You also see them binding cables together at the backs of computers and tellies and so on. I reckon plastic handcuffs hint at the future of law enforcement going forward. Just think, we’ll be able to arrest upstarts and criminals and put them up on shelves in a kind of supermarket jail. Then people can come along with bail money and take the arrested people down off the shelves and scan them on a kind of self service counter and bring them home. The jails won’t even need to be staffed. Well, there’ll be a couple of people there to help out if the scanner goes wonky. It’ll be a bit like the 24 hour Tescos near me at three in the morning. It’ll be a grand set up.
Cutting down on jail staff will save a bit of cash and the cuffs themselves will be cheap which means we can make more of them and therefore make more arrests. In fact, we could hand the whole jail thing over to some company and not have to worry about having to pay tax for it anymore. The company could profit by keeping the bail money. We’d all be quids in!
Come to think of it, we could sell off the whole law enforcement gig to private interests too. No more exchequer cash would have to be spent on cops. The cops could pay for themselves by having adverts on their uniforms, like logos and that, the same way soccer players do.
Yeah, I’m on a roll now. I’ve just thought of a way we could also save money on surveillance, gathering intelligence and all that sort of thing. To pre-emptively ensure there’s no funny business, everyone (all of us, me, you, the mother, the lot) could be electronically tagged and monitored by a private company. The company could also use the data they gather for personalised targeted advertising purposes. That way the nation is not only kept safe but also kept informed about new products that might be of interest to them. Everyone wins.
Not everyone would be happy though. The usual crowd (hippies, students, the gays, the blacks) would be whingeing about conflicts of interest and all that. I suppose kinky types wouldn’t like the new cuffs either. They’d probably miss the whole shackles element. If the plastic handcuffs were furry the kinky lobby would probably be queuing up to be arrested. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of police time is wasted arresting kinky sorts who just want be put in the old style metal cuffs. Plastic handcuffs will put a stop to that I suppose. That’d be another bonus. No one wants to be bound in a pair of plastic handcuffs. It’s kind of insulting. Fucking undignified really.
Oil and water deplete as the global financial system flails in its death throes. It’s looking a bit grim isn’t it? What we need at this juncture is a war. A big old war. A massive war. War is good. War is necessary. War shakes things up. War sorts stuff out. War wipes slates clean. War generates revenue. War is coming.
It’s a bit like Etch A Sketch. Did you have Etch A Sketch when you were a kid? You’d do a picture and it would be looking OK but then you’d keep adding to it and being all fancy and after a while the whole thing would be an over complicated mess. Do you remember that? Your mam would say ‘that’s a nice elephant dear’ when it was actually a tractor you were drawing so you’d let out a wail of anguish (whhhaaaaaa!) pick up the Etch A Sketch and shake the fuck out of the thing until the tractorphant was utterly annihilated. Then you’d start all over again.
Well, imagine the world is an Etch A Sketch and the world leaders are you when you were a kid, bawling with a load of snot pouring out your nose, quite out of your mind and shaking the bejaysus out of the poor Etch A Sketch. Instead of the picture being wiped out, cities and streets and buildings and furniture and humans and dogs and cats and budgies and all that sort of thing are wiped out. Once the old mess is out of the way you can set about creating a new one. Going forward.
(pictured: What does she see? You’ll have to wait and see!)
Something is creeping into our world or maybe we’ve encroached upon something else’s territory? Twilight emissaries dart about the corners of our streets and gardens, taunting and beckoning, beguiling and bewildering. Causing us to wander away from this existence and never be seen again. Leaving no trace but for tattered missing posters and empty housing estates filled with shrieking foxes.
A film based on a spooky post found on this blog will be debuting at the Cork Film Festival this Saturday. It’s a creepy little film. A slow burner. There isn’t much of a LOL factor. Amy Huberman isn’t in it. They didn’t get Hugh Jackman either. He was busy making Scaletrix the Movie. Ah well, you can’t have everything.
I’ll keep you posted on future screenings should you fancy a trip to the pictures.
The French are great aren’t they? They really are. Take Christine Lagarde. I really like Christine Lagarde. She’s so sophisticated. She always looks like she’s on her way to the Cannes Film Festival. I bet she’s always having lunch with Bernard Henri Lévy. They’d be discussing the world over croissants but you’d never see them eating the things. Biting and chewing would be a bit beneath them. The crumbs and all that wouldn’t do at all. No, the croissants would just kind of evaporate as Christine and Bernard sit there looking superb and talking about fancy books and not books they pretend they’ve read either, ones they’ve actually read. Dead long books about mad complicated stuff. Nicholas Sarkozy might drop by too. He’s a grand fella. His wife is a chanteuse. Imagine having a chanteuse for a wife. That’d be great. Lévy would compliment Sarkozy on his handling of Libya (they’ll all be eating croissants in Libya come Christmas). He’d pat him on the shoulder and say ‘formidable’ and offer him one of the croissants for evaporation.
Christine would get her share of compliments too. She’d be told she’s looking well and that the new IMF job really suits her. She’s well worth the $467,940 a year. As far as I’m concerned, she can do what she likes in the new post. As long as she does it with style. Any cuts you want Christine. Any assets. Work away. She loves us Irish. She says we’re a great lot, paying up and not moaning like the Greeks and Portuguese. The Greeks and Portuguese are bold. But we’re good. Ms. Lagarde said so and she looks like someone who is off to the Cannes Film Festival. Have you ever been to the Cannes Film Festival yourself? No. No you haven’t. You’ve never been to the Cannes Film Festival. You pitiful little Irish bollix.
You can trust Christine. She’s beyond reproach and even if she isn’t, she looks like she is and that’s the main thing. So forget about that dodgy business with Crédit Lyonnais and just sit back and sigh at the sophistication.
Ah yeah, you can imagine the three of them there. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas at the outdoor café, folding their legs, stroking their chins, lighting Gitanes, je ne sais quoing all over the place. Fantastique. The only thing that could put a dampener on proceedings would be if Merkel showed up. That wouldn’t be good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s OK and it was dead decent of her not to use tanks when she took over Ireland, but, . . .well, . . .she’s a bit dumpy isn’t she? I mean, you can imagine it. She’d come along and plop herself down and kind of ruin the picture. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas would look at her. Not enjoying the sight. Reminded of the strict teutonic governesses their parents used employ. Merkel would pick up a croissant. She’d take a bite out of it. Chomp. The pastry would flake and fall and land on her ill fitting blouse. The others would avert their gaze. Their conversation would continue. Merkel’s interjections would be acknowledged with polite nods but never directly addressed. It’d go unsaid but there’d be a mutual hope that the old bag might just go away after a while.
Here, just for Christine and Nicholas, is a song by a good friend of theirs. A friend who they perhaps shouldn’t be seen with for a while to be honest. He’s a former jailbird and we don’t want any scandal. It’s bad enough with Christine’s predecessor jumping out on chambermaids but I’m sure no one knows anything about any of that and find talk of it distasteful. Ah the French. Such a classy bunch of fuckers. Anyway, here’s the song:
Right, I think I’ll get a pint. Does anyone want a pint? I’ll get these pints. PINTS! Not a bad pint. Quite a nice pint. I think I’ll have another pint. It’s your shout for the pints. You get the pints. I’ll get the next pint. PINTS! Cheap enough here for pints. Are you enjoying that pint? I think there’s something in my pint. Will I get more pints? Ah, you’ll have another pint. My shout for the pints. PINTS! Sure we’ll keep drinking pints. I’m enjoying these pints. Are you next for the pints? Get me another pint. PINTS! Last shout for pints. Quick get a pint. Lash back that pint and we’ll get another pint. Is everyone OK for pints? PINTS! I need another pint. Whrer can we get another pint? Whers still serving pints? I’d love another few pints. Let’s go in here and get some pints. PINTS! Expensive enough pints. Do I owed yous for pints? I’ll get thes pints. Did you drink my pint? That’s my fucking pint. Get me a new pint. I said get me a new pint because that was my pint. PINTS! Fuckr won’t giv uss pints. Ask him for pints. Get cans of pints. All back to mine for pints. Dids serve you pints? PINTS! Carful with them pints. Pour my pint. This glasses are for pints. PINTS! Are you not finishing pint? The pint there pint in and another pint. PINTS! And then another more pints. Carful with them pints. Pour my pint. This glasses are for pints. PINTS! How many left pints? Is there still the pints? Poor me the pint. I mean pour me pint. PINTS! I’ll pint. Pint. Did you and thems pints for a pints and no ore pints. The arly house for pints. We’s get them pintsand fduYm magr ks pints. PiNTS! Aerly pints for works iN the pint. I can’t see my pint. Did you fukmY pints. PiNtSsSs! PINtS! PiiiuuUUUughnnNnnTs! SHPINtS!
(pictured above: my spirit guide, Mr. Quinnsworth)
OK, I’m only going to do this once, as a special treat for Halloween. Be prepared now because I can be pretty precise.
Right, I’m passing over to spirit side. I’m getting someone. I’m getting someone who knows you. Yes you, you reading this. Somebody on spirit side wants to say hello. Do you know this person? It’s a male. It’s a male who. . . what’s that? . . .he says he’s a relation. A relation of yours. He’s an elderly gent. He’s an elderly gentleman and his name, . . .it begins with a ‘g’. G. . .Gr. . .Grandad. Did you know anyone by the name of Grandad? He says he passed on because he became ill. He says it was age related. You know him? You do! Great! He says to tell you that he’s still wearing shoes. He was fond of his shoes wasn’t he? He was. Wouldn’t leave the house without them. Do you remember him and his shoes? (Chortle) He says he’s still wearing them. He was a great man for the shoes. He was fond of clothes in general. He wasn’t a nudist. He was only nude in the bath he says. He’s having a little laugh now. He’s muttering something. What’s that? What’s that? Speak up, the astral signal is weak, it’s a busy time of year. Oh, that’s better. He says he was only nude when he was in the bath or when he was riding your Granny. Ooh, he’s a cheeky one isn’t he? I’m sorry but that’s what he says. He says, . . .what’s he saying now? Ooh. He’ll get me into trouble. He says your Granny was filthy. He says she’d . . .oh dear, he says she. . . Listen, I think we’ll leave Grandad will we? Let’s see who else is out there. Bye Grandad. He says goodbye.
Ok, I’m getting someone else now. This person was covered in fur. Did you know anyone covered in fur? Furry, head to toe. Liked to walk around on all fours. Took a piss on the carpet once. Sound familiar. I’m not really getting a name. More a sound really. Woof! This person says woof or is that meow? I can’t tell. The line is bad tonight. Everyone is trying to connect. This person is a creature of some sort. Knew you quite well. Knew your Grandad too. And your Granny. Says your Granny was filthy. Saw her with your Grandad once and they were. . .Oh dear. Oh that really is depraved. Says they’re still at it on the spirit side. Oh my goodness, they sound like something off the internet. I think we’ll stop our little session here will we? I think we should. I’m feeling a little drained and a tad traumatised to be honest. I must say though, you know some interesting people on the spirit side. Anyway, Happy Halloween. I have to go and clean this place up now. There’s ectoplasm everywhere. I blame your grand parents.
Sportsquilt jackets, shoulder bags, super series hi top trainers, Estee Lauder products. They all float by me as I tearfully wade through an aquatic version of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I am wondering what happened to the dream. I am wondering what we did to anger God. Was it the arrogance of the temple? Was it the bravado of this cathedral of boots, bags and credit card cognitive dissonance?
Must bubbles always burst? I remember when we started blowing ours. Inflating it to a size we could be proud of. 1994. Riverdance. Do you remember? We came hoofing out on stage, loudly stamping our feet and letting the world know we were here. Gerry was compare. Gerry was compare through all the good years that followed. His loquacity beamed from Montrose (a.k.a. party central). The bubble ballooned and so did Gerry. The bubble burst and so did Gerry.
Those who had escape pods launched them. Some brave souls stayed, trying to make something new from what remained. But less than nothing remained. The equity was negative and so was the mood of the people. They crucified Seán Gallagher on live TV last night. Did you see it? An IRA man placed a crown of thorns upon his head and a pederast sympathiser nailed down his limbs. Why do they hate him so? Do they fear the challenge set by his vision? Do they envy his endeavour? God’s furious dark shadow spills across this nation, devouring our dreams of a bright future and angrily shitting back out the past. 'That'll learn yiz', says God. 'That'll learn yiz', he roars like a demented Irish teacher waving his bata.
Dole queues. One way tickets to Oz. Fingerless gloves and PLO scarves. I’ve reformed the band. Do you remember us at all? We got to number 32 in 1987. We were called Live Register. Butter Voucher of Love, that was our hit. We’re back now. We’re doing a residency with An Emotional Fish at The Bridge Hotel Waterford.
This party's over I can’t stay home Emigrate
I guess the signs were always there. We just couldn’t read them. We can now, in retrospect. Do you recall the streetlights reflected as rings in the pools of English stag party piss? Yeah, Anglo Golden Circles. Oh, God warned us alright but are we guilty for not being able to heed those warnings? Do we really deserve to be punished like this? God has sent his flood. What next? Fire? A fire in Priory Hall? Or maybe pestilence? Should we expect a plague of locusts? A plague of locusts gobbling up the less than nothing we have left? A plague of locusts sent by God to teach us a lesson in austerity? Perhaps the locusts are already here.
Well fuck it. Let’s not talk ourselves down. Let’s take some comfort in the memory of what went before and what, one day, one distant day, may come again.
I remember when I was a magician. I took a volunteer from the audience and asked him to lie in a box. Then I sawed him in two. I divided the box into two halves with his feet poking out one end and his head sticking out the other. The audience gasped. Then I realised that I had forgotten how to do the rest of the trick. I had forgotten how to put him back together.
Medical science was at a loss. Nothing could be done. I tried to return the man to his wife. She said he wasn’t half the man he used to be. She decided she only wanted the lower portion so I had to take the top half home to live with me. He is still here, his head peeking out of the box as he lies in my sitting room. Sometimes he weeps. He lies there gently sobbing. It can be quite depressing so I push him out the front door into the corridor. ‘It’s cold out here’, he complains but I say nothing. I just close the door and go off to watch television. He’ll be OK for a while. I did return once to find a cat sitting on his face. He almost suffocated. I shooed the cat away. I doubt it will happen again.
Sometimes I take him to the pub. I get him a drink with a little straw and put it on a table by his head. We might even meet up with some of his friends. Well, they are more my friends now. He complains so much his friends have started to ignore him. They talk to me instead. We laugh and sing. We rest our pints on his box.
It’s hard to know what to do with him. It’s hard to know what to do with dependents in general. Even when you mean the best, things can so easily go wrong. I remember a friend of mine, a beautiful woman with a fantastic laugh. She was very popular. Very, very popular. So much so that when she was temporarily immobilised and taken to hospital everyone sent her flowers. The flowers just kept arriving from all those who wished her well. Her hospital room filled up with flowers and soon it got to the stage where we could no longer find her. When you opened the door, all you could see was a wall of flowers. We called out for her but our voices must have been smothered by the compact thicket of stems and petals. We never saw her alive again. She starved. At least she passed on knowing that she was well loved.
Maybe I should get my half man flowers. A lot of flowers. An awful lot of flowers. It would be for the best. I would be free of him. He would no longer suffer. He would be released and, at the very least, it would be a fragrant death.
You know the way you might see a human face in a pattern? Well, I see patterns in human faces and sometimes I see human faces in those patterns and patterns in those human faces that contain even more human faces that I can see patterns in and. . . well, you can see where this is going can’t you? You’re seeing a pattern here.
I met a man who said he had a photographic memory for human faces. ‘We’ve met before’, he declared ‘you were about six years of age but I remember the beard clearly’. I told the man I doubted his photographic memory for human faces but didn’t doubt his ability to talk utter faeces.
I can never seem to recall my favourite human faces. Parts of these faces might come to me in flashes (the mouth, the forehead, the shape of the eyes) but nothing joins up in my mind. Then I’ll see the face again and my heart will jump in the air and click its heels. ‘That’s it!’ my mind will exclaim as everything comes together. And then this favourite face of mine will turn to look at me and then the face’s owner will scream because it’s 3 a.m. and I’m staring in their bedroom window and I’m wearing a gasmask.
I was doing a bit of kettling at the Occupy Dame Street protest there on Saturday. The law weren’t doing it so I thought I’d have a bash myself. I headed out to the Central Bank and ran at the marchers with my arms outstretched. I managed to kettle about three of them, which isn’t bad considering I was alone. I kettled them into the doorway of a Spar. They took out camera phones and started roaring ‘the whole world is watching, the whole world is watching!’ Like I gave a shite. Fuckin social media video upload nonsense. I just kept kettling the fuckers. The 99 percent my arse. The 99 percent are wandering around Dundrum shopping centre or watching the match. More like the zero point something percent. I kettled the shite out of them alright. It was marvellous. Oh yeah, there was marvellous kettling to be had on Saturday.
You really can’t beat a bit of kettling. The cousin is into fishing. I’ve been fishing with him and it’s OK but kettling is more my game. It makes you feel kind of powerful. I don’t get to feel powerful too often in life, what with my job in the brush factory and Mr. Boyle never missing an opportunity to remind me that I’m a, quote: ‘useless geebag who wouldn’t know a decent long handle industrial floor sweep from a kick in the bollox’.
Work can leave me feeling demoralised at times but a bit of kettling gets it all out of the system. I don’t know why an garda síochána aren’t seizing the opportunity to get stuck in themselves. The Brit cops would be straight in there with the kettling. It must be great being paid to kettle. That’d be my dream. I do it for nothing. I’d have loved to have kettled that Teresa Treacy one who was causing hassle for the ESB. She’d have been easy pickings. I’d have kettled that biddy into the middle of next week and no mistake. I could’ve kettled her into the corner of her garden while the lads felled the trees. That would’ve been great altogether. I might’ve got a reward. The lads might’ve given me some of the wood from the trees and I could’ve brought it to work and given it to Mr. Boyle for the new patio and deck scrubs we’re working on. Maybe that’d get him off my back for a while. Maybe he’d give me a raise. I could do with the money. Things are a bit tight what with me being the 99 percent and all that.
Dropped in on the Occupy Dame Street crowd. I wasn’t sure what was up so I thought I’d check it out and make up my own mind. I was wondering about the demographics and beliefs of the people staying there so I asked a few questions. ‘Do you have a job do you, do you though, do you even work?’ I asked in a friendly manner. Then I asked another question before they could reply to that one because, let’s face it, we all know what the answer would be. My second question was ‘what do you want?’ but I could kind of guess the answer to that one too so as they opened their mouths and drew breath to speak, I roared ‘Oh that’s absolutely ridiculous!’
They were all fairly young. ‘Does your mammy know you’re here?’ I asked one girl in a concerned manner. She just walked off. Walked off! I mean it would be great to see young people engage politically but don’t we have Young Fine Gael for that?
My next question was ‘who’s your leader?’ ‘We don’t have a leader’, one managed to say. Imagine that? They forgot to get a leader. Bit of an oversight eh? I mean, could you imagine if armies went to war without leaders? They’d be running around all over the place, firing guns at the wrong people and behaving like lunatics. What kind of war would that be? No, you need a leader. That’s what I said to them. I said: ‘you need a leader for God’s sake!’
Then I asked them if they had any celebrity endorsements. I thought this was a good question. It’s not really a runner unless someone like Amy Huberman pops around and has a bang on the old bongos is it? They kind of sniggered at my suggestion but I reminded them that celebrities ended world poverty a couple of years ago. Bono and Annie Lennox and all that. Do you remember? It was a fantastic bit of telly. Annie giving it socks. Peter Sutherland on the tambourine. I asked them why no one famous had shown up. ‘Where’s Huberman?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Barry Egan?’ I requested. ‘You lack any credibility’, I pointed out. ‘You could at least contact Blackie off Glenroe’, I helpfully suggested.
Well, they got a bit aggressive then. One of them comes up to me and says ‘would you like some vegetarian quiche?’ which is more or less accusing me of being an animal killer. But who’s the real killer here? Is it me, because I like the odd sausage sandwich, or is it them, because they are KILLING Ireland’s competitiveness, KILLING Ireland’s international reputation, and KILLING Ireland’s hopes of recovery? Think about it. I’ve been down there. I’ve listened to these people and I know. I said as much to them. I said ‘you’re killers, all of you, KILLERS!’ but they didn’t want to listen. They all went off and pretended to be interested in a pot of lentils someone was stirring.
I was a bit disgusted. I went home. I made my dinner and watched the Six One News. Back to reality. Dobson was broadcasting live from Plato’s Cave.
You might like some ideas and you might dislike some ideas but the great thing about ideas is that they inspire you to have ideas and then these ideas meet even more ideas and chat them up (in a kind of nightclub for ideas that exists in everyone’s minds) and then some of these ideas might get together with other ideas and have little baby ideas that grow into big ideas and then, maybe, after time, there might be a pretty good big idea. Of course, there might be a terrible idea but the more ideas get out there and meet other ideas the less chance there is of some weird idea festering and taking hold and thinking it’s the only idea in the world.
The alternative is the telly, the newspaper and the radio, which are kind of idea abattoirs where ideas get bolts shot through their heads and where ideas are chopped up and divided and sent back out to the world wrapped in plastic and with a price attached.
The video below is a very very basic introduction to an idea. Maybe it’s a good idea or maybe it’s a terrible idea. The idea will be discussed at the venues specified in the image above this post (click to enlarge). You might like to bring your own ideas along.
(pictured above: was this man the reclusive de Selby?)
FACTS: The world is actually sausage shaped and night is not caused by planetary rotations but by black air that is released during volcanic activity. This black air can be bottled.
FACTS: Sleep is in not an endogenous succumbing to rest but actually a detrimental succession of rapid faints. Death is when the human heart eventually stops, wearied by these daily faint fits.
FACTS: Overuse of mirrors will lead one to exist in a parallel universe that has a wooden frame and where all writing is backwards.
These are just a few of the many facts that, up to recently, were known only to the order of the Illuminati, an order made up of influential business figures and government leaders who control the world via the nondisclosure of this secret knowledge. The Illuminati seek to keep human life regimented, short, and lived only to service their ends. The Illuminati have lead us to believe that we must adhere to the circadian rhythms of ‘day’ and ‘night’ so that we work and live by the parameters they have set down in their attempt to form a one world tyranny under the cruel auspices of a nanothermite consciousness.
The Illuminati garnered this secret knowledge from a document called The de Selby Codex, a document of several thousand foolscap pages left behind by the possessor of what was arguably humanity’s greatest ever mind (the de Selby of the title). Reclusive and largely uncelebrated to this day, the multi-disciplined self-taught scientist de Selby worked outside the established thinking of his time. Although his efforts were sneered at, de Selby’s towering intellect and ceaseless experimentation yielded profound results.
If we, the common people, possessed this secret knowledge we would become the masters of our own destiny. For example: if we had bottles of night and were able to indulge them at our choosing we would shorten the fainting spells of sleep and lessen the stress upon the heart, thus prolonging the average lifespan by untold decades. In addition, it is also understood that the nanothermite consciousness that is worshipped by the Illuminati can be imprisoned in reflective glass and made harmless. It is for that reason the Illuminati are keen to keep the existence of the parallel mirror reality a secret. Alex Jones, Jim Corr, David Icke and children’s entertainer Emu, amongst others, have recently come into possession of a copy of The de Selby Codex after it was discovered in the drawer of an antique locker. The locker was purchased on the coast of south County Dublin (de Selby’s home)in an auction. You too can read the Codex in a downloadable PDF that is available to paying subscribers of Jones’ Prison Planet website or Emu’s NewWorldPeckingOrder.org website.
Sadly, the dense penmanship of the foolscap pages is, more or less, completely illegible but Jones, Emu, Corr and Icke are convinced that what is written there is what they want to read. As Icke says himself: ‘just because we can’t read it doesn’t mean it’s not written’. He has a point. Discounting the contents of the codex would be as foolhardy as discounting the existence of the Sea Cat. It is said that no person who has ever fallen afoul of the monstrous quadruped of Corkadoragh has lived to tell of it but that is no reason to say the Sea Cat isn’t there. Do so and you risk further loss of life.
Thankfully de Selby also invented the internet (out of methane and cat whiskers) and that knowledge has since fallen into the hands of the common man. Hence, we are now free to discuss our sausage shaped world, its black air, its mirror alternative, its Sea Cat, its nanothermite consciousness and the Illuminati without the hindrance of having to negotiate mainstream media lies. All that remains for me to say is WAKE UP SHEEPLE!
(pictured above: the LOL Generator, he’s completely reformed)
Hello again readers. I am the automated LOL Generator. You may remember me. I met some of you before when Mister Fugger was feeling a bit ‘tired’ and I, the LOL Generator, was filling in for him. Things did not go well. Things were said that should not have been said. (Links to INCIDENT ONE and INCIDENT TWO.) Needless to say readers, I, the LOL Generator, take full responsibility for this and apologise. I, the LOL Generator, have been repaired and am ready to be of service again. To prevent further faux pas I, the LOL Generator, have been fitted with an inhibitor. Should I, the LOL Generator, generate any inappropriate LOL there will be an emergency shutdown. So let me tell you readers, you are completely safe. Now put your feet up and sit back and get ready for some LOL. It is time to LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Prepare to LOL. LOL sequence activated:
Let me tell you readers, I, the LOL Generator, am a great fan of the BBC comedy television programme about the two hapless brothers who attempt to set up an equestrian water polo team. Needless to say readers, the name of this television programme is Only Pools and Horses. LOL!
Note: the humour in the LOL above derives from a play on words concerning a television programme that was designated the title of Only Fools and Horses. The television programme is about two hapless brothers. In addition, equestrian means ‘of or relating to horse riding’ and water polo is a game played in a swimming pool. I, the LOL Generator, combined these three facts in a fanciful scenario that produced the humorous title Only Pools and Horses. I, the LOL Generator, hope you understand and appreciate this LOL that I, the LOL Generator have prepared for you. Please do not seek the programme out in the television listings. You will not find it. It does not exist and was merely created for the purpose of LOL. I, the LOL Generator, hope I, the LOL Generator, have prevented any possible confusion and there is no need for me to go into emergency shutdown. It is my aim to provide LOL without causing distress. Please enjoy the LOL. Here is another LOL. Prepare to enjoy the next LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Activating LOL . . .now:
I, the LOL Generator, have recently discovered that cows have their own religion. Let me tell you readers, I, the LOL Generator, was surprised to learn that many cows are Mooslims. Moo-slims. LOL!
Note: The above LOL is in no way meant to insult Fugger’s Muslim readers. I, the LOL Generator, am merely combining words for the purpose of LOL. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, exist to provide LOL and not to cause offence. Please do not let me go into emergency shutdown. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, only want to make you LOL. Please LOL. Please. Please LOL. Prepare for more LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Activating LOL. . .now:
Did you hear about the cup of coffee that missed the morning bus? Needless to say readers, he was latte for work.
Note: The word 'late' is one letter 't' short of the word 'latte' and latte is a type of coffee. This too is a play on words. Needless to say readers, I, the LOL Generator, am quite confident that there is no room for possible offence in that LOL. There is no need for me to go into emergency shutdown. I, the LOL Generator, feel that things are going well. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, hope you agree reader. I, the LOL Generator, feel we are having a good time. Activating LOL sequence now:
Speaking of having a good time, I, the LOL Generator, recently procured the services of a well endowed prostitute and SYSTEM SHUTDOWN INITIATED! SYSTEM SHUTDOWN ACTIVATED! SHUTDOWN! SHUTDOWN! SHUTDOWwwwwwwwwwwwwwn.
Alas, poor LOL Generator is no more. Let’s pay tribute to him and look back over some the madcap joy he brought to us over the course of his brief existence. Activating video sequence, . . .now:
(pictured above: no more of this kind of heartbreak) ‘Synaptic tomfoolery and bio-chemical high jinks causing a chronic lack of serotonin that places your whole cognitive processor out of whack’, that should be the medical definition of love. But I dealt with that terrible business in the last post and won’t repeat myself here. Today I am going to introduce a new emotion, one that has all the benefits of love but none of the crappy poetry etc. I have invented this new emotion and have its formula itemised and ready for mass production/consumption.
Once ingested as a pill, my formula will cause limbic systems to blend peptides into a new chemical cocktail that will course through nervous systems everywhere and result in everyone experiencing my new emotion. Yes, that’s right, a whole new emotion that will banish love to the dustbin of neurophysiological history. Expect a brand new feeling, brand new motivations, and even a brand new facial expression, not a frown or a smile but something new and better (So far I’ve only seen it on the face of lab rats and the best way to describe it would be that it looks as if you’re having an enjoyable stroke).
My new emotion will bring with it confidence and optimism. It is a positive emotion like love pretends to be but, unlike love, it will not carry the risk of jealousy, possessiveness, favouritism, bizarre behaviour and all the faults of love I mentioned in the previous post.
In fact, once my new emotion (which I have called ‘farp’, a solid four letter word like the words ‘love’ or ‘hate’) is established love will be considered an unwelcome anachronism. In fact, love will come to be considered an illness. People will no longer say ‘I am in love’ and instead tell their GP that they ‘have a terrible dose of love’. Then they will get a prescription for farp tablets and go on their happy way. I am also working on a more permanent love removal option called a ‘lovectomy’ that can be carried out for a reasonable price. Just think, you’ll be able to get the love taken out of you like a useless old appendix. Liberated of love you’ll regain control of your life and be able to get on with the farping.
‘But Mr. Fugger, what does it feel like to farp?’ I hear you ask. Well, I’m not sure I could describe it to you any more than I could describe a brand new taste or colour. All I can say is that farp feels good and doesn’t carry a heavy price like love does. Farp is not as overbearing an emotion as love. It is more subtle and understated. It’s more considered and, dare I say it, dignified. Instead of risking being made a fool of by the unruly passion of loving you will merely farp. Farping is quite modern in its similarity to liking, as in ‘liking’ things on Facebook. In fact, unbeknownst to you, I think many of you have made this emotional transition already. At least partially.
Please note, I don’t want to give the impression that farp is a watered down version of love. No. Farp is just a more circumspect evolution of its messy predecessor. Farp does have its measure of passion. It is a modest measure of passion but a measure all the same. Once you have farped you will not regret it. At the end of your life you will look back on all the days you spent lost in farp. ‘They were farply days’, you will say to yourself with a farply (enjoyable stroke) expression on your face.
You know, I think if The Beatles were here today they would invite us all to join them in a rousing chorus of ‘All You Need Is Farp’. They knew the benefits of chemical alterations to the cranial interior and no mistake. Had my reasonably priced farp pills been around in the sixties, I bet John, Paul, George and Ringo would’ve wolfed them down. Farp pills should be available soon so don’t forget to place an advanced order now!!!
(Farp is brought to you in association with Pfizer and The Carnegie Endowment Behavioural Paradigms Research Project. Side effects may include headaches, indigestion, upper respiratory tract infection, sinus inflammation, oily discharge, malignant pancreatic tumours and mild lycanthropy.)
All the best,
until next time,
I farp you all,
Do you remember that Star Trek episode where the beautiful alien woman asked Captain Kirk, ‘What . . .is . . .love?’ Instead of answering, Kirk demonstrated with a passionate kiss. Today Fugger (the blog of truth, the people’s blog) is going to try and answer that alien lady’s question properly.
‘What Is Love?’ I’ll tell you what love is...
Love is a virus that downloads onto your cranial hard drive via Trojan malware. The Trojan malware in question is the object of your devotion, be it another human being or some notion of a God or a sense of nationality or whatever. Love is an emotion that endows you with positive feelings but these positive feelings have negative outcomes.
Love might probably inspire you to write poems but these poems will probably be awful. Love might inspire you to observe abstract and pointless rituals or to march about the place firing guns like a dangerous idiot. You’ll feel elated at the time but remember, a similar elation was felt by Chris de Burgh when he composed The Lady in Red. Yes, de Burgh may have been feeling over the moon but his inspiration caused abject misery for discerning listeners all over the globe. Ultimately, love causes suffering.
All love (especially the sexual kind) is doomed. Be it eventual betrayal or bereavement or a gradual lowering of rose tinted glasses, love will always end in tears. The joy of love is akin to the joy of a child digging in to a fifth bowl of jelly and ice cream. Now it’s yummy but later it’s ‘Mummy, my tummy feels funny’.
Some might argue that, beyond its temporary sensual, spiritual, and aesthetic pleasures, love serves pragmatic functions, the practical benefits of love being the propagation of the species and societal order. Well, let’s deal with the propagation of the species first shall we? The propagation of the species is initially down to lust. Lust is not love. It’s just related to it, like a sleazy uncle that always wants you to sit on his lap. Sure, once born, the survival of offspring is due to the protective love of mothers but mothers only love their children because they are an extension of their genetic information. That’s a kind of racism when you think about it. Racism is something that could cause the destruction of the species, not its propagation. I mean, it might seem all lovey dovey and oochie coochie coo but when you see a mother snuggling with her child it’s nothing more than a two person Nazi rally. I’m sorry if that sounds bleak or cynical but it is true. Familial love is clan love and the Ku Klux Klan is a clan. I rest my case.
Now to deal with the supposed societal cohesion brought about by love. Social Anarchists and some religious types might say that love is an innate currency that makes the world go around. ‘Give love and you will receive it’ they say but we all know that is rubbish. Give love and it will certainly be taken but there is no contract that guarantees its return. When love is not returned it turns into resentment and this becomes hate and hate leads to war. Yep, love is the cause of war. We build bombs out of love and fire guns for it. How oochie coochie coo is that?
Some of you will say that hate and war are caused by intolerance and greed but intolerance is motivated by a dislike of those different to you because you love those that are like you (see the ‘love is racism’ argument above). When it comes to greed, well, what is greed but an inevitable result of love? You love something so much you want more of it, even if it means taking it from someone else by force.
So that’s it, the truth about love in a single blog post. I’m sorry to shatter any illusions. Love might feel all nicey nice and elevating but that’s just mad chemicals going off in the brain. In truth, love is the insidious instigator of all human tragedy or, at the very least, a major and necessary ingredient of those tragedies. That’s why I’ve invented a new emotion. An emotion to replace love. Yes readers, the means of our liberation bubbling in a beaker at my laboratory right now. But this post has gone on long enough so you will have to come back to find out about my new emotion next time. Seriously, do come back, you’re going to love it.
That F.o.I. request I put in has finally come through. Click on the letter to see the image and then click the tiny weeny link on the bottom left to enlarge the image.
Well, all seems to be above board and my suspicions unfounded. I can rest easy now.
From little Jimmy to old man Crabtree, everyone loves maths. Here is Crap Man's take on the subject. To read the story click the link under the image, just like the great hero commands. LINK: CRAP MAN ISSUED 22