Regarding my life from the lofty position of prostrate upon my sofa, I came to the sudden realisation that I am a work of fiction. I am a character in a book and the book isn’t very good. It dawned on me that I had to seek out the author of this book and demand a rewrite. Then I realised who the author of the book, and therefore myself, was. The author was me. Me when I was younger, when I had a preposterous worldview, when I thought curmudgeonality equalled depth, when I couldn’t write for toffee. (‘You still can’t, gerroff’ says you).
We are all characters in books written by our younger selves. Our younger selves create the narratives we end up peddling to others and thinking to ourselves. Our younger selves don’t literally write the book we end up living, instead they construct the story that our existences must adhere to with their minds. Instead of typing, our younger selves engrave these tales of the self into our cerebral networks, putting in place cognitive associations, aspirations, anxieties, prejudices and traits. The little fuckers make us all who we are and we just have to get on with it. Wouldn’t it be better if it was the other way around? Wouldn’t it be better if the older versions of us got to write for the younger versions of us? Wouldn’t it be better if we retconned our way through life, approaching things with a measure of maturity, not making so many mistakes and not missing out on so many opportunities? What would be so bad about that? Would it deny us the magic of life’s little lessons? Is that what life is about? Life’s little lessons? Well screw life’s little lessons! I’ve learnt so many little lessons by this stage that if I have to learn one more little lesson I’m going to do a Columbine and blow the whole University of Hard Knocks away.
Ahem, Ok, excuse me for that digression. I hope you’re not too perturbed. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, when I discovered that I was my own author, I felt a new sense of hope. I realised that my destiny was actually in my hands. This piece of shit book I was trapped in could be rewritten. ‘Yeah’, I thought to myself, ‘a whole new me, new possibilities, new achievements’. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Some of those character traits were engraved pretty deeply into my neural pathways but with a bit of perseverance (and perhaps some cognitive behavioural therapy) I could get this narrative under control. ‘The future starts here!’ I told myself.
But it wasn’t to be. There was a snag. I should have known.
Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that I had lost the publishing rights to myself. The younger me had sold them. The younger me had sold them to someone he really respected and thought could write me a dynamic and exciting future. The younger me had sold the rights to all future adaptations and alterations to my life to Frank Miller. And so I find myself here, waking up next to a headless prostitute, talking in crudely over-wrought similes, in trouble with both the mob and a particularly unrealistic branch of IRA dissidents. This is even worse than the wannabe John Osborne nonsense the younger me had written for myself up to now. Now that Miller is in charge, things are going to get ludicrously violent and more than a touch adolescent. But I’ll not go along quietly. Hell no! Even if it’s ultimately futile, I’ll resist. I’ll not make it easy for this jaded and past his sell-by date hack. He’s gonna have a fight on his hands. Oh yes, because ‘these are the old days, the bad days, the all-or-nothing days. They're back! There's no choice left. And I'm ready for war.’
It was time to start the revolution so I put on my Slipknot t-shirt, headed into town, and spray painted the words ‘Class War’ on a bus shelter.
Lo and behold, next thing I knew, the working classes were out on the streets waving baseball bats and shovels. They were chanting the mantra ‘Class War! Class War! We never thought of that before!’ and headed uptown to where the richies live and control the media and all that type of thing.
Speaking of the media, I suddenly found myself surrounded by journalists and camera crews. They were all roaring questions at me: ‘Do you really think Class War is the solution?’ ‘Are you prepared to take responsibility if someone gets hurt?’ ‘Do you know where we can get some decent coke?’
I didn’t answer any of their questions. Instead, I pulled my t-shirt up over my lower face, flipped the camera the bird and shouted ‘OLD LADIES, WE’RE COMING FOR YOU!’
The old ladies thing worked a treat. It was on the news that night and all over the papers the next day. ‘Rioters Threaten Nice Old Ladies!’ No one minded when the law put the boot into the revolutionaries after that. Feeling betrayed, demoralised and quite ashamed, the multitudes that rose up the day before returned to their homes that evening. I was back in my flat long before them, taking a call from the secret service. ‘Well done Mr. Fugger, you’ve released the pressure valve. Has to be done from time to time. Should stop Joe and Jenny Pleb getting any fancy notions for a while. The cheque is in the post.’
I put the phone down, put my feet up and listened to my Angela Lansbury Reads the Poetry of Matthew Arnold CD, relaxing in the knowledge that I was on the winning side.
‘And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.’
People reckon I’m thick and like to take advantage. It’s not great for the self esteem. I realised I’d had enough of this one day and decided to only socialise with people who are less intelligent than me. Not being too bright, this meant that I ended up hanging around with dogs.
The dogs thought I was a genius. I could just walk through a door (of a shop) and come out with food (I bought) and, as far as the dogs were concerned, I’d just made dinner appear out of nowhere. It was loaves and fishes stuff to the dogs. You could see them thinking ‘how the hell did he do that?’ as I scattered packets of digestives on the pavement. The simple act of buying biscuits was Large Hadron Collider level ingenuity to the lads. (I called my dog friends ‘The Lads’.)
Humans regarded my friendship with the lads suspiciously. You should’ve seen the look on the owners’ faces when I came knocking at the door asking ‘is Mardy in?’ There was one old lady who was glad to let her German Shepherd (Kaiser) out with me though, as it saved her having to exercise him herself.
But Kaiser, well, he started getting smart. He began to usurp me as leader of the pack. We’d all be running down the road, barking at cyclists and that, when all of a sudden Kaiser would lead the lads off down some side alley, leaving me behind. Sometimes, when I was approaching the lads on the street, they’d act all aloof. I could tell they’d been talking about me and Kaiser would have that look on his face. The smug muzzle on him. It was enough to make me sick.
I tried to win the lads back by buying a load of cooked chicken, battenberg, and almond fingers. No expense spared. It didn’t work out though. The lads just got fat, their owners got fed up, and Kaiser’s influence remained. I couldn’t figure out his appeal. I mean, he never bought a scrap of food and even if he wanted to he couldn’t. How could he? Where would he keep the money? He didn’t even have any pockets.
I realised something would have to be done about Kaiser, so one day I took the lads up the local vets and got them to wait outside. Then I brought Kaiser inside and had him put down. ‘That’ll learn ya!’ I said to Kaiser as a perturbed looking vet administered the lethal injection, ‘that’ll bloody learn ya!’
The lads were a bit mournful for a while but the old status quo was eventually restored and I was Top Dog once again.
Things continued like this for a couple of years until all the lads died of heart attacks. Too much fatty food. A few owners got together and launched legal proceedings against me so I changed my name and moved to a different part of the city where I am now. Not many dogs around here so I’ve taken up with cats. They like being fed too but it isn’t the same. The cats seem less impressed by my ability to produce food from nowhere. Their unjustifiable sense of entitlement is frankly unappealing. They also wander off when I’m holding court, speaking about my thoughts and observations. Cats just gobble up what’s on offer and waddle off across the rooftops (I say ‘waddle’ because they are getting a bit podgy like the lads did).
It’s hard to be the boss of cats. It’s all conditional with them. There’s none of that palsy walsy stuff I used get with the lads. Cats are users really. They’re as bad as people. They just take advantage. They think I’m stupid. Well, they’ll see how stupid I am. I’m looking up the Golden Pages. I’m looking for the nearest vet. LOL! etc.
Speaking of dogs, check out the first ever Rabid Dog Christ comic by clicking the following link: RABID DOG CHRIST
Like the rest of you, I just can’t get enough of Amy Huberman. It’s a delight to behold such an exceptional talent in such a down to earth, agreeable and non-threatening package. Did you see her in the papers this weekend? You must have, she was in all of them. She’s in some dark film that has dark themes and performances that are dark. She’s not afraid to try new things and stretch herself like an artist or something would. I can’t wait to see her in her new role and can only hope she excels in it as much as she did in The Clinic or in writing that book she wrote or in the society pages of the Sunday Independent or as head girl in school.
I really like the sound of her name too. I like to roll it around in my mouth. ‘Huberman’, I say to myself. ‘Huuuuuuuuuubermannnn’. ‘Huuuuuuuuuubermannnn!’ ‘Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuubermannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’ It’s a nice name. Nice sounding.
I thought Amy was great when she presented the Irish Film and Televisual Huberman Awards and I thought she really deserved the award for best Huberman on the night. I really liked seeing her presenting the award to herself and kissing herself on the cheek and saying she couldn’t believe she had won the award for the third year running. That was amazing. She really is exceptional. I’d hate it if she retired. It would be awful. I don’t know what I would do with myself. What would any of us do? It would be like Diana Spencer all over again only instead of being wrapped around a Parisian pillar in a fancy car, Amy would probably just be wrapped up in bed in some massive gaff in Dalkey. Still, the loss would be awful and not even Charlene McKenna could fill the gap because she’s a bit too common.
Amy really is great and so down to earth. She’s just a normal girl like me really, only a bit better, a bit more special because she’s on the telly. Amy’s not up herself because she’s on the telly though. She’s very normal. I think Amy’s special appeal can be found when you see her act, or when you read her book, or watch her presenting awards. When you see Amy doing these things you think ‘I could do that’. You think, ‘I could probably do a better job than that’ and I reckon that is what makes Amy so likeable and non-threatening and not a bitch. Please oh please, don’t ever take her off the telly.
Come on now, let’s raise a toast. Let’s raise a toast to Amy. Lift your glass and join me in saying the words ‘to Huberman’. Ah she’s a tonic. I can’t get enough of her. I wonder what she is doing now. I wonder is she on the telly. Is she in any magazines I have lying around? She’s got to be around somewhere, on something, a chatshow or even an ad for a telly programme that will be on later in the week. I need a fix now. Christ, I’m shaking here. I’m going cold turkey. I better go out and get the RTE Guide or something. I need some Huberman before the cramps set in. I need me some Huberman bad. Huberman, Huubermann, Huuuuuuuuuubermannnn, Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuubermannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!
(pictured above: another Moloch worshipping Illuminati media puppet)
I was talking to a pal the other day and I said: ‘Goldman Sachs are profiting from economic collapse and have way too much influence on global governance.’ And then my pal said: ‘I agree with you man, and did you know the board of GS are all giant lobsters from another world?’ My pal was actually being serious and I realised he had fallen for the grandest ruse of them all. It goes something like this (pay attention, it’s complicated):
An elite group of influential people who want to control the world have started a rumour about another, fictional, elite group of influential people who want to control the world so that we will spend all our time watching out for the fictional elite group of influential people who want to control the world instead of watching out for the factual elite group of influential people who want to control the world.
Instead of keeping an eye out for the unfair trade laws and creeping indentured servitude brought about by the factual elite group of influential people who want to control the world, we keep an eye out for the traces of nano-thermite in our baby formula or microchips under our skin that are caused by the fictional elite group of influential people who want to control the world (and who also worship a giant owl called Moloch). It’s a sleight of hand. Do you follow me so far?
Anyway, to their ends, the factual elite group of influential people who want to control the world have employed well known, well respected, and well loved personalities to spread the word about the fictional elite group of people who want to control the world.
Personalities such as Alex Jones, Jim Corr, June Sarpong, Jesse Ventura, Leaping Lanny Poffo, Mean Gene Okerlund, Dave Lee Travis, Joe Hulk Joyce, a bloke who used be goalie for Tranmere Rovers, and Emu (sans Hull) are employed by the factual elite group of influential people who want to control the world to go on tours of eminent and influential non-nano-thermite venues such as the Stillorgan Park Hotel, the Spa Hotel Lucan, and Madison Square Gardens to warn us about the fictional elite group of influential people who want to control the world trying to control the world by doing things like using death rays to start earthquakes, releasing chemicals into the air in order to start a new ice age, and secretly wanking into those pre-packed sandwiches we buy from train station kiosks and Spar.
It’s the perfect ruse. Legitimate suspicions are drowned out by the white noise of fantastical paranoia. However, worry not! You need be distracted no more! To know the full and correct truth about the factual elite group of influential people who want to control the world and their attempts to get us all talking about the fictional elite group of influential people who want to control the world all you have to do is keep visiting this blog, buy my new book (The Secret Masters Behind The Secret Masters of Disasters), my DVD set (Apophenia Rocks!) and send me monetary contributions*. Do these things and you will not only be fully informed re: global machinations but also providing the valuable service of making me feel validated and important in a world that angers, alienates, frightens, disgusts, and utterly confuses me.
And finally, remember, no matter where you go . . .nano-thermite.
(*buy our COMICS too, I’ve fuckin loads left so just click the word 'comics' back there, it's a bloody link!)
I was watching Oireachtas Report the other day and was surprised to see that they’ve replaced the Dail chamber with a bouncy castle. Cut backs I suppose. All the TDs had to take off their shoes before they got inside.
Higgins and Ming were mad into it, doing flips and all that while the Ceann Comhairle attempted to bring them to order and stay on his feet at the same time.
The Sinn Fein crowd were playing a bit rough I thought. There was some shoving and Joan Burton started crying when they surrounded her and pushed her about. ‘Those bully boy tactics won’t work down here in our bouncy castles’, I said aloud to the screen.
And you should have seen Varadker. He must have eaten too much candy floss or something because he was bouncing around like a mad yoke for a while but then got sick everywhere and had to be taken home by his mammy. Adams called him a poof.
It makes for strange viewing but you get used to it after a while and it’s business as usual really.
Now, click the link below to be exposed to a never to be repeated failed multi-media experimental extravaganza: CRAPMAN ISSUED 18
(above: Professor Brian Greene, being a bit of an arsehole to be honest)
Brian Greene, professor of physics at Columbia University, says that he and others have used String Theory (a.k.a. difficult sums that fill up massive blackboards and show how everything in existence works) to make a massive breakthrough that reveals our Universe to be one of an infinite amount.
Greene says that some of these other universes are very different to ours, others are identical in every detail, and others are everything in between. If they are infinite in number, they must be infinite in variety. So, one universe could be identical to ours in every detail and another could be identical in every detail but for one tiny aspect, something as trivial as that universe’s version of you preferring a different flavoured ice cream or that universe’s version of Wile E. Coyote catching and eating the Road Runner in the very first cartoon and spending all the following cartoons wandering around the desert bored.
Other universes would be very different to ours altogether. Just think, if there are infinite variations there must be a universe out there that is nothing but a giant vibrating flan or one that is solely populated by three foot Ryan Tubridys with beaks and monkey arms or something. Not only must such absurd realities be out there but the fact that there is an infinite amount of universes means there must be an infinite amount of these absurd universes. An infinite amount of universes that are just vibrating flans! That’s a bit mad eh? A bit too mad!
It’s getting difficult to accept Professor Greene’s assertion now isn’t it? It gets even harder to swallow when you consider that, of all the infinite universes out there, there must be a universe in which there is only one universe. Do you follow me? There must be a universe where there are no alternative universes. If just such a universe exists, it follows that there are no other universes. How could there be because that would prevent the universe where there is only one universe from existing and it must exist if there is truly an infinite amount of universes. This paradox collapses Greene’s proposition. Consequently, we must conclude that there is only one universe and it must be ours because we are obviously here, with me writing this shite and you lot looking at it.
So, Professor Greene, if you are reading this, and I’ve a funny feeling you are, it’s back to the blackboard for you. Get your duster, rub out all those numbers and funny symbols, get out a new stick of chalk and try and find us something better to believe in. I mean come on Professor Greene, a giant vibrating flan? I know you’ve got a new book to promote but you can’t be serious. Do you want to get on the telly is that it? Do you want to be a little star in your own universe? Is that what the photos of you looking all moody in the fancy jacket are about? Do you want to present the science programmes in your fancy leather jacket and get all those beautiful geek chic style women to fancy you and show up at your book signings? Well, it’s not going to happen as long as you keep on with this giant flan nonsense. Honestly, you’re behaving like a bit of a gobshite. An absolute gobshite in fact. Would you cop on to yourself now and come up with something half decent? Oh yeah, and one other thing, you can shove that jacket up your hole while you’re at it.
(above: Jack Frost, had he been a meteorologist the show would have been perfect.)
I’m pitching a load of cop shows to the telly people. Original stuff with a twist. I’ve listed a few below. See what you think. . .
OLDHOUSE: Maverick police archaeologist, Ted Oldhouse uses his ability to analyse ancient cultural artefacts to solve crimes from yesteryear. (Lots of flashbacks with whooshing sounds and the screen going all white in this one.)
BUNION: Maverick police chiropodist, Don Bunion uses his podiatric skills to solve crimes with a bipedalistic basis. (Lots of stuttery camera work in this one, with frames taken out and all that type of thing)
EAT YOUR GREENS: Maverick police dietician/forensic pathologist Hannah Eatyourgreens goes through the contents of murder victim stomachs to figure out if they were poisoned etc. (She’s pretty hot and, for some strange reason, she has to go undercover as a stripper with surprising frequency. Contains slow-motion undressing.)
And here’s a few with maverick duos. . .
NEAT and TIDY: Maverick obsessive hygienists Nick Neat and Jack Tidy use their compulsive peculiarities and fine eye for detail to assist in crime scene investigations. (Contains both stuttery camera work and whooshy flashbacks but no slow-motion undressing.)
STEADY AS SHE GOES: Recently separated maverick married couple Bill Steady and Annie Goes use the experience they garnered via their dysfunctional relationship to put right spousicidal wrongs. (They still love each other but are too cautious and/or proud to admit it, which will keep viewers coming back for more in a ‘will they, won’t they’ type of way.)
WILL THEY, WON’T THEY: Maverick police rookies, Susan Willthey and Fred Wontthey are paired together to solve crimes. They are in love but too proud/cautious to confirm it and all that shite. (Just like Steady As She Goes only with a younger cast and more whooshy stuttery stuff.)
PART and PARCEL: Maverick Santa elves Bob Part and Jim Parcel use their gift wrapping skills to investigate Lapland homicides. (For kids but gritty, with loads of high-class elf prostitutes that have been strangled with ribbons.)
And here’s one for animal lovers. . .
STARS N’ STRIPES: Maverick airport sniffer dogs . . .you get the picture. (Contains sexual tension, stuttery whooshes, going undercover as strippers, and so on.)
I reckon at least one of these shows will be commissioned. I’m coming up with loads more too. Can you think of any yourself?