Sunday, December 28, 2014


(pictured: an earlier example)

This is it, the 500th post on Fugger, the people's blog (as long as that person is me). Post 500 is the last post of 2014 and Fugger is rampaging into its sixth year so what better time than now to look back on the classic posts of the past ...and boy what a past. It may be only six years online but let's not the forget the previous several million years during which Fugger told it like it is and raised a few chuckles along the way.

The first ever Fugger blogpost, ever, the first one EVER, was made by me when I was just a primordial mollusc. It was all about the latest craze that had hit the primordial mollusc world. That craze was 'movement'. 'You can go and get food, it's great,' blogged the mollusc me. 'No longer do you have to be stuck on a rock next to the same gobshite for the rest of your existence. With the power of movement you can start to sidle away from him and within a month or so he'll be four or maybe even four and half feet away,' evangelised the blogging mollusc that was I. The comments section beneath my inaugural mollusc post were less than enthusiastic (I used to get comments back then). 'It'll never catch on,' said another mollusc. 'Sorry, I hoped that I'd enjoy your blog but this is ridiculous,' pointed out yet another mollusc, 'movement requires too much energy and you have to eat to get that energy and the very act of eating itself uses up all the energy we get from it.' 'Hmm,' thought the molluscy me, 'Im off to a rough start.'

The blog didn't really pick up until I slithered out from the ocean and started to leave my posts in patterns in wet sand that I made with my franticly wriggling eel like body. Other organisms enjoyed my observations on how the sun came up and went down and how the sea went in and went out and how it's all really boring and we should expect more from existence. Then the limbs came and I started scratching my blogposts on rocks that eventually became cave homes that became rudimentary constructs that then became pyramids. Yes, a lot of those hieroglyphics are Fugger posts. Mainly taking the piss out of pharaohs and that.

Over time, Fugger has charted the follies and triumphs of our species. The invention of the wheel, the invention of the gun, space exploration and shite telly. I've said quite a lot and sometimes I wonder when I'll have said enough but then something comes along and I say something else. There is always more to say and there will be more and more ways to say it and the ways to indulge what is being said will evolve also for we are reaching a new time. A time when things are destroyed and new things are created. A significant time. A time that is already well underway. Everything we know is changing and change is coming faster than ever before and there is more and more and more of it. Soon, before you know it, we will have as much in common with who we are now as who we are now has in common with the primordial molluscs we once were. We are being led somewhere to create something that is currently beyond our comprehension. We were brought about to bring something about and that something really will be quite something.

To find out what that 'something' will be you will have to join me for the next blogpost, Fugger post 501. The first post of 2015. The first post of the new age. I'm going to let you know the destiny of humanity. I'm going to let you know why we are here and what awaits us. Seriously. The time has come. The day is upon us. Steel yourselves. We are emerging from the sea again.

Friday, December 19, 2014


(Pictured: 'Togetherness')

Christmas is all about 'togetherness' but this is a special Christmas message to those of you who will be alone this Christmas. Fugger would like to remind those of you who will be alone this Christmas that you will be alone this Christmas. Alone. All alone. There is no point putting up decorations because no one will see them. You are alone. You are alone because your friends and family are dead or because no one likes you. The only voices you will hear will be the voices on the telly or on the radio or at the other end of a brief/strained telephone conversation. Whatever the case, you will be alone so you should prepare yourself to be alone. Quite alone.

Being alone at Christmas is not easy. There are special dinners in hotels and so on for people who are alone at Christmas but attending these dinners just makes you feel more alone. You see the other people there, in their desperation and unlikeability, and you realise that you are just like them and that is why you are alone. When you are alone it is sometimes best to remain alone. When I die, I want to be alone. I would hate to die in a blazing building or on a crashing plane with other people panicking and carrying on and making the whole thing worse. Going to a Christmas dinner for people who are alone is like dying in a plane crash or a big fire. If you are alone at Christmas it is best to dine alone just as it is best to die alone. It is more dignified. It is more peaceful. It is slightly less horrific.

When you are alone at Christmas you at least have the company of your thoughts. Having said that, you will probably be thinking about how alone you are. You will not even be able to comfort yourself with the thought that other people are thinking about you in your aloneness because they won't be. Even the ones who say they will be won't be because they will be having a good time or involved in a row or something. At least you won't be involved in a row at Christmas when you are alone at Christmas because you will be alone at Christmas. Although, it is probably even better to be involved in a row than it is to be alone. Being alone is one of the worst things of all and being alone at Christmas is actually the very worst thing of all. It is worse than being tortured. You are alone. Alone. Alone with your thoughts about how alone you are. You won't even be able to concentrate on the Christmas episode of Doctor Who properly because all the characters will seem to be saying is the word 'alone' over and over.


In my effort to firmly establish the fact that you will be alone at Christmas and how alone you will be at Christmas, I, Fugger, the people's blogger, realise that I have not done enough provide you with some comfort. I will do so now. The comfort is this: I love you. Fugger loves you. I may not even know you but I do love you. I love you 'alone' Christmas bastards and I will be thinking of you. It's true. Really. Even if you don't believe me, just pretend that you do. There's no harm in pretending. Christmas is all just pretend anyway. Everyone pretends at Christmas so just join in. It's Christmas for God's sake. It's just a load of pretend shite with pretend snow and flashing lights that don't even work half the time. Everyone is pretending at Christmas and everyone is alone at Christmas. Everyone. Alone. In fact, everyone is alone all the time.

Everyone is alone.

But at least they have someone to pull a cracker with.

(Oh, and the above applies to your birthday too. Don't forget, you'll be alone then as well.)

Sunday, December 14, 2014

GET THE JOB DONE (rumination of a philosophical dog)

I suppose, now that I've had 'the job' done on me, I don't spend so much time thinking about riding next door's setter. I have time to think about other things. Bigger things. Imagine if we could take ourselves for walkies. Where would we go? Would we wander off to some wonderful world where dogs rule and take the two-legs for walkies? Is that why the two-legs keep us on leads and locked in gardens? Do the two-legs fear that we will find this other land, the Dog Land, and rise up and bite the two-legs and avenge ourselves upon them for giving us 'the job'?

And what exactly is in that stuff that comes out of the cans and how does it differ to the stuff that comes out of my arse? Is there any difference? The two seem related somehow. They kind of taste the same.

And why do I bother marking territory? Who am I kidding? I don't own any part of this world. This world will keep on spinning long after I'm gone. The barking will continue. Bikes will still be chased and sticks retrieved. And those that haven't had 'the job' done on them will still have puppies and those puppies will grow up and the whole furry debacle will continue. But to what aim? For what purpose? Are we all just, literally and figuratively, chasing our tails?

And why are cats such arseholes? Why do the two-legs like them so much? All they do is, ...well, not very much. And the disdain, the permanent disdain on their faces. I reckon the two-legs hate themselves and like to have something around that hates them too. The two-legs feel they deserve no better. The two-legs can only love something that hates them. The two-legs can't love something that loves them back. The two-legs can't even respect something that is stupid enough to love them. Maybe cats have it right after all. Maybe I should behave like a cat. I don't think my face can do disdain though. It can just do mouth and eyes open or mouth and eyes closed. I do look kind of stupid I suppose.

I have my share of regrets. These things frequently come to mind. Awful regrets Why did I roll in shit that time? Why? I upset everyone. It was such an inconsiderate thing to do. Am I an inconsiderate dog? Is that why they did 'the job' on me, so I wouldn't sire inconsiderate pups? No, the two-legs like inconsiderate things. Cats are inconsiderate and the two-legs can't get enough of cats. The two-legs relate to inconsiderate things. If you are considerate, the two-legs just think you are stupid.

The two-legs are complex things. Dogs are not complex. This is why the two-legs rule but I would not swap places with the two-legs. They make the most elementary things so very complicated. The simple pleasures of life, chasing a stick or a bike, riding your one next door, displaying affection, all of these things come with so much other stuff for the two-legs. Other stuff that I will never understand. And the two-legs have other needs too. Needs beyond canine comprehension. Things to do with things they have invented. Things they don't even need. I remember once the two-legs bought me a toy. It was a kind of rubber thing in the shape of a bone and I remember how they said I was stupid because I preferred a real bone that one of them left on a plate. And then they fought because one had wasted something called 'money' on the fake rubber bone and the other said they should have bought something called 'scratch cards' instead. I remember seeing the cat peering at the two-legs with scorn that time and I remember understanding her contempt. I could never feel such hate though. Loving may be stupid but it's much more fun. But I do now know that I'd rather have four legs than two, even if that makes me dumb. And I sometimes also think, maybe the two-legs are the ones that should get the job done.

Monday, December 8, 2014


When he was just a small child, his father showed him the tiny box. He was sat by the fire, drying after a swim in the lake, when his father produced it. The box was shaped like a coffin. His father told him that there was a piece of paper in the box and written on that piece of paper was the truest thing that a man had ever written and that a man could ever read. The man said to the boy, 'my father's father gave it to my father and my father gave it to me and now I am giving it to you. You can open it and read it any time you want. Today, tomorrow, years from now or not all. It is not an easy thing to know the truth but it is something you may someday need.'

The boy did not open the box that day or the next day or for weeks, months and years. As the boy grew to a man, he would just look at the box on the mantel. He felt a strange fear of it. Once, when he was drunk, he almost opened the box. But he didn't. He almost opened the box again on the day of his father's death. But he didn't. And he almost opened the box again when he returned from the war. But he didn't. And he almost opened it a fourth time when he became a father himself. But he didn't. Then, when his son had reached the age he was when his father presented the box to him he almost opened the box again, to read what was in it before bestowing it upon his son. But he didn't. And his son didn't either. And it sat there, a frightening thing, upon the mantel.

Finally the day came when he did open the box. It was the day his own son died. 'What could be worse than this?' he wondered and then he realised that he felt no fear of the box. The truth held nothing over him now but for the promise of some consolation. After all, his father had told him that despite not being an easy thing to know, the truth is something you may someday need. He never needed anything more than he needed something this day so he opened the box. He saw a slip of paper in the box and he took it out. He read what was written on the slip of paper. There were four words written on the paper. The first word was 'all'. The second word was 'men'. The third word was 'are' and the final word was 'liars'. He read those four words over and over and over again and then he placed the slip of paper back inside the coffin shaped box and closed it. Then he recalled how, just hours earlier, his son had mustered the courage to open the box and read what was in it before him. And he recalled how his son went out from the house and walked straight into the lake.

(Inspired by Louis MacNeice's The Truisms)