Sunday, 19 January 2014

Bedtime Story

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a big fat wolf and it ate the grandmother. The End.

No, ok, then it vomited her up through his great crimson gullet, and just then Little Red Riding Hood walked in.

"Grandma, why are you covered in wolf-sick?"

Before Grandmother could answer, Goldilocks burst in, pursued by three bears. She punched Little Red Riding Hood on the nose, and loudly exclaimed: "This is MY story!"

Grandmother made three bowls of porridge. Of course the first two were too hot or too salty.

The wolf ate Goldilock's feet, and the bears finished the rest, apart from the hair.

Little Red Riding Hood, her grandmother, the wolf and the bears sat by the fire, chuckling and chortling. Grandmother's needles clicked and clacked.

FINIT.

(Get illustrating Mrs Maman. Howls of laughter from focus-group aged 6-11.)

Stand Up

Bloke walks into a bar. Bar reconfigures molecules and they perform an incredible material synthesis that even Feuerbach would approve of. Ok....

Confessional, that's it isn't it? The joke is dead. Ok, hands up who has ever tasted their own poo? I see a few hands courageously creeping towards the ceiling - ah, they're going down - too late in the 2nd row, your girlfriend saw you, didn't you darling? Ok. In that case hands up who's tasted their own pee-pee? Ah many more hands. Good - an honest audience. For the fella - every partaken of the bleachy-fish-teaspoon? All of you - very good. I applaud you. No - I applaud you - you don't need to clap just because I am. Girls ever tasted - oh we fellas know you're all filthy cats. Of course you have. Put your hands down! Are you proud? How can you be Madonna and whore without the whore bit edited for the sake of the children? No, Madam. Not that Madonna.

Anyway, that's as funny as Gary Numan at a hen-night. Actually that is funny. Or (Frank Skinner) Jimmy Savile at a school disco, or (that Carr twat) Osama Bin Laden at a 9/11 memorial, or (someone else) Iain Duncan Smith at an Auschwich reunion.

Problem with comedians, for immortals like me, is that as soon as you get the tone, you know every joke. Shock wears thin. How can you tell your sisters started her period, etc. The tragedy of comedy, is that nothing is very funny in this world. The act of laughter, when we consider it, is absolutely forced. Is life different for you? I wonder.

Pray, forgive me my ponderings and questions. I'm in a confessional at the moment as a never-Catholic-enough to call myself lapsed. I'm a locally entropy-reducing material complexity with a net-decrease in wider entropy thing. It's called life. We build to destroy more utterly. We condense for the ultimate aim of making everything bland.

In other words, true freedom is the realisation that it does not matter what we do, and the courage to accept the deal. So, let's just go along for the ride.




Anthracitic Moron

I am not myself today. Anthracite poisoning? Well, just dirty old housecoal really. I just like the word anthracite. So, let there be anthracite. And the heavens and the waters separated and it was jolly good of course, despite Beelzebub.

But still, waking naked with the sick realisation that my teeth were about to break, and that I had consumed half a lump of coal. I wasn't even drunk, more's the pity. My guts have felt rather rotten all day. Not looking forward to the scratchy poo.

I burned what was left of the lump.

My head has been going strange. I am still well enough to notice the cracks, chasms, rifts, slits in time and space, but not well enough to understand how or when I am crossing them - oh tricksy tightrope of cunnilingual nonsense! Yes I get scared sometimes, though I can inspect myself (O brave clinician!) but that's no use for the crevasse wanking.

Strange lycanthropic leprosy of the mind. Lunacy not idiocy. This world disgusts me. I'm sure it was seeing that inevitable ghastly headline about that poor Edinburgh toddler finished me off last night.

Plan. Boys are delighted to be allowed to cook. Everyone needeth bathing, baptismal batholitic scrubs and operations to be as white as snow wash me in the water you washed your dirty daughter in... Clean clothes for school. Tainted world.

Looked down a well today, guess what it told me? Crammed with invisible corpses of course. What else shouldn't be in there?

I reflected on the last six years last night until I held them in my mouth like a worm-blushed plum. And then verily I lost my clothes and ate coal and I don't know how I got there.

Saturday, 18 January 2014

Retrospective and Prospective

Hello, Earthlings. Long time, etc, yes, no, etc.

Firstly I realised (an utterly unbiased opinion) that there is some rather fine writing on here, so decided it may as well be public again if it helps anyone in a hole.

Secondly, the Atos gits still haven't got me in for a medical and the file is growing, involving MPs, the relevant minister, and all sorts. Fight, not flight, even if that is ill-advised. Bring it on, Nazis!

Thirdly, I remembered today what a lifeline this old blog was in some strange times. Thanks to everyone who contributed.

Lastly, strange times never go away. We just get better at navigating. Anyway, enjoy, and if it helps someone, somewhere, then that is all to the good. Dx