Wednesday, April 30, 2008

42

Private, but well-meant nonetheless.

Worst moment - in the late seventies, whilst pulling weeds from a shit-leaved hedge I heard for the first time the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. And I, impressionable youth, was ardently besotted. And then, 30 years later, I was in summer weed pulling mode in my fucked up garden and heard the R4 report of Douglas Adams' death. I was completely, and unexpectedly, undone. Hadn't realised how close I had followed my geek life with the continuing 42.

Ah, me - as my great great aunt would say, so well and moving - that's me there, hanging on the minutes of someone else's idea.

Gort! Klaatu barada nikto!

What he said.

Fucking stop it.

I've got to say, David Cameron is a fat-faced public schoolboy twat

And, in other deeply insightful political commentary, I reveal Boris Johnson, mayoral hopeful for the capital of the world (that's London) is a blonde bumbling shitflap.

In incisive detail I will expose the top tier of the Tory opposition to be a bunch of wankers.

With graphs and evidence-based, but ultimately anecdotal, statistics, I will show that 99% of Tory policy is mainly a lot of fucking drivel. The 1% left over is the dribbling meanderings of a crack-addled fuckwad. This statistic is, of course, reversed by New Labour.

Incontrovertible things I just thought of will form the firm foundation of my argument: "Tories - selfish, bad-breathed cock nozzles, who are also ugly, fact or fiction? Undeniably FACT! Fuckers that they are."

Vote Ken, Londoners, otherwise we will have a hunch-shouldered, fat nazi incompetent snot monkey as mayor. Do you really want that racist, can't-reach-round-his-fat-back-to-wipe-his-own-bumhole, idiot buffoon to represent the most vibrant, fantastic, really quite good, city that's, like, this capital we have?

I don't like London anyway, so perhaps it being led by a penis in a blonde wig is not so bad. Actually, no, he's a shit-filled poptart.

I mean look at this pink arse with eyes -

boris_johnson_m.JPG

Wouldn't look out of place in an SS uniform, nor would his views.

Also, "Boris Johnson" translates as "Russian Cock".

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

One day I will have an upside down head

If I get any balder, and if I get any bearder.

But that day is not soon. I will not unconsciously grow beard one night whilst losing most head hair, like a balaclava with one too many holes in it.

No! Instead I will have no hair above the collar, excluding eyebrows (else how can I scowl, at which I am good at)?

This is what personal blogs is about: the searing introspection of personal dilemmas (two of them running off a cliff) writ little in Courier. Bald vs. Moustache without looking like a clone - I will return to this important topic once the presidential elections are done (as a democrat in the whitehouse affects face hair choice, as I think you all accept).

Friday, April 25, 2008

me and eldest boy (9) play together for first time

billionaires' restaurant

Menu for today

Blue whale eyelid, braised in bishop snot

Jellied supermodel saliva on a bed of panda noses

Tiger testicles and minced physicists up a stick supported by a selection of animist gods

Trapped ghosts in butter coffins, on a caramel wafer, that an orphan has cried on

Cheez whizz fired out of a lear jet, on albatross crackers

Piss bum bollocks

I am not happy with the turn of events.

I get frustrated with stupidity (my own mainly, but other people's more).

That's why I look like this:

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I am not meant to be easy-going.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Questions abound

How is that ever right?

That thing you did there.

What were you thinking?

When you went that way?

Me, I would have taken the A46 to Evesham, and avoided junction 4a.

Picture 1.png

if i was a superhero

fatfuck.jpg

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

I am this

Picture 2.png

2005 was fucked from the start

Having looked at correspondence recorded, and remembering conversations unrecorded, and basically looking up my own arse from three years distant:

I now realise 2005 was pretty much fucked from stem to stern.

2006 was less fucked, but still fucked.

2007 worked out ok, but in unexpected ways.

2008, what little grey of it has passed so far, is fairly ok; but in that inoffensive, piss poor way.

I refer you to due recompense.

Sometimes I think I should lay the blame squarely, as circularly is difficult to say, at me.

Other times I think, no, fuck it, it's all your fault.

Gentility backwards

Growing up as a lower middle class thing in a town full of perfect-skinned public school boys and girls made me realise that I was a lesser being.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Furrowed brow of fuck off

Just realised my blog (this one) has taken a rather dark turn.

That's odd as I am mostly a person: if you saw me in a park, not at night, you might not hide your children.

Diskgrinder will visit you one day, just turn up at your door, with wilted flowers and a sideways smile.

I just ate your gardenias, but I'm still hungry.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Pulling into the child bay at the supermarket

I was in my big old T25 camper van with the mirrored windows, and I pulled into one of the reserved child bays, a place close to the entrance with yellow vector drawings of push chairs drawn on, and I had my three small boys in the back, variously shouting, grumping and crying. And as I put the hand brake on, and turned the engine off (the only example of male multitasking), I saw out of the corner of my eye, an angry shopper standing there.

"You know this bay is reserved for cars with children, right?" he said.

"You got me," I said, "these three back here are midgets."

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Been winnowing

Getting rid of the drunken ramblings on diskgrinder's youTube . I had realised there was a certain bias towards angry and murderous sentiment that some people (alright, most people) would not realise was not done with joy in my heart, consanguinity and bonhomie (like I liked people - I don't).

So less shit on there now.

Catch a glimpse in your blind spot

I came into a small bombed out village where the walls of once-were-houses were little above head height and there was a man sitting in the shadow of one oily-bricked wall.

He saw me as I came around to his place in the ruins, and he smiled and said, "Hello, I am pleased to see you upright when everyone else here is lying down, asleep I think."

I had seen some of these sleepers, some burnt, some with holes in them, all of them dead.

I asked him how long it was since the Albonians came.

"Is there still smoke?"

The recent rain had damped that down, although there was still the smell of wet burnt wood.

"I can show you something," he said and he pushed himself up. I noticed that his right leg was missing below the knee and there was a large dark stain under him. "Here," and he loosened one of the bricks in the wall, "help me with this."

I pulled the brick out of the wall revealing a dark hole, which shouldn't have been dark, because there was nothing on the other side except mud, blasted buildings and dead people.

"Look in there," he said. So I did, there was nothing to see, just blackness.

He took a length of card from his pocket and, with shaking hands, lined the gap with it.

"Now look," he said.

So I did. Still nothing. I told him that.

"Let me look then."

I moved out of his way, and he rested his forehead above the hole and shut his eyes.

"I can see how it was."

He slumped down after this. I think he'd died just then.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Minty breath, but dirty clothes

Whilst walking up the road as things lightened, and the birds stopped shouting, I found some peppermint growing out of the cracked tarmacadam, so I took some and, putting it in my mouth, chewed it.

It was almost like cleaning my teeth.

Still not quite right though, the headache is still in behind my eyebrows.

Just makes me realise how hungry I am.

And off over there (as the hedges diminish as I walk along, and I can see above the rise) is an Albonian tank, clockwork insides whirring, main gun black and steaming in the dawn-dew, dragging up the ground behind.

Monday, April 14, 2008

Sunday, April 13, 2008

hopefully you got the scansion

Or not, who gives a fuck, you did or you didn't, you got the measure, or you broke your face on the ice as you arrived from geostationary orbit.

There are moons above, striped in red and orange, that whirl around the centre, which is made of close fisted diamonds and bucky-balls, where the gods are.

And I look up and wish I was better than I am, or, at least, to have a gun. Thank you lord.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Tiny villages where spaceships take off

In the road down I see the church red-limned in scaffold brought up by the farm labourers.

Now the technology of rocketry is democratised, and copper pipes and ceramic valves are available outside towns in major shed commercial conurbations.

More later on this

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Dampened enthusiasm

The golightlies are gone now so I can get out of this ditch. I'm stiff and I ache, my suit is damp-stuck to me, and my shirt smells.

Off up the road, which is deep in gloom because of the high side hedges each side beyond each ditch left and right of me as I walk up the middle of the grit.

There's birds in the tree set back, and they are making a racket, which is called a dawn chorus, as the sun is just up (can't see it here in the narrow shadow).

I need to get away and so I consider climbing the hedge so I can get over the fields, but that means crossing the fucking ditch and brambles. I do not like brambles, and there's nettles there too. Something about being wet and scratched is unappealing right now: oh, that's it, that's what's unappealing; the wetness and the scratches, and the stings.

Maybe my suit will start steaming around midday, that'll be attractive. The idea of wading up to my neck into a clear river seems good (and washing out the dirt and stink), except I remember that rivers on the margin are usually deep in stinking mud.

I slow down a bit and wish for a warm bed, clean pyjamas and a cup of tea.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

In the dormitory

He spat and he muttered as he walked up and down the ranks of bunks. He swore and coughed. His head down and forward, a glower on his brow, he was dark and sour and ill-lit from a bare bulb, yellow in the corridor behind.

We hid under our blankets, waiting for him to pass. Because, if he turned at your bunk, you hoped he chose the one above, or below, just not you.

melancholera

Which is what I might catch if I stay any longer in this damp ditch.

It's a disease of the heart. The shitty feeling I get when things become unrequited. Distressing and debilitating illness the symptoms of which include breakage and ache, which sounds like breakfast, as in "I'll have a breakage and ache sandwich with ketchup and bastard".

A good description of the way I am feeling, once (maybe twice). Highs and lows of anger and weak boredom - being pissed off with being pissed off, the kind of recursion that is doubly (triply, quadruply, quintuply, and so on) exasperating.

I don't know though - it hasn't destroyed me, so it must make me stronger, or more bitter, rather like the way I like my coffee. So now I'm a cup of coffee. Thanks.

strum fun

Monday, April 07, 2008

Growing tree

All the branches separate but the twigs tangle. It's wet in this ditch, and the spiders aren't in tins.

I'll crawl out of here soon.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Sitting in a ditch

Contemplating the end to which I've come. This was just supposed to be a holiday, a trip away from the grey, drizzling headache I always got in the concrete walks and traps of that one place I lived in.

It was supposed to be mainly sunshine. Not a foot deep in shit in a ditch on the side of a road, avoiding the golightlies driving by with guns sticking out of half wound down windows. I haven't got my Toswanian pistol any more, so I can't shoot them. That pisses me off. So I'll just sit here a bit, and hope it doesn't get any colder tonight, it can't get wetter.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

survivalist

My twin brother, Owen, sings in his bunker

Late apologies

2004 sorry about that

2005 what can I say? I wasn't paying attention, sorry.

2006 I tried, but there was the thing, you know. So sorry about that too

2007 that wasn't my fault

2008 ok, so I started off badly, sorry

2009 apologies in advance

We ok now?