I just repainted the wall, and then had an idea, a permanent marker, and a spirit level.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Asked number 2 son (Marley) who would win out of Daleks vs. Bionicles.
He answered immediately, "Bionicles, because they know weak spots"
I asked him what the weak spot of a Dalek is, "The eye," he says, "I saw a man jump off some boxes and shoot a Dalek in the eye and his head exploded".
As I am nearing my mid 40s and have grown up with Daleks as kind of evil hardcore uncles, I was disappointed that he thought mere lego could ever be contenders against the continuing darkness of the Dalek empire.
However, Marley's 7, and therefore knows better.
But I added Dalek to the spell checker's dictionary (so no red dashed underline for them); I'm not adding it for. There will always be Daleks in my vocabulary, Bionicles are transitory.
But I am really, really happy that these (hey!) 45 year old monsters, still figure large in my small boys' imaginations.
Daleks were probably the purest expression of 60s design, as it was all about a clean metal future, and (perversely) expressed the optimism of the white heat of technology: Harold Wilson, 1963; Daleks, Terry Nation, 1963.
Ka Faraq Gatri
In the south west the weather will be mostly coming out of the sky and hitting the ground with various degrees of enthusiasm.
Northerer, the weather is currently sulking upstairs, satellite images suggest a large depression.
Westerly: raining cats and dogs, dogs confused and wagging tails anyway as they land, cats pretending they meant to do that.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
You should take a leaf out of my book, I don't fucking swear at all, because that would be fucking unacceptable. I mean, if I swore at all, people would think I was shit. Fuckers. So that's why I never swear - don't want the wankers I daily encounter to think I'm some kind of twat. So I live by this mantra:
"Swear? Me? Fuck no. Fuck off do I."
When I worked on the railway I heard the apotheosis of creative swearing, where every part participle of the grammar (cow) of the sentence was replaced by the f-word.
Butcher McCready (yes, his nickname), tried to chisel a bolt out of a seized fishplate with his shovel and the fishplate exploded (cast-iron see). So he says:
"Fuck, I've fucked the fucking fucker"
He was also the one who branded me Dr. Stupid - "brain the size of a planet, common sense of a gnat". I lived with that for the whole three years I worked on the railway.
Butcher McCready was the guy who named all of us on the big yellow bus.
"Doom and Gloom" the body-builder ex Corby steel worker who lost all his body hair because he worked in the galvo plant (electric blast furnace) and did not have a sunny disposition.
"Jimmy Saville" - Jim, our miserable driver, because he cunt clit every trip.
"Noggin the Twat" - our norwegian tool boy
"Dick Turpentine" - Richard White (spirit)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A lexicon got jammed in between a tree and a rock in the valley between the sky and that other thing that looks like upside down sky but ripples, oh that's right, a lake.
So the words fell out of the pages and spread around the green things growing there, oh yes, the grass and leaves.
And some sentences formed, some that made sense, some that didn't. But I didn't take note, and certainly didn't write any down.
As I was passing by in my car, with the window wound down, the sun in my side of face, it whispers by the hedge, tall so I don't see the lake with words splashing in.
Don't see the grammar getting wet, or damp punctuation
Instead I'm listening to Terry Wogan and something about traffic on the M42
And missing the ink dissolving in the water
Monday, June 16, 2008
- Mental fundaments
- Stop it, stop shouting! I can't hear the voices
- Kill, kill, kill.
- Me and my multiple personalities, or am I? No. Fuck off. Sorry, I thought it was my turn. No it's not. Who are you? Hey, look, ants! I love ants.
- Some nuts in a bag
- May contain nuts
- June doesn't
Got attacked by a japonica today, made me wysteriacal. Fuck gardening, you don't call laying paving slabs streeting (although you should) or redecorating housing.
Shitty sweaty hotness with various scratches and dirt, the smell of ripped crab-grass and dandelion.
And why are proper plants so fucking limp-wristed? (wilting namby-pamby splitters). Weeds have big broad fuck-off constitutions, and laugh in the face of me.
So I have decided I will cultivate weeds: brambles, chickweed, thistles and sticky peter (which isn't the name of a weed, but should be).
Then I will have a lush but raggy garden.
And I can relax in a miasma of pollen.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Entered as a young apprentice to an under-sourer of the butter.
Nervous when walking into, with other apprentices all nervous too, the big open (one day only) gates of the Benedictine Dairy.
Spent harsh years of stone-walled contemplation and vigourous milking.
Until the final exams, wherein the stuff of me was tested.
Passed with waving flags.
I have my own cheese shop now, on the corner past the hen gardens and behind the grease mill.
You can't miss it, ravens nest in the pylons there, and there's this big sign saying "Cheese shop".
There's an assortment of savoury rotten milk available, only twenty pennies a bushel.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
When writing a poem
That word would look clever enough
But then I thought that was
And not E.J. Thribb enough
I replaced it with "coalesque"
And wrote an Edwardian Scientific Romance about plans
For an iron channel tunnel undermined
By Hun plots to make fake coal
Many years ago I did a maths degree (because it was the most difficult thing I could do at that time).
And the thing I loved was the pictures proofs would put in my head
As I could only remember them if I visualised them
The easiest to remember was a reductio ad absurdum argument, or proof by contradiction: it was a sparkling fan of colour suddenly shut off by a monk
But the best was spiralling towers of supposition balanced on one axiom in group theory
The proof exploded this founding stone axiom
But as each supposition crashed down in the billowing dust, it's opposite was therefore proved
Like sparks out of a roiling cloud
So that's the picture of that proof: towers falling, dust blooming, sparks ensuing
There's a funeral for a celebrity friend, someone I knew, much younger, before fame bit
So I'm invited by his dad, because he remembers when I used to come round in summer days, with plans for dens, or streams to dam
But that's the last memory for me, I didn't know him as he made his way
He died badly, fat and failed and full of himself and drugs
But his mum cried at the funeral, and his dad looked at me once and acknowledged something
Because all his latter friends are shits or charlatans
At the funeral for the cameras
I'm not recognised so attract a camera and a faceful of mic
So I had an opportunity to say, to say all of this is fucked, we don't mark your death with a bunch of cunts in attendance
But instead I walk on and look away
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Some bigger than others,
When one gets up, goes out the room,
He gets replaced by another.
Some infinities are bigger than others.
You have the countable infinities: the natural numbers (1,2 and so on) is one. They are infinite because they plod on, linearly, just being one big number after another, like a line of bullies forever meeting someone bigger than them (God's at the end of the line).
Then you have the uncountable infinities: the irrational numbers (can't be expressed as the ratio of two numbers) is one. They are called irrational numbers as, for example, exactly unlike 2 is the ratio between 6 and 3 (and 8 and 4 and so on), the square root of 2 is not the ratio of any other two numbers. So the square root of 2 is an irrational number.
You'd think these would be few and far between. They're not; they're many and near between: every couple of rational numbers has an infinite amount of irrational numbers between them.
In fact there's so many irrational numbers you can't count them. You can try, for every one of the pug-faced bullies in that never-ending line, assign an irrational number. You'd think that the bully assigned the square root of two would be fairly close to the beginning of the queue. He wouldn't, he'd be so far up the line, he'd have gone beyond the end. And it doesn't have an end.
(as it's infinite, which is kind of the point of this, so if you're lost now, don't worry, the paragraph coming up is roughly halfway up the page, so if you look to the right of that (no, your right), you'll see a list of posts where I swear a lot)
And I can(tor) prove it.
First some preliminaries:
How to recognise an irrational number, cook it and eat it