Land of Diskgrinder

We invented the mobile phone in !943 We had the same thing at Bletchley Park (Station X) when we did a mobile version of the Bombe, it was this thing with valves and iron batteries in a wheelbarrow (ultraportable in the forties) that you could program in morse code. We released an SDK over the wireless until we got D-noticed by the MI5. Turing was way fucked off - took a bite out of an apple and gave you a logo.

You know what hypergraphia is, when words crawl up over the walls, and close the doors? There's mountains of madness and quatrains of qwerty

In the forest wold of Urf, Batheser was a little regarded troll, who spent most of his time sucking the juice out of mushrooms, or fungus, or toadstools, or anything that grew out of fallen and rotting trees. It was deep and dark in the hollow where he lived, the canopy was close and gripped together in a bugger's embrace; and the little light that filtered through was the efflorescence of mouldering things. Still, in the dark stillness, he was happy there. Until that one night when the two soft pink things fell into the hollow. One, in particular, did not appear to be broken, it mewled a little, and dribble came out of its front red-lined hole. The other one was dead though, bones sticking out, bits of it looking asymmetrical where it should not be (just by the extrapolation of form, not because Batheser knew any better). But the one that was left came good after a while. It didn't thrive on the rot fruit Batheser found, but it could eat the dried and salted bits of the ot...

There's an asteroid that didn't quite make it to earth-crushing disaster, and now has a stable orbit and ecology in the stratosphere. This asteroid, that is plutoid-sized, is just below the blue of mackerel clouds (strato-cumulus) and is the nest of jet birds. And on this sub-van-allen rock is a castle built billenia ago, by the ur-gods of the first flower (before iron got invented in supernovas). These gods are variously named Stan, Keith, Derek and Soulfucker. They are all gods of fortune and happiness, except Keith. Keith was a shit before shit was invented. In fact Derek and Stan had to evolve creatures with arseholes before Keith really found himself.

I mean, why bother? There's less bum things in the long tail, go and read some shite on CNN, or fail blog. Really, it's going to be more fulfilling than this. You can't sustain yourself on random crap thrown at a wall, hoping you get some spurious validation when some teen fucknad doesn't call you a n00b. My reply: you're a dribbling idiot, clearly you are a shit riding high on a tide of mediocrity that's only that high because people cleverer than you have put time and effort in to giving you lightspeed access to being an international tit.

man/woman said fuck this DRMed tree of knowledge, that apple looks tasty, and thence there was music

We all have soundtracks. I wish my particular incidental music didn't often involve tympani and swani whistle. Mind you, you could have worse incidental music: weeping violins, deep dark cellos and the occasional plangent horn. Time to move country. If your personal incidental music involves a series of stings and buffers, ending on pentatonic highs, you're in a sitcom. Get out now. If, however, your personal incidental music has a third in it, or anything suspended or diminished, you really need to look behind you.

Recession menus : it's better when you read it in reverse order. So to cap it: radiation and cockroaches by the light of the sun going nova 2 minutes ago from web Recession menus : eat your leg 14 minutes ago from web Recession menus : lightly soiled air, rebreathed through a faulty primus stove, out in the winter darkness of the fens 15 minutes ago from web Recession menus : the neighbours cat, lightly fried in engine oil, lit from within by depleted uranium. To follow, rat bums in brine 18 minutes ago from web Recession menus : a mess of vegetables scavenged from the gutter, boiled in water and served in a plastic bowl. To follow, mould and biscuits 21 minutes ago from web Recession menus : pea up a stick 25 minutes ago from web Recession menus : the chef's special, and so are you 27 minutes ago from web Recession menus : Pig parts forced through a thin mesh, shaped into an oblong and packed in a can that comes with a key. 28 minutes ago from web Recession men...

It's got a bit dark round here lately. Which is odd, as that doesn't reflect my mood - mildly irritated sometimes, occasionally exasperated by the bloodymindedness of inanimate objects (cars, washing machines, drills, keys and so on) but basically happy.

Sunday meanderings notwithstanding - reading an absolutely crap book: The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper "I'm so fucking funny me, what with my shite literary allusions" fforde (ttwat). But also and maybe, wrote another dull as shit-water fictional speculation concerning some fucked up corporate loonspuddery. And that's swearing. Ah me, for the life of an amoeba - gently extending a pseudopod heavenward in supplication to the one-cell, the one-father (unipotent, uniscient, unipresent; in other words, does one thing, whilst looking at one thing, in the one place - a man). Wafted around on marine breezes, fairly not fucked up by deadlines (I must engulf that fucker. Right now.) Or maybe I'll go multicellular (hydra? Barnacle? Anenome? Something with a plenitude of legs anyway).That way I can flick shit in all directions whilst ironing (7 tentacles for crap-slinging, one for adjusting the steam quotient). Or, balls. I'd like to have multiple balls.

And it was all variously good. Each of those years had one little happenstance that made the next year wanted. Same again this year. Big things are happening. Some not so good. But at least, if you walk barefoot through the park, and tread in shit of dog: well, at least you have toes to feel the warm embrace of canine clart in between. I'm not saying that's good, I'm just saying that's better than anaesthetic disregard.

Than introducing a new virus

As the thing with that thing that did not work out was eventually ok. That's about the best to expect.

man, boy, boy and boy Originally uploaded by diskgrinder

I feel better for that. A long journey through the bits of land cut up doesn't work Better to have the slide by sight of things sub-lit going by Making no sound other than diesel engine and wind Lie back, while I drive.

People would understand that the itchy and spiky interface with situations and methods ongoing is not a fair example of what can be done best. Clearly, a certain resigned understanding of the waves and swells in the sea of a metaphor stretched too far is acceptable. Because there's other stuff that's ok to deal with: chocolate stains, lego disasters, knee holes in your sons' jeans. So, underpinning the various spikes of spit and gristle, there's a long low wave of love that will see you through.

Boiler broke, bike nicked, beamer crushed, phone lost, anomie incoming in big waves crashing over the sea defence. Other than that, everything fine and dandy in Land of Diskgrinder, where the apples have barcodes and the trees grow sideways (blown horizontal by the gale of indifference). I have no answer other than a faint "fuck off".

Brass engines conspire, over tricking minutes, since the sixties. To make their own hello world application.

Listening to the shipping forecast on radio 4 at one or more past midnight. The idea that there is an orange glow of sodium bulb out there in a little cabin, held up in surrounding boat, in the black heaving water. The sky battened down with magnitude clouds piled up into the dark (somewhere there's a bone white moon shining nastily). But also that, in this focus storm, there's a chap boiling a kettle for a cup of tea, in the middle of this roiling storm. And only a little pissed off. Because the waves crashing on the deck upset the kettle.

Dictionary of words that don't describe themselves:heterologous. For all words that do: homologous. Which dictionary is heterologous in? I belong to the set of all sets that are not members of themselves. I maybe lonely, can't decide. Clearly I am maths geek Diskgrinder's conjecture #2: there's a number big enough to encode every decision you'll ever make. Add that to your friend's big number Platonic solids, similar to Socratic motions. Both stinky Turing's halting issue was basically not having a pencil to wind the tape back into the cassette Diskgrinder's conjecture: every prime number, more than two, sits in the middle of the sum of two powers Fermat thinks don't add up Also _two_ primes? Like two is an even number, surely that's cheating Mr. Goldbach Conjecture? It's a proof by induction: even numbers are the sum of 2 primes; every unicorn I ask says so; including the first one. That was easy because Goldbach's conj...

No and multiple apologies thereof. I have been spending my creative seed on the Twitter stony ground , wherein I have variously sworn, and sworn off my little ability to create microfiction. Also, typealysed my blog. Apparently I am a "fun doer". Fucking humbug.

So how about I fuck that up too? All I can think is that it would be different flavour. No real choice, then. Keep on keeping on, until stops. Then do something else, equally shite.

Accused of being a thing, I then rebound, and so on.

I used to be Originally uploaded by diskgrinder tag your telly

Got told that three years ago Kept on hanging on Because I thought the five year plan would out It's three years, and I can't wait See you, miss you, bye I'm gone That's enough You told me so

If you're analytic in your nature. If, however, you are a magical thinker, every situation is one to be ignored, and your subconscious will intuit the best way to behave. Clearly that's baldercrap - you abrogate your responsibility, and decide with your deep-time lizard brain, an almond shaped atrophied throwback to our species' billion year back story. Fucking hippy. Think with the lights in your fore-brain, not the soma filter motor neuron. That's a knee-jerk reaction, literally.

My boy.

the big chart

In the morning fug of bleary awakening I had this word in my head: "Grispnak." And as I did the morning routine (coffee; cigarette; coffee, coffee; cigarette) the dream that word came out of came clear. This is the wrong way round. Dreams are supposed to dissipate .

Told you so this here

boy soup Originally uploaded by diskgrinder happy day

From a good friend: What is he, Oh joyous one. Long live he, Lavish me. Why would I Care so much? Is it 'cos I am lush? Not at all He did say But then why? Cos you is gay? No, no, no Not at all. But then why? Well my sir, So he said, Long live me and long live bread But the bread Doth run stale So henceforth He does smell Anyway, what's the point? All-in-all Why fight? No particular reason, He did say, Why else argue? Cos he sways! What pisses me, More than he, Is the cake he so likes What cake likes he? Well - That be the cake The cake of arse Arse biscuits Doth love he. From arse biscuits , a facebook group

You sit on your sofa That's enough.

Well I'm completely fucked off with this latter generation of poesy It's all cock, or variously worthy, with smelly hippies extemporising breathy inter-locution or trailing off cod mystery. Fucking shit beans. If you have a popular vocal method, that trailing off, for singing your own praises Then fuck right off, kink grease twat Retract to things that means something: get cold and muscular, or shit and flowery Whatever, you're all grammar cunts

You'll think it's ok, and you'll smile a bit Then it'll turn out to be between the longwave stations on the dial Howling feedback saying this: Rockets were meant to be silver Jetpacks on jumpsuits for eveyone And it could have happened But for the (just as crap as you and I) investment fucks

My grandad was mentioned in dispatches because he blew out a Nazi gun emplacement (machine gun cutting us up) with one grenade. And also was the highest ranked officer to get out of Arnhem . Swimming across the river with bullets buzzing like bees above. He got the Military Cross (one below the Victoria) because of his bravery. I'll say that again, because of his BRAVERY. My grandad.

Someone, you know who, just get back there

See here: . See, I know it's fairly crap. But some of it is ok. And some of it I should delete immediately (and some wakes me up in the tiny hours, to flail down the stairs and delete, delete, like a psychopathic cyberman) But sometimes I'll just leave it, so when I am grey and old (now, really) I can look back at it and smile a bit (and wince, clearly). Still, fuck it, it's good enough for me, and that's enough.

light fingered Originally uploaded by diskgrinder

Now I do allow comments. That's my bipolar prerogative.

Introduction The world of geek, as seen from the perspective of the inventors of the computer, in Bletchely Park . Now declassified. On GPS Back in Bletchely in the dying embers of the world at war at two (more on that later) we didn't have the spy eye in the sky so there was no GPS. Instead we installed a thermostat in a horse. If it got close to the direction it would get warmer, warmer, hot. If it veered away it would get cool, cold, colder, icicles. Got us to Droitwich one summer, and back again. ( Turing drove). On Apple When we were at Bletchley at the dribbling end of the war, when we had broke the code of the evil empire (and sacrificed Coventry so they wouldn't catch on) we had this same thing going on. Turing fucked off one weekend when SOE came in and shot all the pinkoes and pufters. Mind, they got him later. As your logo attests. On the iPhone Pith and vinegar. When Turing was forcibly retired from bombe development in 1946, he had an idea to intr...

That's a conundrum. I can't sit down for five minutes, but I can think for ten. I can't talk to anyone without getting irritated because my skin is hot and itchy. But I can say "hello" nicely. I can't make dinner, but I can make a cup of tea. I can't watch TV but I can read twitter. Seems this illness breaks time into small chunks; quanta of attention. If it takes longer than five minutes, I will have to stand up, frown, and walk around a bit. Took me an hour to write this. That's a symptom too.

invasion Originally uploaded by diskgrinder Now I'm recycling

Can't wait for In Our Time's discussion of Gödel's theorem on Radio 4 later. Or maybe I can, can't decide Appel & Haken's proof of the 4 colour theorem was done on a computer in 1976. In 1976 computer terminals had only two colours. Bollocks then Prove this: there is (not) a number that contains, as contiguous strings, every number that comes before it (e.g. 126, contains 1,2,6,12,26) For integers, it's easy So what's the most a number can contain (as contiguous strings) of its predecessors 123456789101113141516171819202122242526272829303132333536373839404142434446 ... losing one each placeholder gone write me an algorithm, I will reply with an aphorism, or an embolism A number that contains (as contiguous strings) less than 32% of its predecessors, and is odd, is a prime number Or isn't. Maybe it's 2%. The sum of two squares is always less than one daddio answer to previous mathematical question: 91 after 91, it gets weird, and the ...

If I wanted a reasoned debate on the internet, I wouldn't be on the internet. Now fuck off.

Because the capitalists are asking for it, demanding it and getting all piss-faced when the government says, fuck off, hold on a minute, I want to think about this. The capitalists, say, Look, the man, we fucked up hard selling shite to each other based on our grandmothers we sold, so now it's time to hand out one of they fucking big welfare checks we've been telling you all this time distort the economy we just broke . So the government, on both sides of the atlantic, cave in, and go Ok, like, here's the cost of a free national healthcare system to keep you in silk panties and gold-plated urinals . But someone in our government hit on a top idea - let's nationalise the fuckers, she says, that'll show them, so here's £50 billion, but we want shares, say about 20% of your bank, cocksuckers . Because these banks make obscene profits most years (except when they start dealing in multiply-leveraged cotton-wool buttplugs (subprime mortgages)), that's a good ...

Control the masses with the all consuming self Make brain-control slug beans, they are good to eat And then there's mad man dialectic here Kill, kill them all. With electricity kept in leyden jars . Or telsa coils . Hidden inside all human beings are dangerous ideals, repressed because the lizard brain spits venom in their eyes. And then there was the stabbing and shooting wars. Then there was the potential for the glowing and ashen wars, visited out of the sky with nuclear penises digging in the ground, and making mushroom orgasms above. Is it not obvious we can tunnel to the moon with $700 bn? Make an iron highway up through the stratosphere, ignoring or condescending to the high altitude balloons, red Apollo rockets and Leica dogs in spiky satellites. I have the information. Call me. I won't be in. I have to get to Albonia

They, in their suburban redoubt, tear strips off each other, and this is no good as it reduces both to stinging viscera exposed in the central heating. There's blood on the floor, and lung on the countertop (that's granite). There's little barbs that accumulate. There's snide asides that hide the welter of halted say that's not true, fuck you. And as the light is off, the bulb needs replacing, there's the click of cliché to say it's all true. And then there's nothing.

Clearly Chim has to level up at some point. It will happen during a particularly bloody battle: as he smites with Mumpbiter he has introspective moments; things go grainy and black and white and he has an out of body experience. So he's looking down on himself whirling his sword around his head and shouting in slow motion. And he's talking to this woman who is probably wreathed in glowing stuff, and says gnomic stuff like: You have the inner thigh of the god of smallness. And you chew through dimensions bordered and caparisoned by the Elder Gods. Something like that. He has a sideways revelation during this: he must find (and eat) the One thing . Um, before it's too late . No, sorry, that's not cryptic enough, before the moon kisses the antler of Numptyhammer (better). He falls back into his soma, and continues with the smiting, but is now slightly wistful as he eviscerates another orc. At some point he will get covered in shit.

So a brief excerpt of the actual text of this shitboiler: And above the rise of hills, dim in the fore-gloom of beckoning even-dusk-tide, there was the faint glower of the golden sun descending on the flanks of the Frostbourne mountains. The hooven clops of his trusty mare echoing on the dry track between the thrusting boulders of the Gar-Thung-Chump Pass was a comfort to Chim's tired ears. The clink clunk of his sword Mumpbiter was interleaving with the rustle of shrubberies either side. Chim snapped his eyes to the side for one moment, thinking he had caught a glimpse of a rock nancy leaping from one boulder to another- it's fanged grin glinting in the gloom. But no, perhaps it was a trick of the light demon, Spankitorch. Well, it's clearly shaping up to be arse on many levels.

Our hero spends a whole bunch of time with these various pursuits (before any real plot advance is made): Fighting crap wizards, and winning because of untutored and uncontrollable magic that is latent in his (divine/demonic) nature Fighting orcs or goblins Getting covered in shit Walking a lot Coming across things that need about six paragraphs of cod-poetic description, involving elven ruins, mountains and/or mysterious shrubbery A lot of bollocks really. Something will get said or done that may or may not have a point that is revealed later on. Maybe someone whispers his real name as he pulls his sword out of them, but he can't hear it? Something like that. Book two.

Big-faced guy with backwards eyes fronts Chim out with magic (mainly cheap tricks with ur-gunpowder, some misdirection and a lot of hand-gestures). Chim retreats in disarray, trips over his sword, is sick in his mouth a bit, as he stumbles backwards into a ditch full of shit . He's lying there looking up at the stars (it's night and he see portents again) and he has a moment of insight. This insight makes him reconsider his quest. He questions his quest, a bit. So he fucks off and does some side-quests (mostly involving mean hardship, behest by some wise old bloke in a dress up a hill). Clearly these side-quests don't kill him and (bit of Nietzsche thrown in) therefore make him stronger (levels up his skill tree in, oh, I don't know, badger-baiting or something). So we have a couple of mildly amusing, but eventually worthwhile, pursuits that make him better, more rounded (he's humiliated a couple of times, mainly because of hubris, or because he's not as ...

In the forest, up a mountain, in a cave. Chim has levelled up. He's now beginning to get a handle on his (demonic/divine) powers. When he is attacked in a surprise from the sides - where he wasn't looking - he makes light, in a blinding flash, appear. He doesn't know this at first (we have to wait until he befriends a weak crippled thief in the town beyond, before this is revealed) as his eyes were shut whilst he sneezed (you can't sneeze with your eyes open - see? More science). All he knows that one minute he is walking along, next minute he sees reeling blinded assailants dropping their knives; forest/mountain/cave bandits that were clearly intending to cut him quick. He kills them quick.

Young man comes of age, unaware that his father was a demi-god (or semi-demon). So far he has (unconsciously) used his demonic (divine) powers to become a really good blacksmith, what with smiting iron in the furnace effectively and whatnot. Clearly he's meant for greatness, and equally clearly his disciplinarian blacksmith (cuckolded) father (who loved him really) and wilting (real) mother (who was formerly a great and terrible witch, now hiding in the hinterland in domestic obscurity) are both murdered by assassins unknown in the dead night, eve of his majority. The blame falls on him, although in later centuries it would be put down to carbon monoxide poisoning from the charcoal hearth they kept burning in their mean hovel (they died pink-skinned, and that is seen as witchery). When they died sleepily he was out of the village stockade for the night, looking at stars and seeing portents. So he is unwelcome when he gets back in grey dawn: forewarned because the village idiot ...

Should have chosen the right one. You had the chance. It was there, glowing silver. But you thought you knew better, thought it was a trick. So you chose the ring you thought was covered in rat shit. You were wrong, it was rat shit shaped like a ring. There was no deception. Maybe next time you'll be more trusting. And so ends book one of the trilogy.

Must have been the weather. Brighter today though: the sun's out, the sky is cold blue and the wind is dead on the ground.

Throw out all the old shit Clean up, clean out, garage sale of gathered crap Clean slate, clean room, cleared out Everything must go, including all your shit Five year plan, with necessary purges Fuck off to Siberia, stay there, write a book no-one will read Then burn it

Seriously unimpressed with the way the world is now Growing up in the desperate grey seventies it was my ardent wish that the future would be at least one lumen brighter. Places to go, people to meet, pellucid waters of some foreign clime enticing. But no, if I am to believe the media, every border is either bursting with snarling fucks wanting to kill me, or economic (read, nearly dead through poverty) migrants wanting some of the tax and surveillance we have in our sparkling enlightened democracies. And America became the land of fat dribbling morons and evil capitalist morons. And Britain became the land of whiny liars and lying morons fucking everything up for the short-term lucre. And the voluntary sector got filled with sanctimonious cunts. And politics became an end in itself. And most people are exactly shit and variously needy. And nothing works just right, but there's always excuses. Let's just admit it, things got too complex for our ape brains to handle. Th...

And it is "needyFuckersComplainAboutFreeServiceDowntime"

Clearly I am some kind of liberal commie bleeding heart. So, to dispel that notion: fuck you conservative, I have enlisted the stasi, KGB, and a muslim fund of mentalists to camp under your bed, with cameras and guns and shit. So any time you have unchristian urges they will kick your cock off. And your paranoia will be vindicated.

Eventually

The new breakfast cereal for merchant bankers (cockney definition is apposite now: masturbatory financial instruments turn out to be as useful as dildoes with trombone slides (stop trying to work out how that could work, pervert)). Other financial instruments: french porn; guilts and bondages; wedge fundaments; private quitty.

Random I know, but that's ok.

Time to realise that's not going away Time to look into the water Time to see the rusty shopping cart in the depth With some little fish, gudgeons, sticklebacks and shrimps With nettles up the banks And brambles tangling broken bricks in the wall Strings of barbed wire looped around the round-shouldered concrete Cigarette butts and cans and crisp packets This is not a metaphor

Grow up in the nasty blank grey of seventies, sometimes made better by the long summer of seventy-six, when the lawn cracked open like an old man's face. Or when something or other happened that was not so shit (can't remember what that was). In the arse-end of the seventies get the end of it. Come of age in the early eighties when most was rain and concrete, cramped vistas of little enjoy. But sometimes better when a day got lit sometimes. Watch another recession happen in the bitter years between. Then summer comes in the nineties. And all is well (but still difficult) and you are happy with another, for a small moment. Then the millennium happens and it dries up, and work is just worky work, and there's one minute to the next just being. And then there's a flash of joy too small to recompense. And that's it. Good enough, wouldn't have it any other way, because of friends I've met and things I've undone. So really, the plan for unhappiness did...

It's the little things you miss: A smile when you get home Sounds of someone upstairs Kitchen clatter Things done you forgot about Having to put things away you took out And fucking

Going to get my Touring 2000 back on the road!

had enough really quite fucked off with all of this continuing litany of shite from fucked up post to another shite pillar every time I try to be slightly better than a fairly crap person well, then, I get called out for being crap piss, maybe I should stab teddy bears, or fuck unicorns up the arse can't get much more evil, apparently poor me fuck that the unicorn liked it

Fuckety damn That horse was brown, I tell you

Well, it made me hollow in every respect There's no going back, wish there was Perhaps things can only get better, or more tense

This has got to be the shittest day I've ever had Career in the balance Relationships likewise And I'm short of breath, constantly Fuckety damn Still, in other news, I have a kitten

I wrote an SMS text to a friend who was upset. The text was supposed to be nice, sensitive and reassuring. But I forgot that written words have no inflection, and if you're in a place where you're going to take something the wrong way, and there's little foundation in that few words, you can build anything on top. Like imagined insensitivity, flippant disregard and disrespect. So I don't have that friend anymore. Just because of the one word at the end: "bye".

Sink, fucker Go below the waves, suck brine

Stop

When, in the little light that's left You try to make out the figure in the doorway And you can just about, almost, see that it's nearer you than it's ever been Then you'll see clearer than you ever have It's not a surprise; somehow it's ok When it reaches for you

Sitting on his bed, still wearing his suit, the once locked box open on the beige carpet, the bullets like gold maggots around, and he pushes one after another into the revolver, and takes them out again. He claps one metal chunk into another and the click home is satisfying. He can hear his children arguing downstairs, over who gets the controllers for the xBox (he has two controllers and three children). He hears his wife talking on her mobile to someone he doesn't know. Whoever it is is making her smile. He can hear her smiling, it's been so long now he can hear the smile. So he puts the gun back in the box, gathers the bullets together and puts them away too. He locks the box, puts the key in the crack in the skirting board where he always hides it. Puts the box in the back of the cupboard one more time. Another day done, then.

All good then. Arse.

A tutorial. Sam has a gun, the gun speaks to him. It says things he doesn't want to hear. He gets a sexual word every time he puts a bullet in a chamber. And he sees it as anticipating some fucking thing that he's going to do. He wants to tear holes in people with the bullets from his gun. He knows this is wrong and so he hides his gun in a locked box he keeps in a cupboard. But every now and then he has to take it out, take the bullets out and put them in again. You are probably thinking Sam is some hick in a trailer. He's not, he comes home from work in an S-class Merc, his wife is well turned out. He smiles at clients and only has a couple of drinks now and then. He's not mad or poor, not fucked up in any particular way. He's just fairly fairly normal. And he grits his teeth when he thinks of this, and occasionally screams when he drives home. His only problem is that he does not want to be embarrassed when he finally kicks off and kills his wife, his chi...

"Eat shit and die," is a good diet for some. "Fuck off and die," is not a diet, but appropriate to the same people. " Die horribly ," is also not a diet, but as you will see, you would lose weight doing it.

A useful compendium of traffic analysis for the travelling public: Cars: 75% Lorries: 13% Aquaplaning above sea level: moderate Trees: within accepted limits M5 M6 Interchange: between 5 and 7 until the end of the week Central reservation: down trending Grit and gravel: equal Slip roads: 5.1 variance Exhaust: 1

Chasing mandarins

Which doesn't mean the shite I have posted there isn't still there. Just got weary. Too much crap scrabble, too much chess, too much hanging on for messages that can't come. Oh well. Twitter is better.

Had enough

I agree with what everyone has said, except those I don’t agree with. They really need to get their facts straight. It’s not rocket science, what they are saying is obviously wrong. But the people who I agree with are right. However, one of the people who I don’t agree with made a good point somewhere, and I agree with that, but it doesn’t contradict my position that those who I agree with have won the argument.

I'm good at it, that has to be established at the start. Also, I have a lot of experience to draw on: many times in the past I've been a twat. Sometimes by making stupid mistakes; sometimes by being less than generous to people I should be happier with. It's genetic too: I come from a long line of twats; tracing my lineage back directly to Twatbold the Bold, renowned twat from the middle ages (not between 35 and 55; no, within dark centuries of ignorance when being a twat was indistinguishable form being able to breathe). I have no issue with being a twat - some of my best friends (whom I don't particularly like) are also twats. So there you are, I have a good twattitude.

By all accounts, and mentioned in despatches, he killed a lot of the fuckers.

From a couple of years back Nanotivity In the 2147, before the holocaust, five thousand cybernetic warriors descended on Bethlehem, frost contrails bleeding silver from their leading edges, and nothing in between. Sparks of laser in the mist burning hot holes before their basilisk gaze. They landed and they destroyed, casting about in the dark, severing men, women and children, cats and rats with their laser eyes. But Herod, the orbiting AI, had miscalculated, the end-time was not on schedule, not about to happen, and he missed the messiah by a week, man-made comet messaged above the little town. In a mechanic's hole, below the entrails of a 4x4 Subaru sports utility ATV, the baby god was born. Attended by three euro-bureaucrats, three engineers and one confused father ("I haven't fscked her in a year"), the child was spewed out of the holy hole into the swarf and oil on the concrete floor (whilst all about was bright with exploding munitions).

Therefore everything stops Particularly this That's good then

In our red rockets, and gas filled space suits As we looked out of our round port-holes We found the carcass of God Rotting in the vacuum, strings of blood-red matter reeling out And He was vast and shining once But now He's just a traffic hazard in the interstellar routes Where liners full of fat tourists stop off to see Where the two miles wide godhead breathed and loved once Now just a tangle of dead dark matter

Thinking this is the end as He falls down through layers Each one a different way of being that He no longer feels A continuing anaesthetic descent into sleep He hurts less as He dies, love goes away, and He stops seeing Stops feeling everything and everyone, as He goes away Miss you, wish you were here Now you are going away I made this

And it has a tune. A little tune that has too much treble to be appropriate. I'd like it to have deep, portentous bass; like some bleeding god in a pit shouting last words. Instead I get a squirrel on a speed OD, running round its last circle, squeaking out its brittle disappointment that this, this whole bleeding out, this is the end. Not even in focus, or well lit. Just a little death.

He comes up out of this dark hole, where the light switch had been turned off. Its plastic surround scuffed and marked with many fucking fingers crawling all over it, so that the bulb was lit from within, in the vacuum therein. And then there was a howling dark that was full of shadows inside it, but somehow became bigger, kind of expanded, the blackness leaking out. That's what I saw. That's what I will remember. And if it's a dream, well then, that's good enough. I'll take that to be real memory. At least he's not dead there . Shit and fuck, can I not get out of these spider traps? No, thought not. Ginger is still there.

Got enough to be going on with. Need to reduce that.

Because everyone tells me that. I am a bad man because: I don't return texts immediately, irrespective of the circumstances I'm in (you know, like separating my small boys from each other's whirling fists) I have a "phone manner" I reply to long rambling emails with one-liners I think it is clearly ok to let my boys play on the Xbox, the Wii and the iMac until they get square-eyed and LCD irradiated I am not interested in how shit your day was I don't tell you how shit my day was, because I don't think you would be interested I drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes I don't give a flying shit about issues you have I drink coffee with three sugars I sing about killing people on youTube , and this is not taken as a joke I have no time for religionists, and do not respect their lunacy I am taller than you You are unlikely to be taller than me, or better looking, as you are all ugly dwarves (and that's a joke too) You don't get my sense...

Monty Python's sister is McCain Ovenchip's Advice Presbytarian and there is a Lama Barracks for keeping yaks in. I have read some Dikipedia, Lama Barracks is part of this Demosthenes Pasty. They don't like the Republians. And that's in Murrica. Murrica has this three things: the Senapod, the Legible and the Conkers. All three fight a lot. The Republians are scared of the Lama. And also in Murrica there is a Tony General and Subprime Court. They have the laws. But the Legible writes them down, if Conkers let them. The Murricans are fighting in Winerack, and the Rushions are fighting too, but in Jawjaw. They have a Knitted Nations where they argue a lot. In Britland we have the Conserves and the New Maybe party. We also have the Library Demonstraters: they are in the middle. The Conserves and the New Maybe party don't like each other. Rabid Camera is head of the Conserves, vs. Corduroy Brown, king of the Maybe. There is a river between Britland and Pran...

recursion Originally uploaded by diskgrinder goodster

"Why?" I don't hear you ask. "For shits and giggle," I reply, even though you didn't ask.

To go to Whitby with me? And see the homes piled up around the deep cut where the sea comes in? With the boats and the stone? No, thought not.

Because they have flu. And you know how shit men are with flu. Now think about men with wings and flu. (or in planes, flying flu, whatever) That is good enough reason to kill all those flying things, Insects with wings too, In fact, anything with a penchant for transcending the two dimensions we are nailed in. I speak from the arse.

Things that were good happened. Things that were bad, didn't. That was ok.

So now I'll retract on that, into the trenches and redoubts I have built out of the mud here. There's this big hill of shit that I have dug a hole in. It's nice, I've hung lanterns from the eaves, and the ingle nook is lit with burning things heaped up in the middle of it. There's butter brought in on special buses, and bread grown from genetically modified maize. On a plate, in front of me, with a knife and fork either side, and a tin cup of tea. Outside, the wind is making noise and is making things swing, and other things stay still (heavy things, mainly).

I'm fine, thank you, Everything is dandelions and wine.