Land of Diskgrinder

I am, of course, fucking huge, coming at you like a reverse Tardis.

The equivalent of ohrwurms in the head of me, a writer (that sounds pompous, well done me), is the occasional sparkle of a phrase as it crosses the corpus callosum from right brain to left. Here's some I can't get out my head (you too, Kylie): Creamy Spartan surprise Trumpet blocked by sausage, not a sexual reference, or does it? Mouldy friends reunite in back alleys, hand round crisps Holes are absent plugs Dog bark can't be rubbed Delicate bitch polish They fizzing bang from one side of skull to the other, narrowly missing ear bones, and therefore not escaping, until now.

There's this middle class apres-food thing that you can do, where you all sit around, full of red wine and puffed about food, where, with eight or nine dinner party guests, you each in turn hold a note, and get a high on the harmonies that arise (even though you are tone deff). And it is not to demean that that I now present my small boys completely undermining that.

See, terrorists, at one time were children. They had teddy bears and sip-cups with milk or juice in them. And they were full with life and looked out on their bomb-torn landscapes and only saw playgrounds. Unexploded bombs were rockets to the moon, and bullet casings were gold nuggets scattered on the ground. The sky was hot metal blue above the smoking ruins of yellow buildings where once their dad sold taps and sinks and other sundry plumbing supplies. Until the daisy cutter cut the tops off all their friends who looked up when the airplanes came in. So these children, their brothers, their little sisters, who play in the depleted uranium dirt that is wound in to the length and breadth of ground thereabouts, will some day take up arms and collect bullets like cigarette cards. And they will shoot your young son, who last summer was mowing your lawn for a couple of dollars. He will die in the dirt, his blood in his hands as he sees the white surround his last sight. So kill them now...

On that, I remember one time I had a conversation with a chess player - every chess player has an opening gambit before they get to the board, usually it's "I haven't played for a long time, and I'm not very good", which, translated, means "I played yesterday, and I study opening books written by Steinitz". My opening gambit is a little different, and goes like this: "I can tell I am very much better than you, and I will beat you in the most humiliating manner possible. So much so your mother will be embarrassed she made the effort to expel you from her womb." This can be seen as quite confrontational (really?) except that I always explain that it is just a gambit, just ironic. Except this one time, when the guy said, "I haven't played in a long time, I'm not very good" blah blah bollocks bollocks. And I did my usual trick: "Hey, that's a good opener, my opener is this..." and then say the thing with a smile...

I just came across one of the funniest things I have read on teh internets in a long time. I read FSJ on many occasions. The stuff is good but the comments occassionally approach genius. On this post a person called Acap wrote this gem: I know, most consumers would have the best comfortable computers for prices as low as possible. But Apple helps to sell "MicrosoftJunkware" as long the real Appleprices don't come lower. You will see, Microsoft will be in two years or lesser more over than it is today, when quality software from Apple can run without restrictions in usual price segments. For the incorrigible snobs, Apple can sell beside still along exclusive pieces knitted with diamonds, mahaghoni, gold or special art inlayed designs from picasso, modigliani, cezanne, van gogh asl. if it must bee, or intarsias with wood from the from humans ripped rain-forrests. The american spacecraft can go to forreign planets like the moon to keep some original moonstones if apple...

...then don't be offended if I swear at you - I'm usually reticent. It's only people I respect I feel able to say fuck off to. Is that clear now, fucker?

Of mild depression (or general pissed-offness as it is technically referred to technically) is the wish, every now and then, to have invented anti-gravity. To be so full of misdirected energy, with no focus, that maybe just using it to lift yourself, without touch on any ground-based thing, a couple of feet (a metre metric) off the sofa would dissipate the sparking in your brain - channelling that English head charge into better avenues (tree-lined at least). Or run up a wall. Or jump up high with no down, just keep going, until the wind got thin, and you were above the herring-boned altonimbus , and only space-junk to avoid (laser platforms and dead monkeys in strait-jackets in red rockets). Or, just say fuck it, do another day.

Quite ugly one evening.

One: I'm drunk; everything is fine Two: I'm sober; what was I thinking?

not here no more

A suppurating stream of juvenile pus that it was. I'm now on indefinite hiatus from all those daft-arse "applications" and super-intrusive beacon crap. I only really had a couple of friends on there that I had any time for anyway. Hopefully they will not take it personally. It was the unremitting fuckwittery that did for me, not the shit rolled in glitter messsaging system, although that sucked dysons too. And I have these anyway: Twitter Flickr YouTube Googlemail

The van goes to a new owner today. Sad day.