Reclusive widows. If only you were one, Jan Moir

Come on.  Think about it.  Your husband has just died, you are on your own and you are feeling lonely.  In order to solve your issues (being alone), you need to go out and meet another man.  Now, I’m no relationship expert, but I’d say it would be hard to meet the 2nd man of your dreams being a recluse now wouldn’t it?

Let’s move to fat people now.  Stop sitting and eating and moaning about being ‘big boned’ or having ‘glandular problems’ just stop eating! I can do it, so can you, it’s easy Chunk, STOP EATING FOOD!  Vegetables grow in the ground, you’re rooted to it, pick some and jam them down your throat hole, quick sharp!

Now who? I know, poor people in the north. Well you stop being so fucking lazy.  Get yourself a proper job and earn enough money, like me.  There are jobs out there if you want them.  I’ve seen them in my paper for Christ’s sake!

Lastly, gays.  Stop being bloody gay.  We all know it’s for attention, we all know you didn’t get enough attention liking ladies so you thought you’d jump on the man loving bandwagon.  It sickens me.  God had no intention of man intercoursing with another mans bum.  Stop it!  Like women and bloody well lump it!

I am, of course, being ironic.  Not all fat people are fat becuase they want to be or because they’re lazy. Not all people are poor because they aren’t very good at their jobs, and gays are certainly not gay becuase they choose to be, coming to that particular conclusion via an elaborate ‘decision matrix’. Wouldn’t it be nice if people who are different or who are in a difficult place were helped out of their predicament, given a little ‘nudge’ in the right direction or provided with support of like people rather than being pilloried and pigeon holed.

This all leads to you Jan Moir.  Could you please, kindly, get on a bus with Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Littlejohn, buy a single to ‘ill-informed’ and fuck off.  Bushell can pilot this double decker you are all so comfortably situated and proceed to, knowingly, steer it right up the arse of Eve Pollard. This collision of gobshites would undoubtedly create a kind of moronic worm hole, where all lack of tolerance and common decency towards your fellow man would go to die.  An almighty trans-dimensional, sensationalist paradox. You annoy me Jan Moir, but by doing this you could perform a favourable act on behalf of the human race. You massive cunt.

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I dream of Game Genie

I dreamt about a crying child. I don’t know quite why the child was crying but being that it was one of my dreams, it was probably something to do with not having adequate access to computer games.

Is it perfectly acceptable to interpret your own dreams from what you know about yourself, than what you know about the supposed universal imagery of dreams? What is wrong with applying a bit of rational thought to a predominantly chemical problem, rather than relying on, for example, an internet search – which no doubt assumes a base level of sociological conditioning?

I dreamt about a large pig chasing me through a mulched path in the woods. I turned to the pig and looked it in the eyes, and the pig stopped. What does it all mean? Probably that I was looking forward to a rather large bacon sandwich in the morning, and I wouldn’t be daunted by the size of the bread or the consistency of the crust. Yum.

Are there enough people in the world to solve all of life’s problems? Are all of life’s problems actually important enough to try and solve?

On the meaning of dreams – if we are lucky enough to remember them – just enjoy them. It’s a rare moment where what you do actually DOESN’T matter.

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Cat, bag and deep water body

It’s a new garden, the lawn is in reasonable nick and there are no flowers or plants yet because we’ve just moved in.  It’s no golf course fairway but it’ll do.  My back is turned, I go to make a cup of tea or something, come back and some cat or other has deposited a particularly filthy shit slap bang in the middle of my grass.  Fucking thing.  The sparse green broken by the mucky brown of a cat’s ablution.  I despair I really do.  This is going to be the start of something I can feel it, I can smell it.

It’s now been over a year, this house is great.  There are now borders dug, plants planted and the lawn is as average as ever.  The cat is still smothering it’s faeces around my greenery like a small, hairy tramp with a particularly fithy bowel condition.  The little spiteful fuck.

There are hundreds of ways to stop the feline wanker doing this apparently.  Everyone has a solution – “Lemon peel all over the grass, that works!  Cat’s don’t like lemons!” is one I’ve heard, “Orange peel all over your lawn, that works.  Cat’s don’t like orange peel!” is another.  “Fill an empty cola bottle full of water and put it on the lawn, it reflects the sun (or something), the cat’s don’t like that!”  Another suggestion I’d heard on at least 3 seperate occasions.  “Buy some lion shit and hang it in your garden”.  Okay.  “Get a dog!”  That one I like, but isn’t really faesible.  My favourite was “get yourself a cat! cat’s don’t like other cat’s!”.  Fuck off.  Other cat’s don’t like other cat’s, I don’t like cat’s.  This person clearly does not get the irony of buying a cat to stop a cat appearing in your garden.  Let’s double up the local cat population shall we?  That should decrease the shit quota.

The only solution I can think of for ridding the community of this smug, four legged, cunt is to set up a small mammal trap, bait it with something that cat’s like (mice? tweety pie? cake?)  When the arsewipe has been caught, grab it by it’s neck and extract it from said trap, place it in a bin bag full of particularly weighty aggregate, drive to the banks of the Irwell and hoy the obnoxious crap factory from the car window whilst laughing maniacally screaming “I WIN YOU MUTHA-FUCKA!” at the splash in the steadily flowing river.

At the moment, there are 2 deposits on my lawn.  They are of the same shade of brown as they always are.  There is one cat that does this, it knows I don’t like it and it is a cat-bastard.  May the lord strike it and it’s kind from the face of the earth to sanitise humanity from the most wretched of all the animal kingdoms species, the house cat.  Felis catus, I damn you to hell!

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Kiss from a rose

I sat down and watched the last ten minutes of One Tree Hill the other day, and I cried a little bit inside. It was quite easily the worst piece of television I have ever seen, and that includes comparing it to such gems of broadcasting as Big Brother, and The Hills. During those ten minutes absolutely nothing of any note happened.

I learnt about the meaning of the word ‘platitude’ a few months ago (you may have noticed it appear in my blog a few days ago) but that word sums up EVERY SINGLE LINE in this godforsaken program. It’s that BAD the writers deserve credit for dreaming up line after line of this shit.

“We need to think about what great people we are”

“You are so great, you need to learn to love yourself”

“If you knew what I had learnt from our time together, you wouldn’t feel so bad about yourself”

I can only think of three lines, but these bastards do it ENDLESSLY for the whole fucking show.

Let’s look at it another way – let’s imagine it’s a seal at some marine show catching fish for a crowd.

But it’s not real fish, it’s the bones of fish caked around with a nice foamed NOTHING. And the bones aren’t even real – they’re made of jellied LIES so the seal can’t even chew on anything.

But it doesn’t seem to matter to the under-developed audience, braying like cattle at the wonders presented to them as the poor, cute animal aches for something substantial to eat. The audience can’t feel his hunger, they just watch the little bugger swim.

And I don’t know what role the seal metaphor plays in all this, perhaps he is the television – capable of relaying information and knowledge to thousands at once, but all he does is shite out the digested remains of the lies and the nothing.

Yeah, that works.

But the shite doesn’t pollute the water, because there is nothing there. It’s worse. You can’t see it, but it slowly kills the seal. He tires as he eats for no gain, becomes used to the diet consisting of no nutrition and he stagnates just to survive. The audience grow used to the seal doing less and less with each show and they don’t complain, why should they, the seal is only doing a tiny bit less than he did yesterday, no reason to go on at the poor little sod?

And the seal looks so good, so slim and healthy. Why can’t I look as good as that seal?

But that is just the seal-handlers slapping on the make-up.

The seal is dying, and by watching One Tree Hill you just make him die faster.

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Part 1, a snippet of something

The return of the vanquished is but round the corner.  Millions of the fallen all ready to rise forth and purvey their almighty vengeance upon the non believers.  How will this come about?  In what form?  They must wait, the time is nearly here.

The signs were appearing, the prophecies foretold in Elmarin’s works 350 years ago being checked off like a cosmic, fatalistic shopping list.  The timescales, however, didn’t seem to tie in.  “The Return Of The Punished, A Divination” predicted 14 seperate events that took place in a set sequence over the period of 1,200 years the first of which was the two suns turning blue.  “Both the sun that sits in the sky the longest and the sun that sets the first shall appear an azure blue for 14 and 6 cycles each in turn“.  The two stars in this binary system were circled by 16 seperate planets and planetoids one of which, the homeworld, was called by it’s residents “Fumera”.  The celestial twins are themselves named as “The Short” and “The Long”, The Short being the closest star and The Long being the furthest away, as their names suggest.  It so occured that from the 14th to the 28th of the 3rd month in the year 84,236 K the two celestial bodies persisted in the sky, in the normal cycle, an azure blue, an intense, serene and perfect blue.  This is when it all seemed sinister, this is when it began.

Not 3 years later, the 2nd event occured.  The earth split in two “…and then, in the time the seasons pass a further 404 cycles, the ground shall split apart, spewing forth the entrails of the planet in a manner not seen in man’s time of civilization.  The indelible scar will not heal and remain a mark on the landscape until the god’s know when“.  This, the second event, occured as indicated in the book, word for word, but to the confusion of the soothsayers and believers proved inconsistent with the date mentioned in Elmarin’s tome.  It occured 3 years after the first event, not 101 as prediced (4 seasons in a year, 404 cycles equals 101 years).  Where scheduled panic and build up to the finale was in place, discord and bewilderment became rife.  The coming of the second event 98 years early caused all hell to break loose.

(to be continued…. when i can think of another 12 events…)

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Elephant in room

Int. Office – Day


What’s that?


It’s an elephant.


Why is everybody ignoring it? It’s standing on my gym kit, and I could really do with going home in the next few minutes or so.


Yeah, not sure. Try asking IT.




HR then.


Are you sure HR will be able to do anything? They’ll be too caught up running pay-roll to be bothered.


Have you even tried IT?


No. I haven’t tried them yet. I’ll try them now.

Steve picks up the phone handset and dials three numbers on the keypad. He waits a few seconds before someone picks up at the other end.


Hi, who’s that?

Small pause


Hi Jeff, Yeah, It’s Steve in Strategy, wondered if you could help me out.

Short pause, as Steve listens a bit.


There’s an elephant in the room and it’s standing on my gym kit, I don’t know really how to get it to move.



No, there are no flashing lights on it. I think it’s a real elephant.

Steve waits and listens to the Jeff at the other end, he makes some ‘uh-huh!’ and ‘mmm!’ and ‘okay!’ and similar noises that suggest agreement and general listening.

Steve goes down to his computer and presses the power button in for three or four seconds.

The computer shuts down with a little ‘beep’. The noise makes the elephant move about a foot, off Steve’s gym bag.


Yeah, brilliant! That seems to have worked!

Steve stands up off his desk, grabs the bag and walks out of the office.

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Boring, boring, bleeding things.

The day was carrying on with light showers outside,  the trees blowing gently in a steady westerly.  Danny stared blankly outside “That cloud looks like it isn’t going to burn up does it?  McCaskill told me it was going to be sunny today!”.
Mick rolled his eyes “I never bloody trust them, can’t remember the last time they got the weather forecast right.”
Still staring out of the window, clearly longing for the weather to clear up, or at least something interesting to happen, Danny picked up his mug of tepid tea and took a sip.
“It’s gone bloody cold.  I’m going to make another one.  Do you want one?”
“Go on then.  I’m doing fuck all else” said Mick in a dispondant tone “What time are Jenny and Dave coming round?”  Mick didn’t like Dave, he was one of those ‘types’ that has done everything that you had done but just that bit better.
“In about an hour and a half.  Due round at 6, but knowing Jenny they’ll be late” confirmed Danny.
“I suppose we’d best clean up?  The front room is full of your shit.”

Blah blah blah blah blah.

Writing and reading can be boring can’t it?   I started to read a Dan Brown book once and found it as dull as ditch water.  Got about 30 pages in, threw it out of the train window, screamed ‘what’s the fucking point!’ and just gave in.  Can’t remember the name of the book (Jesus’ Catflap or something) but it was dull.  Now I know it is a bit of a cliche to comment on the dullness of a Dan Brown book, but most of what I wrote just then is actually true.  Well the reading bit was.  I have never thrown a book out of a train window and cursed loudly.

Imagine if the first book you ever read was dull?  Imagine the first book you ever picked up flowed like a river of treacled gism. You’d pretty much give in from then on wouldn’t you? The interesting thing is, as a child, you read some of the most inane shit, but it doesn’t put you off.  As a child, you will start on something not particularly interesting, but will find it so immensley fascinating, you will treat it like it’s the best thing since since the proverbial ‘sliced bread’, the best thing you have ever seen.  To a child, this ACTUAL sliced bread is fascinating, “look, it’s bread, and it’s sliced! That’s brilliant!” I can hear uttered in little Johnnie’s head upon the sight of a Warbutons Toastie loaf.  I digress, evenly portioned bakery products aside, kid’s find pretty much anything and everything amazing, especially things they haven’t seen.  Wouldn’t it be great if but 30% of the adult population shared this enthusiasm?

I say let’s all bring back a portion of our childish side, the enthusiasm in the new, the excitement of the odd, the fantastical-ness of the peculiar.  Let’s question the wierd and the obtuse.  If we spend 20 minutes a day questioning something and investigating it surely keeps us in touch with the world?  We’ll never know everything or understand everyone  and why should we expect to?  Surely the we would all be worse off for not experiencing the unexpected?

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Hello World! Where have you gone?

I awake in an unfamiliar house and fall off my bed. I’ve got a t-shirt on and some loose fitting trousers. It is deathly quiet outside, like civilisation has ended. There is a deer looking in to the house through a smashed window, and a dresser in the far corner of the room. Hm. Looks like there is a pair of leather trousers hanging out of one of the drawers. I feel an urge to go over to them and try them on, but I quickly swap them back. I can’t get enough stuff in the tight pockets for whatever I might need to do next.

I barrel blindly through the house – pick up a pack of sleeping pills, some aspirin and some bandages from the bathroom. I take a drink from the toilet pan and my thirst is satisfied. I find a flashlight. It appears to be working.

Which is a little lucky. In this house (the house I have found myself wake up in) there is a basement. But it is dark so I switch the flashlight on. My eyes adjust to the lines at the far end of the room. A structure becomes apparent, row upon row of things filling the back wall. Some shelves. Whoever I am – I seem to have been preparing for an apocalypse. German, Austrian and Belgian automatic weapons – with ill-matching ammunition. Tinned food and a large back pack. I play with some of the little brass bullets and find some of them that fit in to the firing chamber of a long black rifle. Someone has wrapped some red PVC tape around the barrel of this particular firearm and it secures a small cardboard label stuck on with string. H&K G3 is cryptically written on the manila token, and as I weigh the gun in my hand I feel comfortable. I have done this before. I push a full magazine box in to the gun and sling it over my shoulder.

Upstairs and out the house I go to find my bearings in this strange land. It is mid morning in spring, and the sun is bright and low in the sky. I can barely see a thing, but through a squint I can make out another house across the other side of the road. I walk across, and the door is locked, but I can see a refrigerator and a copy of News Weekly in the front room through a window. Nobody is around. I could break in. I choose not to.

The deer watches me from a distance. I look down the barrel of the gun and whisper some soothing words to my four legged voyeur. His forehead lies directly in line with the iron sights, and as I whisper ‘click’ to myself, I swear I see the deer’s knees jerk. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking. He continues on his own agenda, eating a few sods of grass and pretending everything is normal.

There is a map in the back pocket of my leather trousers. I decided to wear them after all now that I had a backpack and felt comforted by the knowledge that I had somewhere to put things. They were black, I thought they looked cool, and they might help protect my legs from unspecified danger. The map told me of a place nearby which immediately piqued my interest – a sports goods store. Sounded just the thing to satisfy the boredom I was bound to be subjected to in this apparently empty world. Perhaps there would be other people I could talk with about what is going on.

The door to the store was locked, so I smashed the front window with the butt of my gun, the smashing noise resonated around the empty streets. I walked carefully through the jagged, ruined frame. I picked up a baseball helmet. A few other odd bits were strewn around the floor and on the shelves, but it was otherwise devoid of life. A back room, a crossbow and a single steel shafted bolt. Some clothing, a baseball bat. Cool.

Some footsteps outside – People?

The glare hit me again – there was a shape in the distance. No. Two shapes. I sheltered my eyes and focused. Two men walking alongside each other slowly. They were walking straight down the street, towards me. The lush forests of New England swept away behind them in to the distance – falling in to a powder blue horizon. Perhaps they had come from there. Perhaps they had come to help me out of here. They didn’t look right. They were both bent double, and had odd coloured complexions. One ever so slightly green and the other a tinge of magenta. Did the pink one just retch? My view became clearer for a fraction of a second as a shadow appeared in front of the sun.

The ball of acid exploded across my t-shirt and sprayed up underneath the grille of my newly acquired helmet, my eyes burning and stung shut. I tore the helmet off, threw it down and groped around for the wall and pawed at my sodden top. Threads came away in my hands, and the acid started to burn my skin – first like a scratch but building to a horrible crescendo like I had been flayed.

I wiped my eyes with a rag out of my pack and looked up – the two men had closed in on me and I could now see them clearer – they were grotesque – twisted forms of what were once undoubtedly men, but with sad grins where teeth showed through decayed faces. Thin arms and distended stomachs overhanging trousers which seemed fused in to their remaining skin. I pointed the gun up and fired shot after shot after shot in to the shapes of their bodies in front of me. The noise was deafening but triumphant. I wrestled to keep the gun pointing at the creatures as each shot kicked and fought to bring the barrel higher. They fell.

Some more footsteps were coming from behind me. A few pairs of footsteps, some of them sounded much quicker than those shambling creatures. Perhaps this really was help.

I awake in an unfamiliar house and fall off my bed. I’ve got a t-shirt on and some loose fitting trousers – it’s deathly quiet outside, like civilisation has ended. I can see a rabbit on the lawn, and a dresser in the far corner of the room.

I get up and look out the window. ‘Revill’s Sports’ so says the sign. Hmm … a sports goods store right outside my house. There is a large circular deep red stain against the wall of the store. It extends in to a pool on the pavement. Looking closer I can see a sitting man in the pool – no – a body. A corpse. His skin is a mottled purple and maroon and it is shrink-wrapped around his frame. He has a pair of leather trousers on and he is clutching what looks like a long, black rifle.

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The Devil’s in the detail and nostalgia is evil

The joy in doing anything is doing it to the best of your ability. Corners are easy to cut, especially in this age of spell checking and hired help. Doing this ‘blog’ will probably take me longer than I should spend on something as unimportant and futile as this. I have now looked through this a number of times before arriving at this, the finished article. Even so, I could’ve continued chopping and changing until I just got bored and put it straight in the ‘trash’. I will, though, and did (as you can now see), get to a point where I had had enough of checking, amending, reading and analysing until realising that only a couple of people (all of which i would probably know) would acknowledge this and that any changes made would be moot and wasted. The result is, however, a piece of my mind imparted on the interweb that I still think is a bit dull, is certainly not a life changing word creation and could probably contain longer words with more articulation to get it closer to what i was actually intending. That said, when I started, I didn’t really know what I was intending.

Despite not having a specific reason for this particular item, I do have a reason for noting this shit. It is purely for me. The aim of this is to come back in 6 years time (assuming I haven’t been mown down by a 14 year old driving a tractor) and see what I was expelling through my fingers via my arm nerves and brain, on or around the dates marked above. Then, maybe, I can look at this and invoke some memories. Much like we do with photographs.

We all take pictures for memories. We choose to look at these at moments when we want to nostalge (?). We go back to these when we want to see how much younger we looked and when we want to remember what we used to do and how much fun we had. Why not do the same with words? This is a diary, not directly noting emotional state but noting trains of thought. I’m quite looking forward to coming back to this in some time and wondering what the Christ made me write that, was it just boredom or the need to fill some cyberspace because I can and it is/was cheap!

These diatribes/conversations/internal ramblings will be sprung forth in the weeks to come with my more articualte sibling talking about one thing and then me another. I’m sure some will be interesting and some not. I’m sure some will be relevant and bring back memories. Others will just be there because we’d made an agreement to do one a day between us and we just felt the need to write something. Whatever happens, i won’t delete any of them and I hope they will still be here to read in 15 years time. Maybe, if I have kids, I can show them and they will look at me funny, climb back into their 3D hover cars and head off to space school, wondering what ‘wacky old dad’ was up to when he didn’t have kids.

May we all live on through the joy of digital photography, hard drive stored pictures of frolicking on the beach and the headshit that falls out from time to time that is imparted on cyber-paper. We no longer have to write anything down or even get photos developed, we can store them all electronically. A library of nostalgia and information at our fingertips. What would happen if all of the electricity ran out? I have no fucking idea, and I don’t really want to know…

Posted in Nostalgia, Poppycock, Social | 1 Comment

Consumer Unit

I spend a lot of time daydreaming. Often about whimsical beasts, coitus and if there is something deeply buried in my past that is going to lead to an unavoidable closet-escaping moment in later life. I’d rather just get it out the way whilst I can still get some worthwhile action down Canal Street.

I should really see my friends and family more, but of course there are far more important things to do. Like avoid my friends and family. The cunts.

Perhaps one day I’ll daydream about being presented a flat screen TV by Jeremy Clarkson like a lot of other men I know. Perhaps Richard Hammond will be there to offer platitudes, perchance to drive me home in a new car. Maybe the thought will appeal to me one day.

After all, a mind can change – I have now accepted that there AREN’T orcs at the bottom of the garden (although the wife has to keep reminding me every time I try and justify the purchase of some crude mediaevel weaponry).

Steve Jobs and his army have finally pushed an Iphone in to my grasp – and I can’t put the fucking thing down. What hope would I have if I saw the beauty presented by an HDTV plastered against my wall? Is there such a thing as a slippery slope to technological fuckery? Gadget induced cunt-dom? Eisenhower’s domino effect twisted cruelly against an accidental capitalist as a horrid joke?

Once again, I don’t have the answers. But I take solace in the belief that modern life has given us a bit more than it has taken away.

Like the concept of the “SQUIDAGEDDON”.

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