Saturday, August 22, 2009

Mutual Antagonisms

I live on a small, rainy (typical August) windswept island marooned off the north west coast of Europe. It looks like a pig with a witch on it's back, preparing to devour its poor supplicant neighbouring island.

It's inhabitants call each other names constantly. The Jocks (ANCIENT NATION that they are, and insist on telling everybody within earshot) hate everybody else on the island with a refreshing constancy. The Welsh, being rather short, aren't so vociferous. They just hate anyone who hasn't heard of Aneurin Bevan and Dylan Thomas.

The Angles and whatnots, who constitute the English, are just content to get on with hating each other. Soft Southern bastards, inbred Devonians, gormless Brummies, thieving Scousers, London types, Northern muck 'n' brassers, Somerset Levellers: they're all constantly at each other's throats.

It's a great place to live if you think it's nice to be nice while secretly fancying a scrap.

It's no wonder that this little inebriated scrapper had such an influence on the world, while annoying Ireland.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Social Networking

I refuse.

Do I want to Twitter like an incontinent thrush? Do I want to reacquaint myself (via Facetwat) with Nigel from the Upper 6th who went into banking because "it's a nice safe job with a decent pension"?. Do I want to hear about how many sprogs Emily (14) has dropped on Bebo?

No.

To be honest I'd prefer to stuff my head up Barack Obama's wife and discuss health care, gun control, and how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

This is why I stick with Blogger. I can spout shite anonymously and intermittently, while posting a youtube vid which nobody will watch:



It's a hard life on the croft.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Coming Down With Something

No, it's not Swine Flu. Well, it might be; but then again it may just be an inevitable consequence of over exuberance.

The hoards have descended to shower me with ill deserved cash and I am as delighted as a sand boy who has just constructed a sand castle and bombarded all foreign speakers with beer cans, discarded toiletries, and the pile of the Manchester Guardian that a Southern English Type decided to cram into one of my bin liners.

They're shifty, these tourists. They like to avoid you unless they've got something really serious to complain about: like condensation drips under the toilet cistern, midges getting in their hairnets, or the lack of a decent pint from Burton on Trent (which is 400,000 miles away).

I am a living saint. I am the living personification of equanimity. I will be living somewhere else soon.

I fear that toilet seat complications will follow me there. There will be no escape from the wobbling toilet lid, microwave complications, and too many wifi signals or none at all.

I think I'll retire to a cave and take up macrame.

I would do, if I didn't love what I do. I make a living watching people enjoying themselves.

Sunday, August 09, 2009

The Black Velvet Band

So I wake up in the Lochmaddy Hotel, North Uist, with no idea where I am, what day it is, or where I left my lighter. I shamble down to the bar where I am presented with a ham sandwich and am informed that "the lads will be back for you tomorrow, and there's £50 behind the bar for you. You'll be going to South Uist next. I wouldn't if I were you, they're all Catholics and they don't wash".

It was all Miller's fault. He chose a yacht with no iPod connectivity and forgot to bring the CD's. All we had was a cassette tape compilation of Sean Murphy's greatest hits. A week spent cruising around the Hebrides listening to a ghastly Oirish crooner belting out 'The Black Velvet Band' is enough to drive even the most well adjusted individual demented.

Then the wind dropped and we discovered that Miller, the useless tool, had forgotten to fill the tank with diesel. We were becalmed until some friendly fish farmers brought us some jerry cans and some 'liberated' 100% proof rough mash Talisker whisky. I blame the latter for my out of body experience in the Lochmaddy Hotel.

The Jocks invented the adhesive stamp, the Australian National Anthem, the Encyclopaedia, hypnosis, the United States Navy, insulin, the hypodermic syringe, Bovril, and the Bank of England. Brilliant, but not much consolation when you find yourself back on terra firma swaying on a bar stool with 'The Black Velvet Band' firmly embedded in your frontal lobe.

Heaven or Hell? You decide:

Friday, August 07, 2009

Epiphany

Sometimes the true significance of things is hidden; a concatenation of events and misunderstandings obscures what is real and conceals what subsequently becomes tangible. It doesn't happen in increments, there is no slow accretion of memory and its interpretation; rather a sudden and blinding realization that temporarily cripples as the tears scold and start.

My reflection is the same, but the mirror is no longer clouded. Things left unsaid have been said.

The heart is a lonely hunter (thanks Carson).

Monday, August 03, 2009

Bright Bright New Shiny Hole in my Heart

Little black dresses and gin and tonic.

It is me you want my darling, or is it my money?

Thursday, July 30, 2009

All Change

I am pissed off. Too much drinking, too much amiable bed hopping, too much of the same daily round. Scotland has a collective drink problem: from the rough boozers of Govan to the Highland howfs it's just constant imbibing, cars abandoned in ditches, and folk in drying out clinics.

I'm selling up, fucking off to London. Four flats in Fitzrovia: cost exorbitant, rental income tasty, the Fitzroy Tavern a short stroll.

She's back in my life. I'm not sure that's a good thing, but what can you do?

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Favourite Mid Life Crisis Cars

Porsche 911

Fat arse, big gut, Thai wife.

Ferrari 308 GTB

Likes big moustaches. Avoid.

Lotus Elise

Likes darting about like an annoying bluebottle. Squish.

VW Beetle

Is obsessed with arses and talks like one. Avoid.

Ford Mustang

Takes onanism to a new level. Hence the the drop top.

E Type Jaguar

Penile erectile disfunction.

Lancia Fulvia

Tasteful. Sounds just like ladybits and is a bit slow
on the uptake.

Jensen Interceptor

Just plain stupid.

Audi RS6

Oh, just fuck off and have a wank.


I'm getting the bus.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Trilogy for X

And love hung still as crystal over the bed
And filled the corners of the enormous room;
the boom of dawn that left her sleeping, showing
The flowers mirrored in the mahogany table.

O my love, if only I were able
To protect this hour of quiet after passion,
Not ration happiness but keep this door for ever
Closed on the world, its own world closed within it.

But dawn's waves trouble with the bubbling minute,
the names of books come clear upon their shelves,
the reason delves for duty and you will wake
With a start and go on living on your own.

The first train passes and the windows groan,
Voices will hector and your voice become
A drum in tune with theirs, which all last night
Like sap that fingered through a hungry tree
Asserted our one night's identity.

Louis Macneice

Why marry?

Sunday, July 12, 2009

The Walking Cure

It's a boon being bipedal; it wouldn't be much fun having to hop everywhere, and I imagine being three legged would (although efficient in an ungainly way) produce much derision from the fag smokers outside pubs.

The walking cure's the thing. Speech and walking are similar in their cadences. Many's the happy drunken hour I've spent stomping the streets to Hamlet's Greatest Hits or Yeats coming over all grandiloquent. Some people call it pub crawling, but I see a more elevating aspect to this pursuit of the kebab shop.

If I hadn't hiked so far and sat on so many park benches contemplating beds of geraniums while staring at the moon the world would be a poorer place.

This is one of my favourites:

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.

"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

W.H. Auden

Try it next time you've been on the piss and crave carbohydrate sustenance. It might get you arrested or punched, but it might just get you the girl.

Friday, July 10, 2009

The Holy Stump

Everything is coming over all Father Ted. I believe that Craggy Island was home to several Holy Relics, although whether this included the crazy golf course on which Ted and Dougal liked to play in the pouring rain is debatable.

I've got nothing against Roman Catholics, but sometimes they fall prey to a strain of deluded credulity that is far from healthy. I'm sure there's money to made out of it. I'm thinking of announcing that I have seen a vision of the Virgin Mary in my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and an image of Christ on a burnt piece of toast. The admission fees to view these Holy artefacts should be sufficient to keep me in beer and pork scratchings for life.

I mean, come on.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Other Voices, Other Rooms

Why Brownlee Left

Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content
It was him; two acres of barley,
One of potatoes, four bullocks,
A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough
On a March morning, bright and early.

By noon Brownlee was famous;
They had found all abandoned, with
The last rig unbroken, his pair of black
Horses, like man and wife,
Shifting their weight from foot to
Foot, and gazing into the future.

Paul Muldooon.

I'm sure that most people have thought of walking out on things at one time or another. A malignant surf of red bills on the doormat or an abusive and unhappy relationship can make even the most seemingly stable individual contemplate walking.

In some ways it can seem an attractive option; the prospect of reinventing ones personality and starting afresh having cut all ties and commitments preferable to a real and present turmoil. Of course it's an illusion. You can't reinvent yourself, and in abandoning the nexus of relationships that make you who you are you become void.

There are thousands of missing people in this country, their families left in anguish by the unexplained disappearance of a loved one. I'm sure the people who disappear don't intend their absence to be permanent, it just becomes impossible for them to reconnect.

I walked out once. The agony of a failed relationship had pushed me to the verge of suicide, the palette of my colours reduced to grey and black. One afternoon I walked to the Clifton Suspension bridge in Bristol intending to jump, but chickened out as I gazed down at the river below me. Instead I went to the pub and drank six pints of beer, and then visited the off licence where I purchased a bottle of whisky. The next day I packed my bags and got the bus to Heathrow. I flew never to return

I left some very dear friends but it was necessary for me to do so to excise that period of my life from memory. Nineteen years have passed and the agony has evaporated, or so I thought.

I reconnected with those friends from so long ago, and the well of memory began to gush. I don't regret doing it, and I will never lose touch with those dear people again, but I have discovered that a deeply repressed emotion can emerge with as much vigour as it had in the distant past.

Thankfully I am a stronger man today, and can deal with this resurrected pain. Sometimes things in the past have to be confronted. There can be no true closure otherwise.

Only connect.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Days

I am melancholic by disposition, although I prefer to repress that aspect of my personality because there is a fine line between wistful contemplation and an unhealthy obsession with an unsatisfactory past that leads inexorably to depression. It can also develop into an unhealthy mawkishness that is laughable.

Maybe its a Celtic* thing; the sense that there is an underlying sadness to things, that the bright timbre of a voice or a swirl of laughing faces is a chimera. Old photographs, abandoned ways of being, the evaporation of faith, certainties debunked: they're all there, concealed behind the Ikea sofa.

The dying fall, a limp and pills, a scatter of cigarette butts. The wind blows the wrong way across the salient, the antimacassars are yellowing, there is dust in the china cabinet.

See what I mean? Melancholia sucks big time.

I'm off for a pint.

* not the football team.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Bubble Wrap

Dear

Thanks for a most wonderful holiday in "Stronsay" a week ago. The weather smiled and we had a fantastic time.
I wonder if you found our boy Rory's toy tiger "Kitty" in the single room? He has done a disappearing act and Rory is asking for him. Would be grateful if you could let us know.

Very best regards

Jane

Dear Jane

I have a shed full of cuddly toys, colostomy bags, crutches, hiking boots, mobile phones, laptop chargers, odd socks, and digital cameras. Sometimes I like to sit in the shed and look at them. They're mine you see; I've worked for them and I like to commune with them and luxuriate in their freeness.

I will happily return "Kitty" to you if appropriate legal documentation proving ownership is afforded within the next 7 days. Failing this I am afraid that that this furry creature (presumed stuffed feline) shall be stored next to the watch that the previous guest left under the sofa.

And no, they won't be getting that back either.

Very best regards

Garfer

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Ageing Disgracefully


Gasping for some nicotine sustenance today I was exasperated to find myself behind a queue of wobbling crumblies at the supermarket tobacco counter. Each of the Crimean War veterans spent at least five minutes fumbling in their purses and wallets as they shuffled their way towards the cancer emporium.

Were they queuing for a half ounce of Ogden's Nut Gone Flake or a packet of el cheapo obscure brand fags? No they were not; they were queuing for Lottery tickets and scratch cards.

Tenners were lobbed across the counter with gay abandon by the Ernies and Hildas, no doubt in expectation of huge payouts to fund their hip replacements and mobility scooters. I don't for one moment imagine that they were gambling in order to shower their children and grandchildren with new cars and trust funds. Oh no, they just want to deposit lucre in their Post Office accounts and gloat.

To think that grafters like myself are toiling to pay these peoples pensions. It's enough to make even the most fair minded individual advocate euthanasia.

Harumph.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Why Abroad is Rubbish


Let's get this straight, travel does not broaden the mind. Sitting on a cruise ship while your midriff slowly expands and you develop an alcohol problem does not make you Marco Polo. Briefly sitting on an Elephant before devoting the next three weeks to serious dope bum activities on a Thai beach does not make you Paul Theroux. Driving a car (or sitting on a Greyhound bus - which just gives you piles) from Manhattan to Los Angeles does not make you Jack Keroauc.

Experiencing foreign cultures is generally just an exercise in suffering diarrhoea and having nasty little insects burrow into your skin and lay their eggs. And that's just in the more salubrious equatorial regions. When you decide to have a wazz over the side of your canoe while exploring the Amazon a small barbed fish will inevitably swim up your willy and hang on for dear life.

Europe is no better, what with its funny languages and Mediterranean blokes prancing about in too tight trousers. As for Japan, that's just compulsory karaoke, 'Love Hotels', and Pachinko.

You would think that the USA, being vaguely civilized, would be worth the trip. Unfortunately no; the delights afforded by Latino housemaids are far outweighed by the sheer nastiness of the giant American cockroach and this wholly revolting foetus of Satan.

Best stay at home and tend the petunias I say. You can't be too careful.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Bald Nobrained Pricks


Apparently you can't join the BNP unless you are a white Caucasian. I suppose this is intellectually consistent given that their membership consists of no necked *Neanderthals who like nothing better than to tuck into a nice curry while berating Pakistanis and assorted other non whitey scum.

I'm rather puzzled how a political party which denies membership to people on the basis of the colour of their skin can call itself democratic. As for splashing pictures of Spitfires all over their campaign literature, this suggests they aren't aware that a lot of these were piloted by Poles - a nationality that they regard as Polack scum nicking our jobs.

These people like to congregate and sing SS Marching songs, which would be utterly risible if there weren't people in this country stupid enough to vote for them.


* This is unfair to Neanderthals who, despite their deficiencies in the neck department, probably loved their old mums and didn't support Millwall.

Saturday, June 06, 2009

Marbles

Have you found yours yet? I appear to have lost mine.

Still Life

Blinded by the headlights you paused,
Gaze pitiless and feral,
Poised before muscular flight,
Then off, twisting from peril.

Perplexed, I saw you through a lens,
Spoor print in a dark room tray,
Lithe torso intense,
Caught in a web of memory.

Still life: your arrested posture held
For what seemed an age,
Then an abrupt sensuous shuffle,
Moving from shoreline onto the page.

E J Garfer (17 and a half)

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Rave on John Donne

Newfoundland.

Well congratulations, you got here first and reconnoitred the upsides and the downsides before bagging a trawl of fish and considering further horizons.

I am a frustrated imperialist: desirous of new regions of potential conquest and the prospect of a fine cockaded hat and a retinue of obsequious servants and willing stable wenches.

It's not too much to ask; a mere small domain like Sarawak, or French Polynesia with a lifetimes supply of free dancing girls and sundown cocktails would do. Unfortunately they've all been taken and I'm faced with the prospect of negotiating the rings of Saturn if I'm to have any chance of inculcating the rubric of British truth and justice in the breasts of the unruly heathen natives.

It's a tough piece of gristle to chew on, but what can I do?

I am, potentially, undone.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Made from Girders


The head honcho (or 'big heid yin' in Glasgae parlance) of Barr is to hand over the closely guarded Irn Bru recipe to which only he and an unnamed other are privy. The recipe is apparently stashed in a secret bank vault, where it is presumably guarded by various Indiana Jones type booby traps and a contingent of mean and moody Gurkhas, and has not seen the light of day for 50 odd years.

Irn bru is exceedingly popular in Scotland, rivalling even the mighty Coca Cola in sales. Its most successful export market is Russia, which may seem odd until you consider that the main ingredient of the orange elixir is sugar. Sugar rich drinks are, as we all know, rather a good hangover cure. It is unsurprising that whisky debilitated Jocks and vodka purblind Ivans should both turn to the Bru the morning after a night on the brew.

Personally I think the stuff is utterly ghastly, but I suppose it has its merits when the pains of indulgence make the sight of a full fry up a nausea inducing experience.

All power to the Bru. It might give us diabetes but we'll always be fit for a bevvy before noon. I think it's what the marketing bods call a USP, whatever that is.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Suffer the Little Children

I am compelled to devote another post to poetry given that the last one, despite my hymn of praise to Miss Dolly Parton, produced a non-existent response from all but the most ardent poetastic adepts.

It can't be helped I suppose: most of us are brought up reading the back of the Kellogg Cornflakes packet as the clock hurries us and the egg timer clicks away our tomorrows. I could draw attention to Byron's proto rock star tendencies or Burns' shag 'n' tell propensities, but it wouldn't make any difference.

I quite like: this

I can't quite bring myself to post the video (embedding disabled by request) as nobody would watch it. And quite right too.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Trawling the Depths

When in my cups I turn to poetry. At the perfect point of mild intoxication I am inclined to seek out a soupçon of iambic pentameter and a perfectly formed sonnet. When this point of perfection has passed I am prone (literally) to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet.

Perhaps this is why I get punched so much.

Trawling youtube in the one handed inebriated prone position the other night I was delighted to discover the putting a poem to music nadir. Talk about missing the point on purpose. Miss Dolly Parton (may her name be blessed) would be dead chuffed.

There's something to be said for serendipity:



I think the Kings of Leon should do 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' by T S Eliot. That would be serious rawk.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Celebrity Tits



Worra Tosspot

Celebrity chefs are almost always total titheads. The likes of Anthony Worra Tosspot, Heston Bloominghell, and Hugh Fairly Windscreen Wiper make me gag on my creme caramel.

Anthony can't cook, he just does his "I'm a big cuddly bear me" routine on TV while flashing his enormous Rolex at the cameras. Thankfully he's had to shut a couple of his rip off steak restaurants due to the recession.

Heston used to be a bailiff, a profession normally reserved for psychopaths who enjoy breaking down debtors doors and scaring the hell out of them so that they pay up. It's no surprise that the bullet headed bully now charges enormous sums of money for snail porridge and engine oil tirimasu. I shall not be gracing his restaurant, The Fat Tit, with my presence.

Hugh is just too posh. I'm convinced that he doesn't like broiler chickens because they provide cheap protein for the proles. All Eton educated toffs know that it's best to keep the working classes stunted in case they get ideas above their station and start demanding foie gras pasties.

Only the saintly and extravagantly thighed Nigella is worthy of the accolade 'Celebrity Chef'. She can't cook, but that is an irrelevance. Her wholesome wobblesomeness is the reason we watch.

If Nigella is feeling a bit peckish I think she should eat Jamie Oliver and his annoying wife Jools. They would make nice carpaccio, and would also be tasty deep fried. It's important that Nigella keeps her strength up and obtains the requisite wobbling nutrients.

Saturday, May 09, 2009

Soor Plums and the Consolations of Philosophy

There is a particular puckered up expression displaying extreme distaste that is as visually arresting as a baboon disporting its scarlet buttocks. It has a Scottish Presbyterian provenance, beloved of Schoolmistresses and Sunday School teachers when presented with an obstreperous urchin or intimations of untoward sexual practices. To look as though one is 'sucking on a soor plum' is to be an obvious examplar of moral rectitude and Calvinist fortitude.

Here are some soor plums:



Here is a soor plum expression:



There are a lot of soor plum expressions around at the moment, what with the recession and all. I refuse to join their number, and shall instead read Sartre's 'Being and Nothingness' and say to myself "what in the name of bejasus is that ugly little French git on about?".

Thank goodness for the consolations of philosophy.

Saturday, May 02, 2009

Socks

My mother has dementia, my nephew has Asperger's, and my father has developed an unhealthy obsession with Wellington bombers and Paddy Mayne.

It's a wonder I'm normal at all.

My sister is seeking the vodka solution, but being feisty will no doubt surmount that obstacle and rediscover the rejuvenating qualities of the teacake.

I am inclined to retire to my garret and consume a nice piece of cheese, if the mice haven't got to it first. There I shall toast Carol Anne Duffy as the first lesbo Glaswegian/Somewhere else poet to be Poet Laureate. Hopefully Queenie will treat her to a large portion of Weetabix and a stern talking to.

She's not as good as Philip Larkin though. Forget the Velvet Underground: rarely has a man deployed a pair of spectacles so effecively.

I need some bifocals. If I had some I'd look intelligent and could mock peoples choice of socks.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Attack of the 50ft Woman



I was going to devote a post to The Attack of the 50ft Woman, but there's only so much you can say about 50 ft women. They're, well, rather tall and have breasts that could double as inter continental ballistic missiles.

Instead I have decided to devote a few words to slugs. I have a fiercely held (though empirically unproven) conviction that slugs appear through wormholes in the space/time continuum. They appear overnight from nowhere to deposit their slime on my hallway parquet flooring. Gratifyingly they dissolve when sprinkled with salt, but unfortunately this doesn't stop them emerging from the wormhole the next night.

There are few less pleasant experiences than a slug squelched underfoot. The resultant goo oozing between ones toes is a cross between snot and a lightly poached egg. Wiping the essence of slugness from between ones toes is not the perfect start to the day.

That is all I have to say about slugs at this time.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Fake Plastic Trees

I've been in Jeffrey Bernard mode again recently, reminiscing about the cuddly nature of the past when you could cadge a fag in a pub without some prig nosed arsehole pointing to the subtly displayed NO SMOKING MAXIMUM FINE £2 MILLION sign before digging into their cous cous.

I don't frequent the public house much these days, preferring to avoid the yachtsman hearties who frequent these parts and bugger on about topsails, reef knots, and inverted sphincters in loud braying voices. The locals wince into their drams and mutter about 'bastard English', but in truth they're just rephrasing the same conversations they've been having for the last twenty years and certainly aren't past masters in bar room banter.

Even worse, Bobby the reliably bald and consistently rude barman has popped his cloggs and the premises no longer echo to the sweet refrain of 'no, you can't have any food, we switched the fryers off half an hour ago'. The landlords daughter with her delightfully squint glass eye doesn't even visit any more, which just shows what a sorry pass the place has come to.

The pub should be a sanctum for the lame and halt where healthiness is frowned upon as a foul and wholly inexplicable perversion. The way things are going these days it's only a matter of time before it's compulsory step aerobics under the optics.

Can anybody buy me a drink?

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Feeling Sheepish?


Whenever I listen to an an anaemic lentil eater extolling the virtues of the vegetarian diet I just think about sheep. How anybody can have any qualms about eating something so unbelievably stupid beats me. Where I live they amble along the sides of the public road, interrupting their gormless chomping only to wander into the path of oncoming traffic to deposit their sheepness on radiator grills.

They look thick at the best of times, and when freshly shorn are probably the ugliest creature on God's earth; all protruding bones and big lumpen head. Lambs aren't so bad looking I grant you, but given their plug ugly destiny it is only right and proper that they be dismembered and grilled.

Apparently the Welsh occasionally take a sheep as a sexual partner, which just goes to show what a staple diet of leeks does to you.

I think I'll go out tomorrow and hunt down some road kill. I'm due recompense from the wooly cretins for the number of my car bumpers they have left misshapen and covered in baa entrails.

Have a lamb chop, you know it's the right thing to do.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

I'll Take the Low Road


I don't normally take an instant dislike to people. Actually that's a lie, I frequently do and my wholly unjustified preconceptions are almost invariably justified.

What can one do when an Edinbugger drives up the hill in a Chyrsler (who I profoundly hope go bust and cease offending my eyeballs) monstrosity and announces that 'I don't suppose you've got round to HD TV up here yet have you'?

Then there's the fat lesbians who complain that they can feel the mattress springs, the boring adulterers who arrive 'incognito' in pick 'n' mix Germanmobiles, and the Americans who've just done Barcelona and are dropping in on their way to the auld country where their Great Great Uncle O'Paddywhacker built a shebeen and fathered five inbreeds.

The Continentals aren't so bad. I quite like the French because they're obviously scared, and I'm not too down on the Italians because they have decent dress sense, but I have to draw the line when in comes to being friendly to Spaniards. They tried to invade us, and sank. They should just get over it and make some paella with our whelks, the thieving daygos.

It's the tourist season and I'm feeling chipper. A bit of bitter hatred ingrained in my being will see me through the months ahead and prevent me from decapitating an ingrate.

Thank heaven for small mercies.

I do try.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Quit yer moanin'


Enjoying a hand rolled cheroot outside the hotel my mildly lubricated equanimity was disturbed by a couple emerging from the front door having a full on domestic.

'Why the fuck did ye book us in for three nights if there wuz no spa treatments! There's fuck all to dae, and I'm bored trailing around after you and your swally ya bastud'

'You're startin' up aboot nothin you miserable coo, if I wasnae still workin' you'd be down the bingo. Quit yer moanin'.

Some folk are just plain miserable, and (although I hate to generalise) people from the east coast of Scotland have elevated gurning and general ignorant bastardness into an art form.

It's Perth, for fucks sake. It's elegant and prosperous and you're staying in an hotel when a lot of folk are getting their homes repossessed. Did you not notice the sprinkling of closed shops and the big farewell note slapped up in the Woolies window and signed by all the staff who are now scraping by on £60 a week Jobseekers Allowance?

Wankers.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Considering the Artichokes

Kebab fever overtook me the other day, but then I glanced at the Cypriot Turk's 'Munchie Box' selection and felt compelled to avert my gaze.

I want salad but somehow I can't warm to it; it's just a bit curly and frayed about the edges, the sad cherry tomato exiled in a sea of wilted lollo rosso, the desultory splash of North Sea vinaigrette, the lonesome sweetcorn kernel suffering a serious bout of ennui.

Salad fails to excite me. What I want is roasted flesh served on a V12 bed of turbine smooth excellence. Maserati would do, with a dose of Sophia Loren draped across the cylinder head. Failing that a reasonably intact Hermann Goering era Merc or a full on Mussolini fuck off Alfa would suffice.

Perhaps I'll settle for this:


Cool as fuck and on the hunt for Benzes and BMW's the Bristol is a gentleman's conveyance of inestimable elegance with a massive Chrevolet V8 engine and crafted English cow scrotum.

I want one.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Seaward the Great Ships

Glasgow is the only city on earth to have grown and prospered on a great river and then turned its back on it with a contemptuous shrug.

The great ships no longer loose their chains and birth themselves in the River Clyde, chapped hands no longer clap, the champagne remains in the icebox. True, the Govan Yard is recruiting apprentices and ther are faint stirrings, but a renaissance cannot be founded on defence contracts.

Belfast, with it's mighty cranes, restricts itself to its pathetic sectarian huddles and forgets that it once looked west.

Rivets are in our blood, even if they are obsolete. The tang of the salt air should resonate with steel crashing into the surf.

It's all we're skilled in.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Bob's yer uncle, unless he's called Paddy in which case he isn't.

The National Museum of Ireland.

"Is there anything interesting in here?"

"Yes, there's me, I'm interesting".


Anyhoo, I'm as pissed as a recalcitrant guttersnipe so here's Spike taking the piss out of the Oirish.



He was related, God help him.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Gardening Leave


Gardening is one of the activities that I associate with terminal eccentricity: an inexplicable obsession with loamy soil; string bean training; an evangelical zeal to praise the soil aerating activities of earth worms.

I suppose it's fairly harmless as hobbies go. It certainly isn't as embarrassing as sado masochism or train spotting, and I'm sure potential partners could be sourced from the personal ads if the phrase 'herbaceous border' was artfully inserted among references to GSOH and WLTM.

Personally I don't garden; I haven't even dabbled in window boxes, fearing that a little herb cultivation may prove a to be a link drug leading to stupid floppy hats and corduroy.

Should Armageddon arrive I am afraid that I will have to rely on my stockpile of tinned ravioli and aged Scotch. When the shutters finally come down on civilisation I intend to go down smiling while the gardeners wave their sticks of celery fruitlessly.

Did I just mention fruit? No, I don't grow that either.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

The Pass at Thermapolae

I felt an urgency in my bowels today which was less an omen of impending terminal cancer than an indication of my fervent desire to sit on my 'Business Solutions Manager's' face and fart long and sonorously.

He's quite normal looking in a brain dead CLYDESDALE BANK kind of way, but there are clear traces of the journeyman tattooed on his forehead. This time server is staring obsequiously up his bosses bum and worshipping at the tiny alter of his time served pension.

Nasty demanding letters are being dispatched to lots of people I know threatening withdrawn overdraft facilities, hiked interest rates, and worse.

As a Gladstonian liberal who believes that 'money should fructify in the pockets of the people' I want the banks nationalised for a time, and quickly.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Vampires


I have some rather pale guests staying at the moment. They aren't full on Goth in a Robert Smith wearing a fright wig kind of way, but they do apply a little eye-liner and dress exclusively in black.

Thing is, they haven't gone outside for the last three days. I'm beginning to suspect that I may have agreed to be mien host to a couple of the undead, their obvious aversion to daylight a clear indication of vampire tendencies.

I'm going to have to think of an excuse to knock them up, but short of procuring some virgins to tempt them into the great outdoors I'm short on ideas. Perhaps I should just stake (geddit?) the place out in case they decide to clear off without paying

I'm not scared because I've been eating lots of garlic and shall breathe over them if they attempt to disturb my beauty sleep. Anyway, vampires are infinitely preferable to werewolves. The Lycans keep the other guests awake with their howling and invariably chew the table legs and leave hairs all over the soft furnishings.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Pop Will Eat Itself


I saved feverishly until the Saturday when I handed over the cash for the gate fold sleeve LP. The bus saw the unveiling, the first scan of the lyrics and sleeve notes; a prelude to the consummation almost carnal in intensity when the stylus hit the groove.

Then along came CD, followed by Mindisc and the bewildering MP3napstertwaddle. The joy afforded by the physical artefact was replaced by mundane file sharing, the storage of 1000's of songs on an iPod. Something got lost along the way. Shelves were no longer filled with alphabetically arranged (if you were anal) LP's, a quick scan of which could instantly appraise you of someone's musical taste, or lack thereof. A spine containing the words 'Duran Duran' or 'Top of the Pops Volume 19' was a clear indication that the person was a clueless numptie and best avoided.

I'm not a total Luddite though, and have embraced spotify. Music now exists in the ether, is available instantly, and streams free of charge. I may miss album sleeves, which in some cases were works of art in their own right, but I'm more than happy not to have to pay for what I consume.

Will I be streaming the preview of the new U2 album? You betcha I won't.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Howard the Dick


No, not that Howard

People called Howard deserve to have dreadful things happen to them; it's a crap name up there with Timothy and Kenneth in the 'his parents need a good slapping' stakes.

Howard had drunkenly wandered into a room full of posh penguin suit and taffeta gown clad revellers and helped himself to gin and champagne, as you do. He had a great night of it and managed not to throw up over anybody, the latter being a signal achievement as he was known as a chunderer of epic proportions when blootered.

Having free loaded to his hearts content he decided not to waste money on a taxi and trudged off in the general direction of home. Unfortunately he got a bit lost, and then it started to rain. He decided, in a flash of genius, to take shelter in a large gritting bin in which he fell into a drunken stupor.

Several hours later he woke to a dark sepulchral silence with not a baldy clue were he was. After much scrabbling at the bin lid he reached the natural conclusion that he had been buried alive. Fortunately for Howard his whimpering cries alerted a passing policeman who hauled him out of the bin. The policeman was not impressed and told him to "fuck off home" or he'd arrest him for wasting police time.

Howard, it's a good name for a nob.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Interloper


Burglars should be met with extreme prejudice; we're not talking withheld offers of cups of tea here, we're talking electrocution in bath tubs after partial immersion. That'd learn them, and a good swallow of Radox bath salts after the event would be the least they deserve.

Mice have been troubling me recently, but not as much as the bastard presumptuous youthful piss off merchant Pine Marten who has taken up residence in my office. How the fucker is getting in has had me tapping walls like Basil Fawlty with an inadvertent erection.

This relative of the weasel has been crapping over my towels, nibbling the complimentary minuscule guest soaps, and having his way with the UHT milk cartons and demerera sugar sachets. If he was a Red Squirrel there is a chance that I could be dissuaded from divesting him of his nuts but in this instance I have no alternative but to send in the cat.

Unfortunately the cat is a coward.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Proddies

Having just devoured a large slice of chocolate cake topped with a goodly portion of butter icing my thoughts have inevitably turned to the Protestant Reformation. As I see it the problem with being Proddie these days is that there isn't much protesting going on. Back in the 'good old days' a bit of Catholic burning would have passed the time, but these days even Catholic baiting is frowned upon so that particular diversion is not an option.

These days the schism in Western Christendom is really only a question of the acceptability of contraception, or more particularly the use of latex prophylactics. Even this issue is a bit of a limp member as I don't think that many Priests are haranguing their parishioners about rubber Johnnies at Mass.

Had one enquired of a heavily tattooed Loyalist in a Shankill Road drinking den during the 1970's what his difficulty was with the Irish Catholic Church a lengthy monologue on Black Mambos, French ticklers, and strawberry flavoured condoms would have ensued. These a days a shrug would be the more likely response.

Secularism has killed off this important debate, and I for one think it's about time it was revived.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Paint it Black

The Black Watch will shortly be off to Helmland Province in Afghanistan. It's probably appropriate that a regiment that was formed to prevent the Scottish Highland Clans from causing mayhem should be dispatched to wrestle with a bunch of tribal nutcases whose ingrained code of hospitality exists alongside a homicidal rage against the outsider. The code of the Pashtun has many resemblances to the code of conduct observed by the Highland Clans for centuries.

Before long we will hear the skirl of the pipes as a flag draped coffin is led up the gravel path to the doors of a Kirk. It won't be first time; it's a ritual that echoes down the centuries. War is shite, but it's what the Black Watch do.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Considering the Lillies

I can't claim to be a hair shirt individual, but there are sufficient residual vestiges of Calvinism in my genes to ensure that I cannot splurge or waste without feeling annoying pangs of guilt. I cannot leave food uneaten on my plate (being instructed to think of the starving millions while at Primary School saw to that), I do not get drunk and dance jigs at the crossroads at midnight, and I do not have a sheaf of maxed out credit cards in my wallet.

Apparently we're all supposed to be spending our way out of recession, although how acquiring even more debt in order to dig ourselves out of our debt induced hole is supposed to do the trick escapes me. Still, who am I argue with the big brains at the Bank of England. I have decided to do my bit and shall be spending more on the following:

1) Big fuck off 21 day aged sirloin steaks. These are very tasty but very expensive. I'll be providing much needed relief for the beleaguered Scottish beef farmer and expect at least an OBE for my efforts.

2) Jaguars. My current gas gussler is starting to display the symptoms of old age in failed alternators and squeaky suspension bushings. The old dear will have to be put out to pasture and a newer and swisher temptress purchased.

3) Malt whisky. No more ghastly blends shall be imbibed. Only the fruit of the single malt, aged for at least ten years, shall be permitted to pass my lips.

I'm prepared to selflessly do my bit. I just hope that other people are prepared to make similar sacrifices and prevent a repeat of the 1930's.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Lunchtime Lesbians


Idling my afternoon away sitting in my car at a popular local beauty spot I was surprised to see two young ladies emerge from their vehicle and assemble their packed lunches on a picnic table. This would be an occurrence unworthy of note had not the temperature been -5C.

Al fresco lunches in sub zero temperatures have never appealed to me. The absence of annoying bastard wasps does not compensate for frost bitten fingers. Still, each to their own I suppose. If people want to indulge in bizarre Polar lunches in the depths of the Scottish winter that is their right and I would defend to the death their right to do so (well, up to a point).

The ladies were obviously lesbians as they both had close cropped hair (one brunette, the other peroxide) and an interesting variety of facial piercings. They also drove a bona fide lesbian car; a small nondescript hatchback of either French or Japanese origin.

These lesbians are tough cookies. In fact, they may be at the apex of human evolution. Risking hypothermia by scorning hats and not being pansy enough to wear gloves just goes to prove they are a superior example of Homo Sapien and are destined to rule the earth.

They didn't even throw their crusts to the seagulls, which proves that they have the mental toughness to take the ruthless decisions necessary to get our economy back on an even keel. Were I in power I would appoint them to run the banks. They mightn't be very keen to grant overdrafts, but at least they wouldn't run up huge taxpayer funded lunch expenses when a ham roll and a can of Sprite in the car park would do.

Cometh the hour, cometh the lesbians.

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Mentalists


A strange woman came up to me today and asked (rather aggressively) "what does the W H in W H Smith stand for?". I was somewhat nonplussed by this and could only think to reply "dunno, but it used to be called John Menzies".

Odd people are constantly apprehending me in the street for no reason whatsoever. I seem to attract oddballs and borderline pychopaths like flypaper. I'd like to put this down to my magnetic personality, but I suspect that it may be because I look like a soft touch who will willingly listen to monologues about psychiatric wards, methadone, and multiple suicide attempts.

Unfortunately I don't hold the same allure for drop dead gorgeous women. I regard this as grossly unfair, and have decided to start looking mean and shifty. Gorgeous women always go for bastards and it should dissuade the mentally ill from tugging at my coat tails.

If anybody can suggest other surefire methods of keeping the mentalists at bay I'm all ears. They won't leave me alone.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

The Pits and the Pendulous



Side partings have always been a bad idea; hair should be swept back, knotted into dreadlocks, left to its own devices to moulder slowly in its own oils before recovering to its natural state, or shaved to a mouse breath tonsure that would render your average Jesuit all a tremble.




I've always respected the Plymouth Brethren because the menfolk had sufficient sense to chastise their womenfolk for failing to conceal their crowning glories beneath old tea towels.




As far as I'm concerned Utopia will only exist when skinheads rule, Bryan Ferry's flick fringe is available to all aspirant males who dislike skins, and all females start wearing cloche hats.




Come on girls, you know it's the right thing to do. Be gamine for Garfer, there are teacakes to be had.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Gnomes of Zurich

Ths Swiss are famous for having lots of money, most of it acquired by making extortionately priced watches which are less accurate than a cheapo Jap quartz, chocolate, and hiding the ill gotten gains of Third World kleptocrats in their bank vaults.

I went skiing there once, and have no recollections other than being astounded by the cost of veal scnitzel and the number of beardy Hassidic Jews wandering around Zurich airport looking prosperous.

The Great and the Good are encamped at Davos at the moment, no doubt gorging themselves on canapes and attempting to feel up the Heidi lookalike chambermaids. There aren't as many bankers there this year as they are no longer regarded as great and good. So low have they fallen that they are regarded in a similar light to this feller:


Davros has not been invited to Davos either.

I imagine that the cost of this hot air jamboree would be enough to provide clean drinking water for a few million Africans, but I suppose I can't be too churlish. There's always the slim possibility that a large meteorite may strike and rid us of the shower of egotistical freeloading bastards for good.

One can but hope.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Burnsed Out

This being the eve of maudlin half cut Robert Burns celebrations I am minded to celebrate the warmth of the man and applaud the common humanity that he celebrated. Having said that, I find it rather difficult to square his cuddly image with the drunken womaniser and Excise Man who briefly considered becoming an overseer on a Jamaican slave estate before deciding to follow his muse.

Oor Rabbie shagged about a bit, and his verbal felicity can still be detected in some of his Ayrshire descendants:



A man's a man for a' that

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by -
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that!
Our toils obscure, an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd 'a lord',
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that,
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might -
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree an' a' that,
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's comin yet for a' that,
That man to man the world oe'r
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Robert Burns

Not exactly a Marxist analysis, but definitely pithy. To be honest I think he has more in common with Jerry Lee Lewis than Keats.



Burns would have whupped Keats in a fight, but he wouldn't have stood a chance against 'the Killer'.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Sidney Woz Innocent


Complete gobshite, drug muppet, and talentless bass guitar plucker Sid Vicious is apparently innocent of the murder of his repulsive peroxide blonde girlfriend Nancy Spungen.

Why there should still be speculation about this is beyond me. Given that they were both heroin addled numbskulls it is a matter of profound indifference to me whether Sid chibbed Nancy, Nancy stabbed herself, or a mystery man from the room upstairs performed the dirty deed.

As for any romance attached to the Chelsea Hotel, I think that died around about the time Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin checked out. A squalid overpriced freak and poseur magnet is unlikely to attract my custom.

As for Sid, the other Sex Pistols called him Vicious* because he wasn't strong enough to punch his way out of a paper bag. His legend lives on, if you're a complete numpty.


*Update

Some readers have suggested that he was named Vicious after John Lydon's pet hamster. Having researched the matter I am convinced that this was just one of Lydon's jolly japes and that my explanation is correct.

So there. Stuff that up yer jumpers etc.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Spot the Difference



Mandelson by name, meddlesome by nature.




Child Catcher.

The saintly haloed Blair must return from the Holy Land at once and save us from the machinations of the evil one.

Er....maybe he'd best stay there.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Evil Looking People



I don't want to meet ex Paratroop Regiment General Mike Jackson down a dark alley.




Definitely a hint of the Satanic about Fuld. Maybe not Old Nick, but definitely Old Dick.




Macca exploiter and all round bunny boiler mentalist Heather McCartney Mills. Mad as a brush and will beat you to death with her wooden leg.




Feck, girls, arse!


There's a lot of evil looking people about. So many that I'm beginning to wonder if it's safe to go outside at all. Maybe I'll just stay at home and polish my arsenal of illegally held hand guns and assault rifles.

And my gnome collection.

One just can't be too careful.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Pimp that snack!

I am pleased to report that the spirit of scientific endeavour lives. I'm not referring to superstring theory, the quest for nuclear fusion, or the glories revealed by the Hubblebubble telescope. Much more important research is being carried out in the field of snack pimping.

I feel that it's only a matter of time until a Nobel prize or three is awarded to these brave venturers at the outer reaches of experimental endeavour.



Worship the giant teacake puny earthlings!

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Mudslides



Avalanches would be nice, if you had a tube of Deep Heat, a periscope, and a faithful St Bernard called Arnold hovering expectantly with a collar flask of Jamaican Rum.

That's a bit melodramatic.

I've been feeling old recently. Parts of my anatomy of which I have hitherto been unaware (and have no desire to know intimately) have startd to ache. I have no idea what they're yearning for; it's not as though I have strained them inadvertently by being athletic.

I beginning to think that cryogenic suspension is the only cure for my existential malaise.

Somebody wake me up when the Banks start lending again.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

Spellchecker

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee—and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Or the obligatory You tube:



Guttered as the guterredest of guttersnipes, but still breathing.

Happy New Year.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Apotheosis of the Artichoke

I am clean sprouted out.

I always find the desultory interregnum between Christmas and New year a useful time to contemplate why I hate most green vegetables with a passion greater than Morrisey's penchant for gladioli, or Pamela Anderson's passion for proving that short arse Canuck birds like stuffing spacehoppers up their jumpers.

Asparagus would do, if it wasn't mostly twig. A string bean would be tolerable, if it didn't leave a stray string rotting between my top left molars. I wouldn't say no to a broad bean if it got a bit Mexican and started quaffing tequila and getting a bit stroppy.

No, broad beans aren't for me.

Nor are carrots, which may be orange but are the most pointless vegetable known to humanity.

Anyhoo, here's the Undertones, proving that Derryboys who love their spuds are vastly superior to short arse Dublin pontifcaters like Bono.



I hope you know your onions.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Twas the night before Christmas


....and garfer is half cut. Feeling slightly less misanthropic than usual I wish all my deluded nincompoops a very happy Christmas. I hope nobody gets food poisoning from a dodgy prawn.

May the plums in your pudding prosper. In fact, if you're a male nincompoop, may your plums prosper full stop.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Ten Annoying Christmassy Things

* There's always one sweet in the box with a precariously balanced almond on top. One bite and half the almond falls off and rolls under the sofa.

* Everybody hates mince pies, yet everybody feels an inexplicable urge to force them on everybody else.

* People eat After Eight mints and put the empty wrappers back in the box. These people need shooting.

* Big Issue sellers make you feel mildly guilty.

* The Queen.

* Untangling Christmas tree lights. This activity invariably involves high volume cursing and swearing. Personally I'd rather wrestle an octopus.

* Indigestion.

* Squidgy presents. These are usually provided by skinflint relatives who think that a hand knitted jumper with baggy sleeves or a pair of socks are a fair swap for being providing with copious amounts of free food and booze.

* People who think a game of 'Twister' is the perfect way to occupy Christmas Day afternoon.

* Party hats. I have no desire to look a complete twat, whatever the occasion.

Bah humbug!

Etc.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Do Not Disturb

I am hotelling it at the moment, the expense of which I am defraying by Christmas shopping for items of an inconsequential and paltry nature for my nearest and dearest.

I like the anonymity provided by chain hotels, the sense of living in an enclosed bubble oblivious to workaday concerns. I am firmly convinced that should anything apocalyptic happen I will still be able to phone reception and demand that fresh towels and an extra pillow are dispatched to my room instantly.

It's not quite as good as the Manhattan hotel room where the charming Latino house maid was sensitive to my every need (and then some), but it's still acceptable.

Time is seeping through my pores, and regular meal times and the guilt of sleeping in are a distant memory.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Eyeless in Gaza

My animus has been thwarted yet again. Admittedly I'm not on the verge of destitution, or even fearful of the unlikely prospect of mild deprivation, but I am irked, annoyed, and of a mind to detach a leg from one of my occasional tables and insert it forcefully up the nearest bankers rectum.

Assets apparently have no value, and consequently cannot be lent against. This is a worry, as if nothing is worth fuck all we are all comprehensively fucked.

Fucking fuckity muppets the lot of them, the shower of useless bastards.

I think I'll go for a bit of a lie down.

Yo, ho, ho, and remember to avoid Mr Micawber.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Miscellaneous Pleasures

In no particular order:

* An artfully crafted and hand rolled cheroot containing choice Virginia tobaccy.



* The Fender Telecaster



Go on, whack that plank. You know you want to.

* A poke of chips



Fuck off, they're mine.

* Glenmorangie



Imbibeable (which deserves to be a word).

* Cheesy Wotsits



They might smell like your Granddad's underpants, but they're very moreish.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Irritating Things


Blind People

For some reason blind people keep bumping into me and poking me with their sticks. Rude isn't the word.

Snow

Constantly forecasted and all we get is freezing rain.

Small Towns

There's always some knob head student claiming that it's great to be back and moaning about seeing the same old faces.

Asparagus

Over rated and stringy.

Jaguars

Used to be cool as fuck but got bloated and sold out to the Injuns.

Banks

Employ the mindless morons that narrowly avoided getting a kicking at school. I'm planning to go blind just so that I can poke mine with a pointy stick (or a taser).

Sunday, December 14, 2008

A Guardian reader does some Christmas shopping

I loathe spending money on other people, preferring (quite sensibly) to fortify my self worth with utilitarian purchases of a wholly justifiable nature that benefit me. I scoff at the crass materialism and wasteful consumerism that has so benighted our shallow and valueless Western cultures.

I laugh at the pallor and anxiety of recession etched faces as they stare at the 50 inch plasma TV's that should rightfully be theirs but have been capriciously snatched from them by the harsh Gods of plastic. I sneer at the wee wifeys loading up on economy concentration camp turkeys at Asda.

If only more people had been sensible about spending money they didn't have this country wouldn't be evaporating like the bubbles in my jacuzzi.

Actually, speaking of jacuzzis, I've decided to launch a special Christmas appeal in aid of myself. I want the new model with complimentary Thai bathing belles and streaming cocktails. It's not too much to ask, and I expect everybody to contribute generously.