HOW DO YOU DO...

Smoking Moon Mammals

I do hope you’re an easily glummed off fool. I have no title so this is the best title/non title I had, it’s pretty rubbish really. I mean, for one it’s understood there isn’t life on the Moon, there may have been but no Ugaloo has munched moon dust in a fuck of a long time. The temperature couldn’t sustain a warm or cold-blooded creature, so that’s mammal's out. And so the likelihood that they could have cultivated and packaged their own brand of cigarettes, discovered fire and had the dexteritory to grip one, lung capacity to smoke one, neurological capacity to appreciate one and audacity to continue to smoke them while other moon mammals drop dead, is as likely as viewing the forthcoming miniaturised rice etching collection by Michael J Fox. He’s just not talented in that field.

I could say anything, anything.

You get to feel really insignificant writing this, firstly to be perfectly clear I don’t know if anyone reads this. The world of writing is vast, the sheer amount of blogs, websites and social networks, text messages, books, letters, adverts and forms is monumental. For all I know I’m writing to myself in a therapy to encourage psychosis. Every letter wrapping itself down into a whirlpool of binary voids, oh great.

Woz ere 4 eva

Most people (me included) want themselves to impact on the world, do something meaningful, be remembered, in at least a fondness, for a time. There are a lot of people who have died who have probably felt just the same and no fucker knows who the hell they are. It’s looking pretty rosey.

Well to make an impact in the world, you either have to be:

Rich – Richard Branson

Evil – Anthony Worrel Thomspon

Lucky – the Jackson 4

Very unlucky – Jesus

Be in the right place at the right time – Adolf Hitler

Do the right thing – Emily Pankhurst

Say the right thing – Wordsworth

Say the wrong thing very well – Eric Cantona

Be really good at something – Dirk Diggler

Invent something – Clive Sinclair

Be a big criminal – Gordan Ramsey

Have lots of brains - Will Self

Capture the emotions of many – Sooty

Kills loads - Steven Seegal

So unless you fit into one of the above or you’re inventing your own category. Past your death be grateful if they mention you whilst eating in your favorite café, wearing your unwashed jumper, reading your favorite book inscribed to them by you, with your identical twin. Once those people die, unless they bloody love you so much they’ve created hereditary Chinese whispers, you’re nothing but a moss and slug home gravestone. So if I were you I’d start on that stone-carving course while changing your name into one that strangers who saunter through graveyards would gawp at. Yellow Mc Star or Bum Shun, maybe Qwerty Paperson or Hugo There.

Three in a trillion, five in two?

There’s that chance, you’re on that list, a chance. While making your cut price yet eclectically elaborate meal out of E-numbers you discover the only known cure for immortality and it tastes filthy. That the North Koreans bombs were so overpowered and under programmed you became the 1st westerner in 56 years to have received a present from King Jong Ill. Or that you’re very very stupid and propelled into fame as a freak show act everyone loves to hate, sell off your emotions and die of kebab cancer. Immortality, immortality, maybe bomb.

Wide wet eyes

Looking around you do start to wonder nothing some days. Blurred head, blank walls, blanket sky, blue blanket, sour soundtrack and reflections of a slowly ageing male avoiding eye contact with himself.

Tears don’t flow, they should, but tears never come at the right time. Tears come when you’re riding bikes, on the toilet, cutting, in summer fields, walking into wind and at random times tear ducts fancy making you look like you can’t even control your face.

Knowledge is knowledge

I know maybe more than some but less than most or the other way round. I could have been fed lies and know nothing or have realised that everything I know is rubbish and thus know everything or nothing again. Someone may have told me or I may have read the answer to everything or not. I may never know more than I already do now. I may be ill and from this day on lose more and more until I had the same as the first day on this planet. Or not.

Cut off his thoughts

Romans said all roads lead to Rome. Which paints Rome then being one giant roundabout, or as they called it, a colosseum. Some say roads lead to nowhere, which is wrong, as matter cannot cease to exist anywhere, especially at the exact end of a road. I think all roads lead to other roads, which saunter slowly by clandestine cities and their surrounding scarscapes ploughing up bastard lands.

The untouched is touched up, groped, penetrated, and pumped full, dried out, then left. Everywhere is discovered, documented and owned by the self appointed authority, us. A horse can't dispute his field. A tree can't dispute its roots. A man can dispute his boundaries. Man, in a horsehair wig wafting a wooden hammer, reprieves man. Order, I must have order.

So we do. Force beauty into demolition and call it progress. Progress into what? We make the most hideous structures in the history of the world. What progress involved turning everything into a glassful classless mess? Progress, progress by its name means moving forward, out and up. Alas companies take progress as a literal translation and we're all left to jump onboard the retranslation ladder so we can climb up to look down at what our lives could have been.

Condition

Can we kill it, can we eat it, can we use it?

No answer, no point, no consequence, no more.

Beyond yonder was always hazy

We never simulated this…

Minds eye blinks alive to see smoke, dust and dirt rasp the many tired ill lungs in the torn shoddy shelter. Burning up all has cost us, using bombing as consequence didn’t help. You don’t see animals anymore, just us. Filling up a full planet. Angry and fearless, that’s what they tell you you have to be, that’s the model of this age. I wish I’d gone into space, though it’s kinda like death. No foreign world wants us. We’re troublesome and reliant. The human rash we became, the immigrants, not respected, not accepted, a barely acknowledged species, the rats of the universe.

Why weren’t Monkey’s content?

controversy

   How do you do… 

Controversy

 

 

LESS TRUTH = MORE CONTROVERY

If you want controversy then you want controversy.  This thing here, that your reading, this, this is not controversial.   Hey lone ranger, I do childish simplistic sentences that I overheard other people saying in 3am kebab houses, that make largely no sense and bear no actual relation to anyone’s life excluding the really sad and pathetic bits that are acutely autobiographical o kay.  Just so you’re a hundred and, well a hundred percent sure, you know these word things get outa hand if you slip off into a beastial starfish skewer (I have not had sex with anyone from Asteroidean kingdom).

 

C&ntr#ver%$al  W@!ds

Make new shyster splicing words up because brats saying them on you tube have diluted virtually all.  Gordon Ramsey fucked the word fuck. You sound like your fucking quoting him if you use it.  Cunt is still pretty hot, I want some handy sandy women to over use that: “Cuntbags, where’s my cunting cup of cuntea, cuntoff , I’m gonna nail this cunt and shave a cunt off that cuntwood so the cunter opens into an attractive window dresser.”

Stay clear, invent words, make them sound rude though.

slapshats =  sandwiches. 

“I’m skint, you got any beggars slapshats.”

 

hufu =  a trans-metro-homo-les-sexual picking their pants out of their bum. 

“hungry hungry hufu.”

 

gozzits =  indecipherable drug speak

 “huh? Meaning of a glowstick? Barncards in the sky? Hm… your gozzits up to yer folicals ! “

bastummel= simulatanious diorehhera and vommiting 

"It's bastummelled, no, NO, BASTUMMEL, where's Regan, blairrrrrrrrrrr!

 

That’s not art, that was my cat.

So making everything cubey was controversial.  The Da Da and Bauhaus movements certainly caused a few iron crosses to turn back in the day, and pop art coursed us to look into the nature of aesthetics, conventions and celebrity which continued with modernism until about ten years ago when art seemed to have circled itself so much it went up its own arse. This shit implosion shot controversy into the mainstream rather than show the realities of culture or redefining the nature of what it means to be an artist.  Post modernism became a visual show of style over content other than Tracy Emin who showed all her contents on those bed sheets. 

 

We need accountability, it’s not me

Political controversy is the big soap opera in which news can veil us into a sense of bored enlightenment into the controlling powers when all it actually does is make us distrust the very people who are trying to win our trust while above the pendulum, time slowly ticks on by.

Inquiry, investigation, adjudication, consultation, talks, review, evaluation, palm off. 

 

Pro-fit Moo-ham-hid

This whole picture prophet Muhammad hoo ha is an actual joke.   Look at a few text books  and you can see quite clearly the prophet Muhammad solving arguments with rocks on rugs? He’s even on an Algerian postcard from the 1920’s for gods sake.   

 

No winkle dinkle

No! What! Russell Brand?  Russell Brand is about as controversial as Sid James. 

Mad donna

Honesty is anyone is the world shocked by two lasses getting off with eachother? Is there anyone repulsed by a middle aged woman in a thong?

 

.comedy.uh/egh

Now there's a genre that had a corrosive controversial edge and seems to have utterly lost it.  It now involves them commenting on some humanitarian atrocity in the fastest and most callous tone to goad and garner chat show slots.  

Sooner or later the spotlight escapes, when time, culture and self respect serves mud puddles, welcome to Blackpool!

These entertainers scam a living on a controversial message 200 years expired.  Racists should hate themselves and find ways of getting themselves deported or wiped out, spice it up.  Burn yourselves in the name of Britain and free speech, that's controversial.

We could hunt them down like we did with those paedophiles. With a burning torch, standing next to a teacher who hates bad things so much he had to put a tape in for Eastenders tonight.  Maybe for convenience sake we could all just mail slow burning kinderling on the same comedy postcards they get half their hilarious jokes from.

 

Channel 4

No, no, controversial 4. When TV tries to make controversy it’s ridiculous, clowning around with realism pulped and stretched until it sounds about as genuine as a Red Dwarf laughter track.  Or worse exposing society up to be, erm society and expecting us to bow at a box. 

How much effort can a programmer make to antagonise its viewers, warp its beliefs and then turn round and tell you this is the public speaking.  We know you’re not the public you’re called a channel not a person, not like Dave, shit we're really pushing the post modernism off a brief cliff.  The Great Big Channel Swindle, stick around, up next we’ve got guaranteed bumper bum raping in Hollyoaks Nightlight

 

Heystation

Video games are so controversial.  People actually think little Jamie’s in World War Two dealing crack to coppers at 300mph during Sunday Service.  Jamie’s not gonna go out and machete Nazi’s, clean your glasses, but if he did people’d say games are great.

 

Sweet kids are made of these

By gum, Marilyn Manson.  He’s not laughing all the way to the make up dept. Have people not heard of Goths? Just cos most people don’t dare talk to them, doesn’t mean their subliminary convincing 14 year olds to bomb schools.  I think society manages disenfranchisement pretty well on it’s own.

 

Do I actually care?

Why is it always white people who cause 99% of all so called controversy in the World.

Minorities generally don't say much controversial, well unless you’re Spike Lee, then everything you say is about fighting the white power and making black people know that they're black people. 

Oh and that Dolly the sheep, stupid modified super dead lung sheep.

Forgetting someone, clerics.  Clerics love to bang on and on, half in a calm down secular harmony and the others in barmy Fatwatastics.  Unless you see a coupla captain hooks slashing at the sky you can’t tell.  They should have:

Red robes, pointed beard = evil. 

White robes, fluffy beard = good.

 

HEADLINE!

People confuse controversy with not really knowing something that doesn’t really affect them and isn’t that interesting.  Take The Sun “ WE HATE DIFFERENT FINGS AND YOU DO TO ” 21^st May headline directed at the white, en-ger-land, larger stupid, brawling, and because of those dam poles, jobless men.  Strong readership, consistent readership, barely read ship.   

 

Facts anyone?

Controversy, so mellowed and withered.  People have misappropriated the word, whether through bad mags, cheap media, or our own desperate way to make our belittled lives that bit more sensational to every other poor sod that feels the same but has to listen out of a vague sense of the true value that word once had. Just maybe this whole verbal charade might not be about some poor friend finding a-fucking-nother bone in a chicken chuffing nugget.

 

Oh wait, yes it is.

 

 

fags

   How do you do… 

FAGS

 

"We want to help you"

 What? If vilifying large groups of society for no reason, ostracising them to the cold climate, bombarding them with nightmarish obscene imagery of cancerous lungs and diseases while already threatening them with death, illness and deformed babies and, AND charging those people more and more money for the privilege of doing that sounds, like a heap of help.  Sounds like an invasion of our civil liberties to live, without judgment.  Considering the smoking masses make up 1.1 billion of us or 17% of the worlds population.   I think that makes a pretty strong, probably not healthy, minority.

 

Cigarettes will kill you

Really? no seriously, blow me over with a revelation, Fucking goldfish remember that smoking kills. It’s like saying tomorrow we forecast a fair amount of gravity or next week you’re gonna need to breathe a bit of that air stuff.  It translates into now we are all aware, we are knowing fools.

But in relative terms there’s a lot of things we ingest that’ll could kill us off swifter: plastics, pollution, GM foods, crazy cows, air, and water?  But there are no warnings or adverts about those.  So in government terms they don’t need to worry about it, that is, until anyone finds out.

 

You smoke?

Why, why don't you quit, you'll be healthier, you'll save money, you won't smell bad.

I thought about the health thing.  You know when you wheeze a bit cos you had to sprint to catch the ice cream man selling not just ice cream.  If you smoke you look at those people all super fit jogging around, pacing and burning while hitting some walls.  What you don't look at is their surrounding facile lives, waking up early to some bench presses, drinking lakes of water, cucumber snacks, living in the gym, working in an office, having a beautiful girlfriend, buying expensive clothes, no, no wait deeper into that.  You couldn't do that because, it's too much.  Too styled and fleeting and replicated innumerable times, city, country and world over.  But if you jog a bit you might not eject ectoplasm in response to "So how are you today?" 

You'll save money.  If you smoke cigs, you'll save heaps.  I smoke rollies, rollies cost nowt.  I 'd save six quid a week, six quid for a pleasure, shit I can afford it, I spend more on crisps, chocolate, fast food and cans of pop.  So it won't change me, that’s the angle I blow in your failed face.

So I smell bad, do I?  I probably do.  To everyone else, a smoker smells like old bonfires, which might be a positive.  After they banned smoking in pubs and clubs, everything smelt rank-dank.  Smokers smothered everyone into happy ignorance, the government made you face up to the stale funk you spent your week working to get in to, la lovely labour.

 

Endangered puff

So we've been kicked out of offices and pubs and stages, bus shelters and near food, rented houses and toilets, on banjos, and around toucans at 2:35pm.  At least with heroin it's accepted you can shoot up in fast food toilets.  Try smoking, they’ll do ya a new arsehole.  

People don't want things back to the 1960's. People want rationality because if you haven't noticed yet, pubs aren't health spas.  Having a ventilated area in a pub for smokers would make more sense than turfing them out onto the street.  Having equality in warnings on products would help. 

That painstakingly over thought water beaded glass filled with ice-cold, filtered, beer with a angled mirror attached reflecting the tired yellowed dribbling drunk sitting in a corner that you may become?   Fast food queues with live feeds of the greasy spot-popping teens fondling your Mc Fresh meals?  Pornography, maybe we should leave pornography. Radio 4 broadcasted with live audience participation, burying in bury, at Radio 4’s hearse-show.

 

Smoking isn't cool

It isn't un-cool.  Whining about someone smoking nearby is.  Faking coughing is.  Moaning to a friend about their health is. 

 

Smoking isn't clever

It depends.  If you want to end your life a bit sooner.  If you want to enjoy booze to it's fullest breathe-drink-congratulate. 

 

Boring butts

Clouds are different colours, drugs are different colours, socks are different colours, so why do fags always look white with ginger bloody woodchip?  Why not rainbow phallic sticks to be down with the gay community.  The kids need to coordinate their tabs with their trainers, do summing!

Another thing, flavour. Tootie gin chimneys, or steaming monkey brains, fizzy jizz juice? Walkers do it.  While we’re at it.  Companies make smells smell different that’s why I want to drink my shower gel,  also why I like to suck my ibuprofen a bit too long and why I got mildly hooked on cough syrup. Health, you can make fridges healthy, cars less bad, just make cigarettes good for you then you can sit back and chew your tobacco till the sponsorship comes home.  Brands, fag brands have such old man pub names The Regal, The Embassy, the Dunhill or chatty mag names like escort, prima, horizon, kool, more, moon. We’re not all racing post, pint of mild, slug-slurey, men or look at these burnt, wrinkle ridden, sag-city, ex-breasts women.   So how’s about these:

Suck and fuck corkscrew shaped, blistering red coloured sucking the taste of sweat from a moist shaven hole.

Zompertrons unable to smoke without five friends due to its do-deco-rhombus shape, smells like blue lasers and has the flavour of iconic eighties movies of a sci-fi genre, called Tron.

Whiz blow contains 1% tobacco and is sold exclusively in corners. 

 

If you must

If you want to quit, which you probably should eventually then there are a stupid amount of ways in which you could: gum, lozenges, sprays, inhalers. Antidepressants, injections, hypnosis, herbal preparations, acupuncture, help group, quit meters, books, smokeless tobacco, aromatherapy, electronic cigarettes, herbs, some are more loopy lou like a vaporizer, spirituality (cos god was a 20 a dayer) and laser therapy. 

 

The big choice

The tradition of havin’ a fag originated with the Mayans and Aztecs. Curiously at the same time they were also getting pretty fuct up on  magic mushrooms and the sinicuichi plant, two rather more hallucinogenic drugs.

So we got mushrooms, not addictive, makes you laugh and see n think crazy . This sinicuichi plant you drink and get happy drunk in a sort of yellow echo.   Tobacco you get addicted to which makes you feel a bit relaxed and it  can kill you.

Woaw, yeah, wooooo! Good choice forefathers, inciteful.

 

Ban! ban! ban! then?

So society makes criminals out of recreational drug users, has planned to make it impossible for the sale or affordable consumption of cigarettes (effectively banning it), alcohol's next with binge drinking offers stopped, greater taxes. What will be left for our population to do? Drink caffeine free redbulls in the park smoking portable i-shisha's avoiding born again atheists.

 

I got the 1p flight booked.

modern music

   HOW DO YOU DO…

modern music

I AM THE MUSIC MAN, I CAME FROM ROUND THE BEND

All hail, our music industry speaks about the scourge, the scourrrge of pirates. "Without compensation the creators livelihood is unsustainable." What the gentlemen I think means is that because lots of us are doing things that are easier (getting music from our computers) and not spending money (e.g. sharing the music). Musicians are literally dying of champagne dehydration unable to scale cocaine ski slopes, in blood diamond ski suits to laud over us and lose their musical inspiration in vain veins of self-absorption, v.i.piss holes of Lady Thatch, and concurrent clinical holidays on manors in tax havens while we sit at home, skint. Oh the humanity. What will happen? It’s like the music industry has tried to fear monger whilst appearing a poor and blistered cultural social asset, orphaned from cutting edge consumption yet still being a billion pound, sue happy, die-cast empire. It wants to be everything, ever.


THE MUUUUSIC DIED

They killed it. Tappers will rest; grey tits will consume porn, kettles, dampened. Bereft of rhythmic sounds ritualistic fender fires will warm the gap, the hole, of illegality. And we shall all be vigilant for spontaneous musical ensembles beseeching the whirlless air that the music industry mercifully purifies for it's own possible profitable consumption while it expels air worrying about our own lack of accompaniment.


YOU HAVE TO DIE, REALLY I READ IT LAST WEEK

Why do we always preempt the death of music: It's not the same, there’s no rock stars anymore, it's so throw away, there’s just no great bands or music, it all sounds the same, music died in 69, 78, 85, 92... Everyone's sold out: Everyone just wants money, no one’s real anymore, and no true great lyricists. It's all three chord wonders, three minute radio friendly music, bang bang bang, sell outs. Where's the Dylan’s, Mc Cartneys and Formby's of our age?

These people fear super-fruit-mega-twist-blast! And stick licking vanilla listening to vanilla.


MUSIC ENTHUSIASTS

People who technically know music yet don’t know music. They cannot understand or comprehend or bother to open up to new breakaway music. Preferring to languish in a perceived form of musical excellence that incidentally is neither complete or representative of their musical interest, breezing over many sub genres, cult bands and bedroom projects that were comparable but never artificially hoisted to the colossus of Mojo’s definitive greatest top 100 of all time.

Music for them has been a refinement that has happened in decades, crossing off, turning down, and skipping over to reach an identikit record collection to the other enthusiasts. Differing only in the extent of their purchasing of what is deemed a “classic” and what limited youthful eclecticism they once had. In conclusion there's not many people like John Peel around and even he’s not here anymore.


STAR IDOL

“Look at Denise; she’s got stage three herpes, a Siamese schizophrenic featus sister called Magmud, rubber bones and sports camel breath and toe. But she can belt out bridge over troubled water better than Jane Mc Donald.” “You’re through.”

I think you can class this lot as an actual sub genre of music. As long as the word sub is 17 times larger than the word genre with the word music being separated by at least all the words ever wrote in any language since time began.



MYSPACE BANDS

Do you remember when people youst to call people who wore tracksuits and thieve cars, scallies, until the Sun decided to change them to chavs? When papers were not monopolised, when things were a little bit more honest and less formulated. Where bands were called one hit wonders or new bands. Well most people don’t, thanks to Rupert Murdoch.


DJ

If you’re a DJ is it absolutely necessary to put DJ before your (a bit bloody quirky) name, is it? Isn’t it obvious if your playing at a club that never has bands your gonna be a DJ. And on the flyer there’s you looking all over photoshopped camp-tough, with decks. Anyway isn’t disc jockey just a bit too “It’s Mayo in the morning.” I mean you might aswell skip the whole irony and call yourself BJ?


CHANGE THE RECORD

I think I’ve heard enough of self-deprecating heroin addicts whimsically telling me that I can't understand the pain they're going through. I'm overflowing with people telling me to dance, how to dance, how to get girls, that girls always want more money than you have, that this song is on the radio, that the streets in a downtown suburbs of a U.S. city are pretty shitty, being a celebrity has it's downsides, everyone prints lies about me, I’m not the person you think I am, I’m sexy, rich and desirable to everyone, I still come from those suburbs of a U.S city that's pretty shitty, L.A. is fake. I'm really quite insecure under that unfathomable amount of styled imagery I willingly acquired, I’m a virgin, I’m a lesbian, I’ve kissed a women, I’m free as a bird, I’m trying to sell this to America. I’m not an ordinary girl, i'm a punky girl, i'm a man who cares so much I would shed a tear to this sap-suck song. My husband’s beating me and i'm still married to him and he’ll probably spend all my money, which you are giving him by buying this cry for help record.

THE NEW BEAT

I like those bands who just ramble on in eclectic unfathomabled glory to the musical accompaniment of manic miner and a wet plank. Or them odd bods Will summat n Ginger who meander around the U.K. singing sea shanty’s like utter dudes. Hey Timbaland, remix that, see how far you get twat, don’t worry yourself, you’ll probably stick your foot in yourself pulling that tongue off trying to find your laces.


WHAT THE P@*! DIDDY WE GOT?

So hip hops a bare faced parody of itself, indie was meant to die 12 years ago, rock was cool for about 7 minutes in 2003, Bangra music bout 4 seconds 2007. Dance music just can't decide what it is, and when it’s sure. It’s house, dire, trance irritating, jungle the same exact thing, break beat an ex housemartin’s brief wet dream. What do we have left?

Tonnes, so reggae influenced us in the late 70's to make some amazing music, why not something else, some place in the world must be doing something better. We’ve made music up so far; lets keep tossing off more. While tossing off more.

children

 HOW DO YOU DO...

CHILDREN

Bearth

On other inhabited planets orbiting our Milky Way children grow up in Tainment pods, which provide two integral facilitations for everyone. The first being entertainment that educates the child into a fully aware individual, dropping food and thoughts with kaleidoscopic originality. The second and more vital usage is containment. So the lovely aliens can fly around on swoosh juice at the speed of life in utter ecstasy, without sound or concern for their offspring; screaming brown noise though all 34 of its gumholes.

(Alas)


Pregtagonists

There are people who clock count the days down until they can get preggo. They adore these little mites. Accruing many samey wamey nameys for it. Transfixed by it’s every gargle as if it gob-farted a soliloquy. They always know where it is because they’re under it; nauseatingly bouncing it until it expels all it’s little treats over their skirt, which they mop up in fits of warm adoration. While parent number two videos its every atomic movement, so it can be poured over at night, while the little one strains to understand the practical applications to its reoccurring thoughts of death.


Anti-births

Conversely others prefer not.


Prog-rocks

There’s muddy middle here. Tons of Tods and Tanya’s who seem to trip up into the idea or do they get bored, maybe don’t like cats or think their relationship’s missing some more… Flesh?



The self

Having children is ultimate duality. The selfish part is the desire to have a part of you replicated because your frankly so fucking great the world couldn’t and shouldn’t be without your unbelievably resplendent spirit, evoking your tired genes to surpass your own barefaced failings. In an inherently selfish motive to enslave other people of the future with your own genial eccentricities you have unbeknown crossed the line into selflessness. From birth and for the rest of your life you have to feed, cloth, wash, care for this you hoo.

Thus people who don’t acquire kids are selfish because they want to be number one. They don’t want to care for any offspring. They want their life. What utter realists.



It’s perfect!

Chances are, you will not have the kid you desire. Countless families expecting to eject a cool calm Kendal find out of the fanny frame, a needy, loud, whinging little luminous skin sack. It’s not like an I-pod, you can’t take it back cos you really wanted a metallic pink one. You’re stuck with vomit yellow at top volume, for life.

What if he’s ugly, everyone will squirm a bit when they look at him, you’ll have to spend ten years massaging his floored esteem, hiding him from public gatherings, until he becomes a serial killing nutbar or a KFC supervisor.

What if she’s a Yar-tard, you have to buy her special shoes, fill your house with domestic scafolding and watch her dribble out every meal while you wipe her arse raw.  To later sympathetically listen to the poor thing shuffle for half an hour to reach her head-stick you had down your bum crack all morning.

What if they’re quintuplets, it happens, you can’t just leave four at the hospital; you’ve got a basketball team of dribbler’s, cornchip.




You’re well rubbish

Some Mothers and Fathers bother me. Not my own, well a little. But those others. Say one day you see them in Asda smacking the shit out of a nipper. Next week you see them pulling down its pants so it can piss in the middle of the high street. Next month the kid’s crying and lost ‘cause their Mum left them to chat up a newly divorced 16-year-old yoof. Next year they’ve got their ear, eye and nose pierced, sporting what can only be described as heavily homosexualsed clothing being dragged to a friends 5th birthday party.

Two years later they’re shouting, “Oi you, fuckin paedo” while tabbing 20p off you. Five years later you recognise them, whilst serving you a shitty meal; with the bodily juices of their mate Gozy, for no extra charge. Two years after, you get nudged suddenly you are the altercater in a gang fight without a gang. Culminating in wounds you can’t even charge anyone for because they’re all underage binge drinking, asbo wannabes, with power.



Don’ts

Some people should not have children, these include:

• People who make you consider that those people who fuck pigs may have crossed uncharted reproductive darkness.
• Anyone who thinks after ten they want to pop out another.
• Scallies
• The homeless (no, maybe not, I like gypsies as long as they inherit the waltzers when they get their HGV licence)
• Irritating people, e.g. the population of Canada
  
• Anyone who “appreciates” any of the following music: hard house, donk, trance, all metal, un ironic techno, interpol indie, any fusion with jazz, Aussie hip-hop, tinny euro pop and U2. Don’t have kids and don’t try to get me to listen to the latest Korn album because you think ‘it manages to re-capture their original brilliance’.
  
• People who obviously don’t like kids (you’d think it was obvious,)
  
• Paedophiles and equally sadomasochists. Probably the scariest thing in the world to know your Dad wants to fuck you whilst beating and tying up your mum.
  

Do’s

People who should if they really want to, have kids.

• Anyone who has contributed positively to the development of our species, so not Thomas Midgely.
  
• Odd people like train spotters, people who wear pottery and cardies, very very tall people, anyone with extra limbs and people of peculiar races; Eskimo + Aboriginal = wow.
  

+Plus

Advantages of having lots of children are that they’re malleable. You too can be the 21st century Fagin. With a 43rd century indoctrinated army of ideological rattle brains who warp language and structures by pontificating pontification while solicitating bemused bricks.

Kids, can be without crossing into the Glitter realms, cute, adorable, heart warming even, funny, entertaining but just not, all the time. That’s why it’s better to have friends with kids than to have kids. Leave Billy to his soiled pants and go, RUN!


-Minus

I never had a child, I think, yet, that has tracked me down, atleast. Though I understand the various child full families who would find the very idea of not desiring them, sacrilegious. But…

C’mon children are stupid, you tell them something and they’ve forgotten it, remembered it, cried about it, pissed themselves and knocked themselves out before you’ve slapped yourself in thinking why you even talked to that underdeveloped foetus. They always look hopeless, fat, badly dresseed, doddering, and obsessed with rubbish stuff like sellotape and hosepipe. Why do they always talk shit aswell, if it isn’t why? Why? They change the subject or simply stare vacantly back at you, like you’re the idiot.


We need YOU?

Our planet isn’t crying out for any more of that source of wanton destructive deformity that has been its watermark of recent history. Is there anyplace for them? We can have birthing centres in spider’s eyes, or under rugs. China’s population control strategy seems to work-ish although their human rights, suppression of information, environmental policy, widespread poisoning of babies and already swollen populous seem to overshadow it’s awkward home planning service.


Tw-it

If we get rid of children in pretty much a hundred and twelve years the most intelligent species on the earth would be owls.

Ta-woooooo!

economy

  HOW DO YOU DO...

the economy

Economic miracle

“What! lo! Dawn hath led thou from once a most foul earth, maketh Gold. Behold! A miracle hath occurred… Or thy digged close to yonder gold mine. A miracle!”

Miracles are coincidence or luck, economic miracles are neither. Economic miracles are making something that some sod somewhere wants to buy and them buying it. If I sold almost all my lands to neighbouring countries, my country would have an “economic miracle.” My country would probably also be in a bloody civil coup trying in vain to puncture the parliaments gold walls and my powerful egocentric heart.


Modern economics

Men in stupid suits wearing even stupider construction jackets waving bits a paper shouting about numbers. Much more complicated. Putting all your trust and wealth in the hands of what amounts to be a rabble of coke enthusiasts on sat nav shortcuts to penthouse plaza’s; trying to make things go up and down so their killlionaire clients can keep buying goal scoring Brazilian rapists is a sensible and rational way to run a world. Too simple?


“What’s happening Phil?”

Phil Burdon is in peak puberty. He’s got urges puncturing his zip in 12 minute intervals. He’s in dogs-dinner lust over a black goddess, everyone adores her, they plough rich sweets into her hands, taking her places to no avail. She wants more; she wants everyone because soon, it’ll dry up.

Phil‘s also noticed a developing hairy situation. He’s unable to control spiraling manifestations down under that threaten to envelop everywhere. He can’t even save face, everywhere’s out of control busting and hemorrhaging his once smooth but now bloated blotchy face without pattern or need for all to see. Plasters don’t work; Nelly just isn’t that cool.

His head’s all over the shop, he wants one thing, next minute, hates it and dumps it, he has so many dirty secrets he needs someone to talk to but everyone he talks to tells him “it’s normal” and he “shouldn’t worry, it’ll all pass ,it’ll all get better,” but Phil thinks not.

Boom

(2001 theme tune) daaaa, daaaaaaa, Daaaaaaaaa, ECONOMY, Dum-Dum, Dum-Dum, DAAAAA, DAAAAAAAA, DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, shit. A crash that nobody expected, sorry everybody expected but didn’t want to tell the economy cos he might get all mad. But now he’s out for blood, cutting and slicing main arteries, nerve centres without remorse, he doesn’t want blood anymore he wants Hitler’s lost ball.

The Golden days

When? The nineties? We can’t go back to the golden days, they say. People were skint since money began. There never was, is or ever will be a “golden day” unless everyone globally only used the word money in referring to an inconvenience in carrying so much of it, that it gave their pockets unflattering bulges.


Economic revolution

Presidents and Prime Ministers all think that the 21st century should be the start of a revolution in the economic sector but how would, or could it change? How can you change something that isn’t too bovved about wearing tie dye, singing poetry chanting all is one and one is all, monging to Tim Fuckley. 


Spending culture

The continuing game theory culture of prediction, of desire, will and wants are still shitdiculous. The common individual can live roughly a 30,000%* percent more sustainable lifestyle if he didn't drink so much sugar coated shit and instead got his food from the ground rather than the mish-mash-mush machine. Fix stuff, open it up and poke, get a screwdriver and some chuddy and really fix that fucker. Buying summat because it's the slightly better one that you’ve already got, with a new light on it, n one of the buttons is over there is so earnest in conformity. But that wouldn't keep the cogs of industry going, noo that wouldn't make economies grow and grow exponentially till they need to invent consumers and economies and solar systems to keep its expanding waistline from an earth saturating numerical shower. You ever been impaled by a two?

* figure based on data published somewhere by someone about something


Us lot

What are people left with, well we’re all in debt so we’re all at the mercy of banks which are at the mercy of their stocks which is at the mercy of the stock market, so maybe if we all got bigger loans and bought cheapo stock the stock would eventually rise up, we could pay the banks our debts back the banks would have capital and we’d be back to square one. Other than a pigeon dish with replaced hips n mushy bees, I got nothing.

World economies

Everyplace has one, even Zimbabwe and Iceland, just. Some are not very good ones, Lau Island for instance supports itself by rudimentary genetic altering native cat populations to create a diverse and unique species of endangered bird-mogs that tourists flock to see and shoot with mouse bullets.


Off the books

When you’re young and your dad tells you about the black market, you think, that’s magitastical! Thing is you can’t really get there cos it doesn’t exist. I assumed it would be a dodgy wonderland of deals and great great things beyond the realms of conceivable greatness. The reality’s, a bunch of scalls trying to palm off soiled Calvin Klein jeans in the pub which leaves you less in awe, more intimidated and poor.

Betty boobs

The depression was for one person at least an idealistic tale of wonderment. People riding on trains to get work, everybody on the same level, poor but singing songs and working the land in collective vision. The 20’s so I’m reliably informed was a tad tougher. Starvation, desperation, unrest, apathy while clinging onto awful work at disgraceful pay just to survive. So if it ever happens again we should probably not really think of the latter much, just get some angst ridden dystopian lyrics scribbled down, and that Nigerian tour. Y’know getting paid in uranium isn’t so bad.


Cracking

The economy isn't even funny, never has a joke, doesn't just move everything up one on Thursday for a laugh. Doesn’t even make its numbers into a pattern that can be read backwards revealing inescapable crudity for shits and gigs, not once. It's so serious; it needs a funny hat.


Did you hear?

So stuff the weather for mundane generalised conversational bile. I could have never have envisaged the day Doris lent over.
“Ow y’know that economic slowdown, isn’t it awful?”
“It is, it is. Just last week the Nikkei slumped! To a low. Not since Bernard was alive has it bin so bad.”
“I tell you last week I was picking up my suppositories which have gone up and I saw Mavis. She said it wasn’t the same as last time it crashed. I asked her how? She said they didn’t have those pyramid bags then. She said that she can relax more with those, it’s so true.”

“Bit gloomy today?”

royalty

How do you do… 

Royalty

Fuck the Osbournes

The Royal Family. There’s not another family in the entire world that people have such vehement opinions of.

“An outdated middle aged institution that takes tax payers money and swans around the mah, mah, mah.”

“Isn’t it marvelous the way she serves our country and unites the Commonwealth, such a shining moral example to mahhhhhh.”

Ok, now look at it differently though. If you were a member of the Royal Family. Firstly, through no choice, you’re Royalty, like it or hump it you could have been born Edvard Chebanaza, ant number 12 or a ginger pube, but no you’re HRH and to not behead yourself shows an incredible tolerance. To be on show to the world’s media when you’re anywhere. To have red-breasted bear-skinned hat-toting soldiers swanning round you. To have formality thrust into your psyche. To wear mega crowns. To be unable to live a normal life. To live in Palaces and Castles with massive fuck off cannons.


Queeny

She’s proper old, her husband calls her “cabbage.” She wears head to handbag to slip-ons in matching colours. She has questionable taste in dogs, four Dorgi’s, yes Dorgi’s. She bets a tenner on the horses. More private and enigmatic than Guantanamo Bay’s health spa . She’s as harmless as an armless Tony Blair, actually no he’s probably still quite dangerous considering that UN war keeping envoy role.


Posh Music?

God save the Queen, a fascist regime. In the root psychology of fascism I don’t suddenly picture a little old lady with no real power.
God save the Queen, she ain’t no human being. No a reptilian humanoid alien, extolling mystical car-crasher powers.
God save the queen, tourists are money. I have to agree with this one, they’re money, everyone hates them. Why does anyone even travel anywhere if this is so apparent? People will take advantage of you, despise you and wish you were never there.
God save history, God save your mad parade. It’s barmy and laughable and pompous, but worthy of further amusement no?

Although…

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter her enemies,
And make them fall.
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all.

The official version is downright merciless. We sound like brutes, Russian brutes, Russian God loving brutes.

Change the record


Prince Philip

Jim Davidson pah, Bernard Manning keep rotting, Prince Phillip is the funniest racist, bigot I’ve ever heard. The things he says have such comic brilliance he should be out of the palace and onto the pub stage. To be an ambassador to our country and actively insult it’s “servants” takes swollen gall and a malignant sense of humiliation. Him and President Bush must be having a word war. “Everybody was saying we must have more leisure. Now they are complaining they are unemployed.” (During the 1981 recession) “Deaf? If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf.” (To young deaf people sitting close to a steel band) “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” (At a 1986 World Wildlife Fund meeting)

He also said to Tom Jones after the Royal Variety Performance: "What do you gargle with, pebbles?”


Rest of them

Princess Anne’s an Olympic horse mad criminal with two offences, whom the film Patriot Games was based on. She can be called among many things Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Prince Andrew is a Royal International Arms Dealer. Managing to scoop 11 out of 13 countries currently engaged in conflict. Go Britain. Edward is one of those people you avoid because he’s too stupid; he’s drunk, high, gorging and infatuated with dimness. Don’t look for too long you might forget how to not look. And his wife Sophie was about as good at public relations as Chemical Ali was at not using chemicals.

William looks less like “dishy Wills” anymore and daily more like a cheese stuffed parrot chewing a bag of teeth. Charles is more into the countryside than the actual countryside is. Camilla makes me think Charles is accompanied by a scared, over-frothed cappuccino.

And Harry should have his own strip in the Beano. Harry the Menace. He’s grown up and well, gone a bit fascist. Harry like the Beano writers regretfully ponder to themselves alone wiping tears with white washed wank mags thinking  “it seemed funny at the time.”


Diana

She did lots of things that helped the Royal Family become more up to date. How does fannying around, crying lots, marrying a jug eared mumbler, fucking Will Carling, filling up my TV with “portraits” of herself, getting mangled and making me miss a weeks television whilst praying for the death of a major song writing artist, help anything?

Picture on the paper

Anyway who else would go on our money, a pigeon, a hoodie, an androgynous multi ethnic human who hovers equidistant from all commonwealth countries, Gordon Brown, Jamie twatty Oliver, Simon bloody Cowell, two names that legally need an expletive inserted into them to ease public unrest. How about the entire cast of a drunk and drugged Pigeon Street, in a Ménage à dix-neuf with the overwhelmed cast of The Bill in Milton Keynes’ Chinese pagoda park. That’s not an image, that’s a movie.

I, like few others take comfort in a “pensioner” on my notes. It raises a polemic within myself. Shall I save my money like my Gran; oh look my wrinkly note is telling me “It is thrifty to prepare today for the wants of tomorrow.” Aw but wait a minute she’s wearing a bloody great crown of jewels, I need to spend these wealth bills. In a bid to find the answer I try and decipher the Latin with some Di Vinci Code model of scholarly effort eventually resorting to folding up my note to make the Queen’s face into a graphic depiction of the 7/7 bombings, using a Queen eyebrow as a tube train carriage. This doesn’t help buy Crunchies.


Cost

Liz don’t need so many homes, I mean she doesn’t do much other than travelling around the commonwealth and cutting ribbons. She should be moved into a travel lodge. Flexibility and free tea and coffee. Pensioner heaven.

It’s like those crowns, she don’t need all of those hats. She has a whole building, for hats and one head. Fred Dibner, the Earl of Derby, Slash and Top Cat couldn’t fill a corridor in this horde to magpies. Give one each to every country we brutally took over, pillaged resources from and abused the good nature of the peoples, and the rest, Wednesday night’s rollover jackpot.


World-class divinity

There's 21 Royal families in the world, if we got rid of the British Family, you know it wouldn’t be divisible by 7. Take the Thai Royal Family they are adored by millions, desiring them to divinely rule over them, huh. Divine rule. The Laotian Royal Family got sent to “Camp Re-education” in 1975, where quite peculiarly they died there. The Shah Dynasty of Nepal was cursed at its inception to rule for only ten kings and cease, and in 2008 it’s tenth king was the last. The Greek Royal family live in pigging London.

I’d be scared

Royalists

Why are they always old, obsessive, blue rinsed and a drop of sherry in that Earl Gray, bourbon, Grans? Ladies that are simlpy orf, orf, orf machines. Lord Dubious of Unmentionable Fraudhire. And Nicholas Witchell

Past Kings n Queens 

Vicious, vile, evil, cruel, crazy, megalomaniacs, fascists.



Bloodlines 

D’you know who you descended from, no. No you don’t, your probably not Anglo Saxon, you’re probably more diluted that BBC 3’s one minute bulletin, cut short to show edited highlights of, ‘You are not an indigenous creature, Unleashed”

The Royal Family are no different: there’s German, French, Scottish, Russian, Spanish, Danish, and Belgium in there; and they’re only the one’s they admit to. But every so often there was probably a ginger Harry that was brushed into the blood punch. No one in Britain is pure, true and only British. As soon as the British population realise that and consider our stiff upper lip might be derided from our biting climate of negativity. Then we can see the Royal Family doesn’t stand for much, if anything. So look less in terms of, ours is theirs and more, they, are, ours.

So for £40m or 66p each taxpayer, a year they are yours; a surreal, historic, and completely ridiculous Royal Family, c’mon 66p, you can’t even buy a King size sausage roll for that.

baldness

  How do you do… 

BALDNESS

Worry

So you’ve noticed you’ve been showering on a bed of finest follicles lately. Also your hair doesn’t seem, well, there! I think you’re going bald, oh, what, Shit! Shit yeah, boy, girl you’ve reached an important milestone in your life, and that milestone is slowly gathering concern and hair and wondering why someone chose it as a milestone instead of just a regular, common in garden rock.

But don’t worry, this is the 21st century not no 20th anymore matey, and if this guide won’t help you, I’ll eat your hat.

I do prefer pork pies.


Q&A (Conducted in an inner city pub)

I noticed you are, “a bald.”
What?!

Can I ask you some questions about your affliction?
No.

Why does baldness exist, I mean, why?
I dunno, because it does. Why you asking me?

Why does it happen at the top, not, round the sides?
It’d look a lot less funny otherwise, fuck knows?

Do you have a contact for Mr Fuck?
Huh?

Why, why does it happen more for men?
Periods. C’mon your one wid Degree in O-Levels.

So why does baldness affect the skull, an essentially desirable area not say, baldness of the ball sack or bum baldness?
Do I look like the type of person that’ll take you asking me these questions? Keep this up n I’ll skin yer. Student


Why, why, Y! Is there no cure for it considering its relative abundance and visual dominance, why is it considered a mockery, why, why?
Questions, bleeding questions. Do you want to die?

I am going to die but I don’t necessarily want to. Do balds want to, more than say Sparrows?
Just piss off!


SUBJECT A

I have a friend; let’s call him Desmond. See, Desmond was a rather unfortunate child, he was born in an area called Liver Pool, and therefore adopted its simply beautiful tongue. Desmond although unfortunate in geographical riches did posses gameful efforts at social interaction. Drawing comics of his classmates and talking at vigorous speeds, nervous, that they’ll never give him another moment of contact. Yet his enthusiasm and willingness was considered peculiar and he was mercilessly avoided by all girls and most boys. To combat these issues and be atone to Daniel LaRusso's heights he joined Karate classes. This helped alleviate some social pressures but may have aided to his baldheadedness at just 15.

To complicate matters Desmond had a large, some would say, bulbous head. Faced with the genetic swollen peculiarity of middle age in a swamp of fresh sprouting doos. Desmond retreated into the comfort of his comics while developing a peculiar gait for a certain demographic of ostrisised female.

Desmond still survives today, he didn’t murder or rape no one, but is understandably single. Yet he serves as a lesson to us all. Quite what that lesson is, is another story, almost certainly about a girl called Mergatroid Swampslit.


Receding ungracefully 

People like Jack Nicholson, you like Jack Nicholson? You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t like Jack Nicholson, he’s Jack Nicholson. See Jack Nicholson, he’s receding in such a cool way even some men with hair want his baldness. It accentuates a gravitas, an unquantifiable intriguing cool.

He is the only one. Everyone else in the world pretty much looks aged, alarming or ridiculous. For example when you’re in an audience and someone in front of you is going bald, you get this inexplicable curiosity to understand it. It’s as though he is the only person lacking hair, ever. By the end you could give a better description of his follicle coverage than of the youthful event you paid 30 odd quid to see. But why are “they” so curious?

Male pattern balding is a misnomer of sorts. Scientifically it traditionally originates at the crown and temples and thusly spreads back until the Shakespeare moment. But not all men’s hair does it, just like that. Some leave little kiddy wisps. Others get a Steve McDonald, some slowly go back so that you’re just one big forehead iceberg tempting more and more drunk twats to slap it, chanting. “Ha, ha, ha, slaaap heeeaaaad.” In apparent hilarity.


Genetic maladjustment

See my own genetics are against me. I don’t have history of cancer or nowt grim like that. But there’s a bald, fat, theme running a muck. With probably some argued sense of alcoholism and misplaced delusion of amusement thrown in for good measure.

Saying that, what would people trade off if they had the chance? I’d personally be willing to lose a left hand or gain coupla-webbed feet to keep my hair. Maybe even have a series of gills and a beak, I mean, aren’t they more useful that demeaning? But just not my hair. I like my hair. Ok, You can have my arse, one ball and the regulated use of my left eye.

What the fuck am I talking about, who’s YOU? Some giant compost limb thing with miracle grow phlegm assessing each and everyone’s rights, yes?

Muhah ah ahhhhh

Lex Luther, Ming, Dr Robotnik, Dr Evil, Pinhead, Dr X Dr Frankenstein, Voldemort, and Professor Xavier, all bald, all preperposed to evil. But how evil are bald men. Very. A recent poll by ‘What? Bald’ concluded that in actual fact 87% percent of bald people are predisposed or have committed evil acts and are likely to cataclysmically affect world order if there was a gay looking, cape wearing super thing in the vicinity with similar urges to thwart 'em.

The other 13% thought that claim was ludicrous although incidentally noted all were preceeded by a flock of vampire monkeys.



Wigga

"There will be no good wigs in the world."  I know Andy Warhol put that into his will. Wigs are for individuals getting that desperate to have hair, you, look, stupid. Ok, ok there might be places with cosmeticists and doctors who can effortlessly remove what little warmth and beauty a poverty ravaged Eastern European can naturally acquire. Then stick and sew it onto the scalp of someone who can’t tell Europe from a Wotsit.

So what, he can afford it you might be thinking. Unless the client moves away, people might question the legitimacy of Randy’s thick flowing lion’s mane sporting a pretty Chechnyan bow. Maybe Randy’s just that kind of strong backboned, deeply self-conscious man who could ride the jokes about his women’s hair, those trout’s lips and that spanking set of bull’s balls, because he’s above all of that. That newly transplanted horse cock helps.

Worldwide

I don’t know about baldness ratios, hold on, Europeans are more prone to hair-loss. The Chinese and Japanese are the least affected yet right jammed in the middle is the Koreans, a nation of hideously thin hair. On the back of a crowded subway, on a good day you can see right through to the depressed, decidedly thinning driver.

People say we’re getting these mutations from our lifestyle, our diet of artificial chemicals and drugs. I say, probably, but if you want to live in a mud hut I’ll happily watch a five minute satirical mockumentary about you on my HD TV drinking distilled rum while an enhanced beauty lies naked goading me to snort chemically strained coca off their chest. But just before I bend my nostril I’d start to think if the world might have gone a different way if we generally avoided fucking with all our natural environment so much I wouldn’t be doing this, then laugh due to the naturally cultivated joint in my hand.


Shaven haven

What have Bruce Willis and Ross Kemp got in common? In real life they’re Anti Moby transvestites. True. Andre Aggassi, Patrick Stewart and Michael Jordan all (despite doctors recommendations) excessively indulge in anal skull penetration with barnyard animals.

There’s one other slight gaping void chasm of separation between ordinary people and us. They don’t have to worry about being attractive, having partners, dealing with the day-to-day problems of balding, living, shopping and catching up on all those mould universes in their dank homes. They’re celebrities, they’re rich, and they’re famous so what if they’re balding. Saying they’re inspiring examples to other people is a literal example of haze surrounding a smoke screen of blindness in the dark while watching the 80’s film The Fog.

“Brody the bear inspired me to achieve success. Making me understand that all I have to do is stand up on my hind legs and growl to be on the cover of National Geographic. I’ve quit the Genetic Science and now choose to roam Epping Forest, naked with a hunger for exposure.”


WOMEN bald

Women and hair never can be separated, but when it is… There’s this, mine field of closed lip time bombs, all screaming don’t even go there girlfriend, don’t even, of pure avoidance. I have never heard one single woman ever on anything anywhere express anything in regards to themselves or other women going bald. It’s where taboo originated.

“Ta Boo for not mentioning nothing about nothing going nowhere just then”
“S’aw reet pet I didn’t even see a single thing except what should naturally be there, which I definitely did see.“


Ambassador google ga ga

That’s life. And what a fuck of an insult that is. It’s like going up to a hyper cripple spastic, cancer filled offspring of Mick Hucknall and saying, that’s life, get on with it weepo. But some people will look good bald, others won’t, some people should be glad they had it for so long others will no doubt erect dartboards and religiously aim for Russell Brand’s crows feet. Other people need to invest in either a suitable range of hats, sprays, creams, or get a large loan for elephant sunglasses. Regardless the world will keep turning, people will keep living and babies‘ll keep being bald ugly bastards.

a poo

  how do you do… 

A POO

Shh, it’s in our blood

Being of good ol’ British stock, apparently we’re supposed to have an utterly hilarious addiction to fecal matter and urine. Listen to any of the musician’s Eddie Shit albums: Complete Shit, Utter Shit and Complete and Utter Shit (Greatest Shits) for a start, and possibly an end.

I mean this doesn’t disprove it, Mozart wrote a piece called "Lech mich im arsch" translated, lick me in the arse.  So to say we are exclusive and that the whole world never mentions when someone farts at a particular emotional scene in Gone With the Wind is a bold cheeked lie. They should extend that statement.

“There’s only four things in life that are certain, birth, bum sick, a peculiar piss and taking the piss out of that shit.”

Cos taxes can be avoided if you say you’re dead in which case you can avoid that whole death thing too.

To digress further there was one person so devoid of creative inspiration and equally absorbed with himself he photographed his every poo for six months and exhibited it for his degree show. By all accounts he was happy with it but by similar surveying, it stank. Saying that, his wasn’t the worst. The worst was this jobsworth who made characters out of bits of twigs, plaggy bags and household cutlery, which were her ‘creatures of nature.’ Sadly my work wasn’t next to either.


The Holy golden brownies

Mexicans, bronze teeth, bottle openers, diamonds, tailored suits, the drink sec-sec, Dear Miriam n Toucans are all perfect. But technically a healthy bowel movement must be eighteen inches long (for an adult,) one solid piece, light golden brown in color, one inch in diameter, odorless and floats in the toilet basin. Anything other than that is unhealthy. Broken apart, hard, dark, odor, large or loose stools are the indication of putritfication and constipation and thus the beginning of poor health, which will lead to severe back up or clog resulting in the condition “talking shit.”

Point is:
“Golden brown, texture like sun” = damn lucky
“Went out into the world on a Red dirt road” = lacking even basic preservational skills, nurse? Mum!



Wipeout

When we were potty trained we were given a bowl and told to “go on then.” Then we were wiped over and over and over. This continued until one day we were told, out the blue, before Postman Pat started, to do it your bloody self.

I don’t know about you but I was never schooled in the technique, took no courses, got no tips, I mean, no-one even talks about it. It’s the conversational antithesis of sex. But there’s some anonymous information available on your local superhighway.

So how best do you do it?
(feedback would be fucking stupid, so go on then)

1. Put two tp (toilet paper not tea spoons) squares between your index and thumb and pinch your bumhole with them (from the front). Whereas "wiping" motions spread the feaces out, the pinch should not.
TIP: lick the fingers first. It'll hold better.

2. The street sweeper method. Rotate the paper the opposite direction of travel (up and out) and you won't spread cling-ons.

3. Pinch it off by clenching the bumcheeks.

4. Use babies odorless wet ones and you only need one.

5. Thunder Bum brush. After dumping give one good wipe with tp then waddle to the sink for the finishing brushing. Use a soft bristled toothbrush with warm water and liquid soap. Gently scrub your pucker then finish with a washcloth dampened with warm water.

By the way I hope never to stay over at number 6’s house, bet their arse is gleaming though. The saying “he’s a bit anal“ can be taken three ways with that one.


Act 1 Scene 3 dump 6?

Depending on age, height, size and how many 1.98 roast dinners consumed; 5 –30 minutes of your day you’ll sit wishing for everything to end smoothly yet fearing a possible hemorrhoid hemorrhage. You’ll squeeze, strain, pant, sweat, wee a bit, and curse the lack of distractional literature available. Staring a the same 7 cm tile with a crack in it and a pattern that doesn’t quite match, hypothesizing the idiocy of the tiler’s primary understanding of a tiled themed style. All while assessing the size and stature of each gravy sausage and just what ‘s left in the magic box. Two minutes later, you think it’s over, you squeeze, and it is. Then stand up, oh it’s not, and settle with the knowledge that needless wiping was avoided, this time.

Days have been lost to the needless wipe. Yet we’re destined to repeat history, but why? Because our bodies are against us. Like that lovely chicken you had last week, it cost nothing and you got loads and it tasted like genetically moist virginal athletic perfection. Yet 12 minutes later your body decides you don’t deserve the fruition and prefer to assign you fever, total regret and advanced tiling psychology.


Dribble, dribble

Runs down your leg like a scrambled egg,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha is the worst and best of all poos. When you catch it, metaphorically speaking, and safety release the relief is comparable to 37 Oscar wins, that’s why most Oscar nominees seem acutely constipated. But if you're sliding into two and your pants are filled with goo
Di-o-re-ah, agh-agh-agh! Your bodies self esteem checker decided those tight red jeans aren’t for this body matey. So it decides to just keep those feet on the ground, sloshing with shit in an unrelenting soundtrack of friend glee.


O Shit!

Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom featured Indy courageously reaching his hand through insect infested holes to rescue his maiden. Never to be known until practice. Unblocking a toilet is worse. Having to reach through the deposits of your flatmates hole and smeared toilet paper to grab, not like Indy a lever, the biggest turd worm you can make without even a hint of sex deserves a cameo.



The slosh bogger

Public toilets are utterly yechhy. The day they all opened in 1943 some mind-boggler did a browntone Jackson Pollock and they've never seen Jif Or Cif since. They should be renamed by the British toilet association into National Heritage sites. So archeologists in radiation suits can trace our modern human stagnation. I must have been in the toilet when the whole of the nation were informed that anything that has the word ‘public’ attached to it or that is outdoors you can begrime.
I feel for the gay community (well I don't feeel for the gay community) I feel for the gay community having their only safe place to cottage being the dirtiest places in the whole country. Personally I'd leave a note with my address and embellished drawings of my bits on if I wanted to shag that badly.



Tp, Tp? T P !

Toilet paper. It's a rip but we do need it. Or do we? Here is
a list of items and methods that can be used that circumvent a lack of that pricey perforated poo paper.

• Bill Gates’ choice, spare money. Not economical but if you’re loaded and they’re crisp, ohhhh sex-u-al-lay.
  

• The bog roll roll, hard times and the site of a fingernail of viewable paper makes this harsh but reliable “fag-butt rollie” moment.
  

•  Newspaper, some cheap places actually do use this, great forbumming and catching up on the financial crisis via your partners cheap choice in public drinking establishment.

• Leaves. Hey, way back they were all leafing it. Upside, you feel a bit natural, downside every plant that is in a bathroom has leaves so shiny you end up making a coupla burnished poo chairs.

• Your own hair, wait there are people who you see and you think, yo my dear can wipe your arse with that, now think, exactly, you probably would have tried it, c’mon it’s not cos they think they look good.

• Hands in bum scooping out poo. Sometimes maybe when the toilet roll has broken; you've plucked the plant to a stick, you’re too cheap to buy newspapers and last night you grated your rear against the grey roll till it was bloodier than an entire lady bin. Then, only then, should you start peeling off the wallpaper, you dirt bag.

Life after poo

You might want to imagine your partner deposits tiny dried perfumed pellets in the few months of harmonious honeymooning. the last, LAST thing you think about is “ have they just done a big poo?” Although in some intercoursical perversions this might be the first thing that floats through your mind, swiftly followed by “have I, yet?”

Why can’t we cast poo off? Because evolution doesn’t care n it only happens say once a day, it’s not that important to evolve from. Plus that ancient genome to produce something to mark your territory and get rid of those bits a mammoth you really shouldn’t have had is still in one way useful. The sad reality is nowadays our territory isn’t so important to mark and thus has been superseded by a little thing called, the front door key.

If only we’d have evolved and kept our primates inclinations to chuck their own poo. What a more, honest, shocking and dirty place life would be.

truth

    

    how do you do… 

TRUTH

Does it exist?

Do penny cola bottles exist? Well they don’t they’re like 5p now but the principle is the same-ish. The truth is very much representative of whether you believe anything exists, if you think this breathing lark is a labour intensive delusion/illusion of a fallacy of institutions and collusions, forget this whole truth and book an appointment with The Man, you two need to talk.

Is it important? Not if your friends are sexually shaped sticks and you’re fishing in sewers for recycled meals. If you choose less rural living
It kinda does matter.

Listen!

Can you hear the truth…?

Concentrate, really focus your lobes and you can pick out the actual sound of truth. “Balalalabap bap wam Boo! BA bap Boo! BA wooooooOOOOO!”
Don’t dare question me, that’s what an actual scientist called “science...”
To, probably accidently two milliseconds later conclude this word with “…fiction”

Lies on the other hand (the right hand) are the vocal equivalent of Cambodia’s entire mosquito population realising that the sweaty, swollen, Michael Moore’s in town and he’s after the gritty “reality” of that there region.

Does this help, yes and no,

Mainly no.

Denial

"I think we have sufficiently talked about this matter and these Holocaust events need to be further investigated by independent and impartial parties. We say that if the Holocaust happened, then the Europeans must accept the consequences and the price should not be paid by Palestine. If it did not happen, then the Jews must return to where they came from." - Yeah damn right Mahmoud n frogs lay deckchairs, hair is concrete spaghetti shadows, n food isn’t food it’s fascism. Ahmadinejad, Ah hmmm.


Mothers and lies

Love Mums but realise they were conniving cunts to us:

Don’t drink all that, you’ll burst.
You have to eat all your vegetables or you’ll never grow up.
If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.
Don’t cross the road, you’ll get killed.
If you go off the end of the street, you’ll get kidnapped.
Don’t swallow that, it’ll grow a tree in your belly.
I’ll only be a minute.
Don’t look at the TV for too long or your eyes’ll go square.
It won’t hurt.
It’s for the good of your health.

There’s protection and then there’s fanatical supremacy. That’s even before they took you to Sunday school.


Everyone’s entitled to this opinion

Religion, can I just say this subject is one dump of arduous, irrational persistence spanned out over thousands of years to insure conformity, I can, I said it. Santa Claus is dead real though.


True lies

You thought Arnie n your Mum were shysters, c’mon he is. There’s these people, old women who circumnavigate the globe with the sole intention of propergating twoddle. They’re mystical you see, because no one ever remembers seeing or speaking to these “old wives” although we always remember their tales. Some tales are inside you now:

Goldfish have a memory of only three seconds
More like a few months, but what the frig do they have to remember.

Lemmings engage in suicidal dives off cliffs when migrating.
A lie made by Old Disney Wives.

Astronauts in orbiting spacecraft experience true "zero gravity".
It’s a simulation of zero gravity, actually.

You should not tattoo the name of your lover on your skin, or the relationship is destined to fail.
Cos you’re a twat who tattooed names on you.

Dont swallow chewing gum as it takes seven years to pass through your system.
Bollocks.

Evolution is a progression from "lower" to "higher", and evolution requires an increase in complexity.
Nope, we can actually become more stupid.

People do not use only ten percent of their brains.
This is only true of scallies and hicks

Thomas Crapper did not invent the flush toilet, Thomas Edison did not invent the light bulb, and Henry Ford did not invent the automobile.
Nope, all me.

Which truth?

Sodding papers, the whole bleeding media, bastard institutions, damn people, forsaken ideologies. Farming the best crop out of needless weeds is, shall we say? An uphill plow.

If “the truth” that you are reading comes under the heading The Daily Mail, treat that as the biggest fucking clue for a lie. If you’re forever reading between lines then I think you’re in need of a newspaper comprised entirely out of blank paper or a new set of eyes or moving away from Cardiff. It isn’t good for you; lies and Cardiff. I mean, neither offer much; one actually takes off human worth.

Statistically the media has 0.002% credibility and is always serving an agenda or protecting its own back. It’s largely less factual than a mute nursery school rendition of Hamlet, in the dark, in Iraq, after a so-called successful allied bombing.

When it comes to institutions, treat them with as much suspicion as a supreme duck with lobster goujons sandwich at LIDL. About the only things you can trust is libraries, but even then they seem to be purchasing copious amounts of Midsummer Murders DVDs while forgetting Beat literature, presumably so we can abstractly relate to the realities of knife crime while forgetting the traumatic causes.

Ideology wise we’re all confused with which will offer the best, which’ll betray us and why bother, I don’t like socialism, now fuck off. Why do socialists open discourse with. “Well Marx talked about that.”
If Marx knew a Che Guevara wearing prick was misquoting him, he’d probably get Engels and Durkheim to beard whip the pleb until his blotchy face resembled his ill-fitted t-shirt’s colouring.

Even your mates lie. Girlfriends, boyfriends, everyfriends, exaggerate, falsify, and lie to, well, make things more interesting than they, in reality, are. Everyone has a history that is malformed, edited to sound that bit more exciting and justifiable than:
“For 23 years I’ve been waiting for my life to be vastly more exciting, whilst getting more lost in a world of insecurities of a collectivised making. Counting days down to something that’ll never happen because I don’t even possess the natural backbone to murder myself.”

“Ba-don chish”

Thy Truth will out

History has taught us many things. But who’s right when nearly all of it is mistaken lies and an active perpetuation of bullshit. Leaving 3% of what humans have done throughout history has actually benefited you and me. It’s the textbook myth pulped into ‘truth’ amended into world framework. Convincing the masses, dragging the minorities, with whatever their justified judgements are, into a continuation of a fallacy. So to the masses, the factualites become vilified idiots and conspiracy theorists and absolutely, absolutely, not our saviours, that’s for God, of course.

How can I find it?

Can you believe the facts? What are facts, who vets facts? No committee actually says whether facts are facts.

Chances are you now won’t believe anyone truly. Chances are you have doubts in just about every source of entertainment, circles and sources you care to dive from. And this is the deal, yes there’s a fucking deal. The deal is you believe whatever you think is right. If you’re confused and a bit one sided you’ll believe whichever soothsayer tells you to get a CB radio and talk to amorous sailors.

No belief is right; having nouse to distinguish truth from lies spun is critical. Don’t think the truth is even here, don’t think it’s anywhere; our whole existence is Hearsay, pure and simple.











I hope all the members of the Popstars band Hearsay who released the single Pure and Simple were harmed in the writing of this, no confirmed kills so far although reports suggest Danny is slowly dying inside.