Tuesday, 9 September 2008



Gazing listlessly past thong clad page three perms, through the steel bar quartered horizon while the ammonia heavy air competes for nostril inhalation with smegma sweat. You ponder why you created such a vivid prison description when you live in a middle class semi in South Manchester. Do you empathise? Is prison a welcome escape? Questioned your sexuality? You not all there?

To escape is what we humans do throughout our lives. In countries, relationships, friends, jobs, lifestyles and dear old braino with all its pseudo logic, afflictive desires and tempting idiosyncrasies. But will we, could we, do we, want to escape?


My head
What’s wrong, huh? Statistically you are or know at least one person in your friend group suffering from say, depression, personally try four. If you’re not depressed that head will assist whatever subtle quirks into becoming stigmas, afflictions concluding to full-blown mongman status. You gotta love the way the mind works.

Escaping yourself from this gluttonous sadism is no easy feat. Coercion splattered relinquishment is the best discourse without recourse. Gently giving your head more of what it likes while telling it where to stick the rest.

As a rather essential organ, don’t wangle with it too much or it might just shut off ya sense of pain.

Pack up
Firstly, if you’re going somewhere, leaving, really leaving, like proper off, defo! Don’t rabbit on about it. It’s fine to know your new geographic whereabouts. Don’t shit on about its tidal forecasts, interest rates or high speed internet connection. No-one cares, or wants to be made to feel inferior and more importantly be barefaced bored with someone’s ranting about a place they haven’t even been to yet! In brief, escape and shut the fuck up.

If you are having any trouble with the logistics, then get your mummy to help you or ask your mental health worker for the pills that turn everything into Mark Kermode shaped doilies.

Romans, countrymen; get the Jesus away from me. Solitude is a beautiful affair. Real stark isolation is electric in mind’s relish.

“Knock, KNOCK.” Simon.
“Knock, knock knock knock, knock!” Sometimes friends operate in insidious forms, permeating serenity, blighting selective satisfaction.
“Ring Ring.” What!
“Ring ring, ring ring.” Pained by the imagined mundanity of an evening in it’s presence. Trying to escape the regulated foghorn sophistication of it’s clichéd exploits.

“Hey, Hey Alex, Alex! I thought you didn’t see me there for a minute.”

“No I saw you, tried to avoid your eye contact, even attempted to close off my hearing, but alas Simon I can’t side step your pavement eclipsing stature, you resource depleting joy-tard.”

Escape is an insult away.

Girls and boys
What?! No, I just don’t care. What, egh? YOU wanted it. Huh? I can’t be arsed. No I didn’t use it, no, I don’t do that, NO! What you talking bout? THEY DON’T EVEN FIT UP THERE ALRIGHT! I’m going to the shop.

Marriage is a trap, of sorts. Whoever now is have an internal dialogue about the sanctuary of 21st century monogamous institutionalised commitment in the perfe... I implore, no, I am telling you you’re deaf and doomed if you keep thinking this bullshit.

While there is nothing wrong with relationships, marriage is flawed. We still possess our animalistic tendencies to have polygamous relations, we have fucked around more than in the last 40 years, and we desire more choice and difference.

Marriage isn’t up to it. Hence the gluttony of divorces, loveless marriages, and general listless expressions on families’ faces like they’ve all been sold into a life sentence at Plug Land with Toni the stud-ly happy-go-lucky. Only for post confetti to reveal Tony the belly bulging belligerent balding bully and the plug flumes closed.

Escaping is hard; an affair is a gratefully hurtful way to end it. Murder is interesting, divorce is embarrassing. If you’re that weak, dying is the steadfast option.

Relationships are easier. No it’s not you it’s me. “It’s you, I have grown to despise and loath every facet of your simplistic self” is a great opener. Conclude with some sort of lingering flatulence. Or combine…

Shit on their mum? And run.

Work it
In this whole world roughly 3 billion people work. Which if you think about it, in a population of 6.5 billion, there are more people that don’t. You, you little worker, are in a minority. So if that late postmodern revolution occurs I’d be on dollies side if you desired to remain a breather. If that don’t 'suade you let your job do that.
Just work there, keep working there. Imagine working there for another year, another
five more years of flesh coloured walls and inane laughter. Imagine being like that old supervisor that everyone mocks,
yes that = you.

See, you’re out the door before you’re in.

5 FOR 1
The ultimate hedonistic getaway is upon us. Firstly pack: 200,000 quid, one of those big coat hangers they use to open car doors, five bottles of 80% vodka, a pseudonym, one Celine Dion mask and a pencil.

In a couple of years, 2010 purchase one of Branson’s Virgin Galactic seats. Just prior to peak weightlessness sharpen your pencil then float off and start articulately stabbing ponces. Coat hanger yourself into the cockpit, don both the pilots’ nifty new hats and plot a course for the international space station. Once docked distribute your vodka to the now desperately sober Russian crew. They will be over the moon and willing to title you, Caption Space. As Captain Space open World communication wearing your Celine Dion mask askew muffling the following:

“Attention Planet myopic, you are surrounded by our formidable species. We are shape shifters and for millennia’s we’ve been scrutinising you under the genius guise of your planets. Granny Moon, Great Uncle Uranus, and big Sister Sun have all been watching. For all your foolishness we demand the world’s drugs and alcohol to be sent with this list of interesting and very attractive people skyward post haste or the International space station comes to you or my names not Captain Space.”
When they respond with some slapdash aggressiveness, turn slightly to one side revealing a grotesquely stretched rubberised Celine Dion. Deep and vermontly say. “Remember, we are already near, far, wherever you are. So hurry the fuck up.”

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