Crab Apple had the best box in the whole of the Underground. It was six metres squared in volume and had perspex walls, a quilted blanket, a small sink, and access to no less than three other boxes across the corridor.

Crab apple was elated because his working hours had recently been reduced to nineteen and a half hours a day, meaning that now he had nearly five hours of leisure time to sleep and to see his friends across the tunnels to play knuckleheads with them, with the bones of dead creatures. Crab apple was hard working and good natured but above all he was almost completely content. He hated working because the practices he was required to do were absolutely insufferable, but he needed to persevere if he wanted to enjoy the fiery thrills of knucklehead combat as regularly as he was doing.

Everyone envied Crab apple because his box was the best. Crab apple prided himself on that smooth perspex finish. He would rub the glass every night before bed with his face, and he would be thankful that he had somehow ended up with such a remarkable gift. He always slept well, then he would wake up, have a few sips water then prepare for a day’s intensive labour, alone. His job was simply to dig, he didn’t know why. He was a good digger, and he dug like no other. He knew that if he carried on working at the same rate, the rewards would come and before he knew it, Crab apple would be awarded a mattress all to himself.

Norman would never have six metres squared or perspex or a quilted blanket or a small sink or a mattress all to himself. Norman was on twenty two hours of work per day. He lived in what was known as a shoe box. He was different to Crab apple in that he was always angry and depressed. This led to him having an awful problem with swearing and not many could tolerate his incessant pessimistic outlook. The sight of the perspex box across the corridor made him want to kill himself.

Norman liked Crab apple because he was a friend to him. But to Norman Crab apple was intolerably stupid and trivial. Crab apple couldn’t hold any kind of conversation that didn’t concern either digging or knucklehead warfare. Crab apple was good natured but brain dead to everything, everything including the one thing that excited Norman; the concept of freedom. That there was something else other than the dusty, hot, narrow channels of the underground. Norman could never convince himself that a mattress represented freedom, to him this was simply not the case, but a sordid mendacity implanted into the minds of the diggers from a dark, dark superior being who was operating from above. But this was just ‘audacious conjecture’ or ‘blasphemous conspiracy’ and he could not announce these opinions to others because they would simply not understand and render him insane.

After an infuriating day of blistering and bone-crushing labour Norman climbed back up to the corridor covered in a layer of dusty rock carpeted to his skin by sweat. He went back to his shoebox and briefly washed his face and hands. He then knocked on Crab apple’s door, hell-bent on suicide.

Crab apple was lying on his back, fiddling with his knuckleheads when his friend Norman called. He leapt with enthusiasm and opened the door to greet his friend.

“Hello Norman. My good friend! Are you all right?”

“No” Norman replied. His posture was flaccid and his voice sounded like over used sand paper.

“Ahh my good friend, that is a shame. Perhaps a good  game of knuckleheads might make you feel better? “

“I don’t want to play fucking knuckle heads”

“Are you sure?”


“Oh okay fine, maybe later then my good friend?”

“I don’t want to play knuckle heads ever again”

Crab apple did not know how to respond to this, and looked well and truly perplexed by this objection.

There was a hideous pause.

“Well what do you want to do then?”

“I want to cease.”

“You mean you want to…”


Again, Crab apple had never experienced such a queer and flummoxing admission. And again Crab apple was perplexed.

There was a hideous pause.

This one carried on a while longer.

” But if you die Norman, then who will do your share of the digging? Above all else, the digging must be done, my good friend” Crab apple assured, rubbing a horrible rotten knuckle bone against his chin pensively.

“I don’t care. I don’t fucking care in the slightest”

“Norman, my good friend! You are so young! There is a solid thirty years solid and intensive labour in you yet. So keep your labour as solid and intensive as possible! Keep working as hard as you are doing and then before you know it you will be perspex, just like me! I mean it Norman I really do. I built what I’ve got now on good, hard labour. You can do the same. You just have to believe in your ability to dig. We are diggers, that’s why we are here. Dig Norman. Dig everything– that’s what my father taught me, and his father before him and his father before him and his father before and his father before him. Dig everything, my good friend, dig everything! That is the best advice you’ll ever hear. And I, my good friend Norman, am living proof of this” Crab apple smiled to himself, a smile of immense pride.

Norman sighed and was becoming extremely frustrated.

“Is this all you want Crab apple? Do you think this is enough?” Norman pointed towards the quilted blanket which was covered in filth, and the ladybird-sized sink, that sat pathetically by the door. Crab apple was offended and confused. There was another pause. “How can you convince yourself that such a preposterous life is ever worth living?”

” Norman, my good friend… I do not follow you. Is this not the finest box in the whole of the known Underground? It is surely not preposterous. Surely it is not that. And is life worth living? Of course it is. “

“Except it isn’t though. Life is absolutely unbearable “

Crab apple flicked a knucklehead across the room and then smiled at it as it hit the floor then went to retrieve it.

“My good friend. Everything is fine. Everything is fine!” He flicked the same knucklehead at exactly the same place and reacted to it in exactly the same way again, smiling as he did it as if Normal was not present.

Norman was growing frustrated. “Crab apple. How simply can I put this…Has it ever occurred to you that we are being hideously mistreated? “

“What do you mean?”

Norman did not know how to respond to this, whether to tell Crab apple his true thoughts or not. He was growing too tired to think and for a second he thought he might be going insane.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t even know any more ” he said.

“My friend you know your language is terrible! “

“I’m sorry” Norman said ironically.

“Look Norman. I don’t know what strange diggers you’ve been talking to down the tunnels. Or what dreaded underground gasses you’ve been inhaling, but you are speaking like a madman, my good friend! You need to relax. Relax, you must. You only have just under two hours before your next big dig”

Norman looked down, and convulsed for a moment to himself. Crab apple stared at him as if he was expecting him to do something, but when he didn’t he continued to stare at the unthinkable spectacle on his door step. He said nothing.

“Oh go on then Crab apple you simple minded, narrow bundle of knuckle-shagging fuck dust.  Prepare the knucklehead battlefield. We shall have our game”.

Norman walked into the box. Crab apple rushed to prepare the pieces.

“That’s  good to hear Norman, my good friend. That’s good to hear”.

Grey World

There became a greyness that would never relinquish its power. It would engulf you. It would seep through the corners. It would rain grey particles into your consciousness. The grey had a power, an identity and its own obscure and mediocre designs. It was all categorically, inescapably grey.

The grey politics, grey social networking, grey smartphones, grey tablets, grey sports, grey game shows, grey nightclubs, grey restaurants, grey cinema, grey music, grey public transport, grey letters, grey family members, grey friends, grey language and everything else you could ever imagine was lost to grey. The world had slid into a totalitarian system of philosophy and of ethics; greyism. Or this is how I liked to envisage it within the iridescent confines of my hopeless brain. I almost collapsed in despair at the discovery that my wife had recently developed a grey tinge, and left her instantly. I was alone against the world and my obstinate strivings for colour, flavour, excitement and life drove me away from the rest of civilisation- one morning whilst pouring grey milk over my grey weetabix and listening to the vacuous and mediocre surmises of grey politicians and news reporters on my television, I decided I had had far too many days like this. I was finished. My infatuation with the idea of being removed from this unbearable world had come to a head. I caught the first ferry out of grey shores.

I bought no ticket. I ignored everybody. Later somewhere between Guernsey and a barren rock I looked down from the side of the deck, entranced by a vast welcoming sea that would alternate between exquisite shades of green and blue. I saw my opportunity and leapt off the chugging grey vessel. As I jumped off deck I reminded myself of a flying squirrel but then as I spread my limbs and I did not glide I was mildly disappointed at the extent of my delusion. But before I could feel too overtly apathetic towards myself I had smashed into the surface of the waves. I did not hear the bemused grey cries from the deck behind. I registered the splash of a life-ring behind me that had been thrown ambivalently by a dull but mildly concerned lady in a grey fleece but I ignored her and it.

Wanting to hear the grey calls of the deck no longer I swam deep underwater. With my eyes open withstanding the pain of the salt in my eyes which was completely vanquished by my own sense of liberation. I swam until my lungs were about to give up and when I reached the surface I was elsewhere. I could no longer hear or see the ferry.

I continued to swim. I swam, I swam and pierced through the waves like a knife through butter and with a face like the omnipotent. After hours of swimming a barren rock became my destination. It was far from paradise. It was featureless, mossy and mostly covered in bird faeces. But it was not grey. I embedded my fingers in the slimy algae and began to scramble slimy rock after slimy rock. But then I realised I was not quite alone and was confronted with a slimy adversary that kissed my ankle with poison and riddled me with agony. Shrieking, I kicked it in the face and continued my ascent. The jellyfish grinned at me malevolently and swam away with an air of nonchalance. But I didn’t let this deter me from my objective and remained largely unprovoked.

After many failed attempts to reach the peak I came crashing back down to the sea, devoid of energy and in excruciating pain but bursting with a sense of determination. I finally found a correct angle to climb and felt the crushing of crabs under the soles of my feet as I climbed but I didn’t mourn these crustaceans or even consider the casualties as I climbed.

I got to the top of the rocky island, rain broke out and the sea roared. I took off my grey garments and stood balancing one footed on the highest rock. It was then I knew that I would inhabit this place for the rest of my life. And I could forget my wife, forget my uneventful grey past, forget the human race, forget greyism. And live here for ever in vibrant solitude, allowing the world outside to implode into nothing but grey vacuum, miles and miles out of my way. It was no longer my concern. I was euphoric and my thoughts were new, exciting, colourful and free.

And then the big grey helicopter came.

the scariest thing ever

the scariest thing ever happens when you’re just staying at yours on your own and you get up in the middle of the night and you’re still half asleep and not really engaged with life and you get up for a drink or maybe a piss whatever and then all of a sudden you see a human being right there who you didn’t know was there doing something or anything obviously with the purpose of grabbing your attention then that prospect is definitely the most potentially scary frightening horrifying terrifying blood-curdling prospect there ever was so you should always lock your door or doors but even if you do and the scariest thing ever just happens anyway then the scariest thing ever could potentially be even more scary blood-curdling because of the insane crazy lengths that the human being has obviously gone to in order to be there which only really demonstrates shows the obscene levels of their mysterious and probably very evil motives that they must have to be in your house not their own houses or anybody else’s house but yours

Bad Language

I have been castigated all my life by certain people for my choices of language and continue to be, even today. What’s worse is that in certain social situations the use of a swear word has become ignominious, leading to the castigation I speak of and perhaps even worse than this; people apologising on your behalf! We need to clear the air here and eradicate this disingenuous approach towards ‘bad language’. We also need to establish what constitutes ‘bad language’ properly.

I don’t believe that it is ‘unacceptable’ to use certain words because they are wrong in themselves, which is what we have all learned from an early age- being taught this by our parents and teachers. That approach is far too deontological for my liking (who do these people think they are, Kant?). The strength or acceptability of somebody’s language should be in no way determined by whether or not they choose to use curse-words, it depends entirely on the way they speak generally and the way they choose to include these words in their sentences. It is possible to be the proponent of extremely bad language without swearing, and extremely good language whilst swearing. Obviously.

It is perhaps ironic how those who admonish the use of bad language and swear words are the ones who have elevated those words to their current status and made them extremely desirable words to use. Swear words have a gravity to them. Fuck is the word I use the most. It is a very charged word, like monster, or smack, or coke, or fire (All these words have so much of what I like to call a charge that they get taken for the purpose of multiple meanings, mostly to very shall we say- extravagant things). One finds that short, sharp syllables are perfect for a devastating little charge.

Fuck doesn’t ever get used referring to its actual meaning. I feel that all swear words, because they are swear words have deviated from their literal meanings and their importance is now only really due to their power and their charge. I don’t like to use these words aggressively, so I use them largely whilst attempting to be humourous, or being typically sardonic and realistic in the English way, during reflections on instances which are far from ideal- shall we say. Swearing just helps that. Look at this use by David Mitchell, for example. Swearing makes things funny. In a way it’s deeply saddening that most people don’t like or get this humour, and therefore castigate it and as a result are intimidated by it. These are most likely the kind of people who watch stuff like The Big Bang Theory. So at this point I cease to care, really…

I know where the anti-swearing brigade is coming from sometimes- these words get a bad name. You go to hellish places like McDonalds or Sileby and you hear swear words being used in a hideous and intimidating fashion by people who have frightful voices, frightful faces and frightful vocabularies. Morning swearing in particular can be too much and have the power to disturb the ever strove-for morning peace. The words are just too conspicuous sometimes and it can be advisable to avoid using them for the purposes of convenience. Yes. Used in certain environments they can sometimes they stand out and deflect the conversation away from its intended premise. But this is where, your meaning has to supersede the swearing. When best used, swearing amplifies the meaning and adds to the proposition or idea being presented. It is the only language that can truly be used to highlight the absurdity of things, when they are truly, truly absurd.

I remember the day when I learned a word, in year 5 at lunch time. Some big guy called Harry told me of the existence of a superior swear word, one swear word to rule them all. I instantly bothered and bothered him to learn what it was and eventually he gave in and revealed it to me. The word was cump. I have a vivid memory of learning the word cump but obviously I soon learned that this was not the word I had been looking for. There could be three possibilities for this: I either misheard the word, big Harry thought the word was actually cump, or most likely- Big Harry knew what the word actually was and decided to give me an incorrect variation; possibly to protect me from the overpowering vulgarity, possibly for humorous purposes.

Which brings me to the c-word. I still often hear extreme hostility towards this word and again I get why. But it is the same with all swear words really, it only emanates its true meaning if you use it in that way or hear it in that way. It’s the same with fuck- which again I rarely use it in its proper context. When cunt became the one swear word to rule them all, it officially acquired an entirely different meaning altogether. I think we can all be quite certain that if this word was used to mean its true meaning, it would be too conspicuous to ignore and its use would become unbearable. Some guy would say something, then the use of the the one swear word to rule them all would completely trump everything else he was saying, deflecting his true meaning and terminating the development of the conversation, implanting other irrelevant images and associations within the minds of his listeners. God forbid this guy would be trying to say something of importance, in a combat situation, perhaps (Super Hans plagiarism acknowledged). So in this instance, c word-not practical, c word-not good.

But a defense of the occasional use of the c-word- there are certain people who when one describes I would suggest it would be an offence to call anything other than a cunt. To describe Rupert Murdoch, Kanye West, that horrible landlord who threatens to throw you out of your property because you sent him an email asking for a bed in stead of a dirty jagged metal mattress, Donald Trump, Bill O’Reilly, Tony Blair, Bush, David Cameron, Katie Hopkins or Mother Teresa for example. What words would you consider ascribing to them if not the C-bomb? The C is all these people deserve.

We could take a mildly inventive approach and beginning with the non-scatological and clean, non-swear words, we might call these horrible people;

Idiot, jerk, cow, git, twit, cretin, louse, pig, prat, rat, scumbag, tool, buffoon.

These words taking you back to your old geography teacher perhaps? I bet he called you them a few times, unless you were especially enthusiastic about map-reading. Although, to be honest, the geography teachers I had had some serious wrath backed up, they were pretty uncrossable. You could tell they swear all the time in private, use these amusing words as substitutes when hurling abuse at sweaty little adolescents, often achieving humorous value. If there is anything in this blog worth learning, it is not to fuck with a geography teacher.

Personally I would call someone a louse if I could remember to. I could maybe even use the word prat if I wanted to. Occasionally I think of a really amusing non- curse word to call people but then I often forget what word I have tried to remember… forever. Goblin in pretty good. Or something fungus related? I wouldn’t want to be considered fungus. Frog spawn is a good term to describe someone, but I’d be careful not to pluralise someone by accident, especially a twat. Maybe one day we might be creative and innovative enough to use non curse-words instead of expletives, but we shouldn’t hold our breath because expletives are both convenient and effective.

The true Bad Language that needs to be addressed here and possibly criticized is the uniform robot language that most people use. Whenever one expresses them self in any kind of inventive way, not just through language, the proponents of the true bad language are bewildered and call you ‘weird’ because they are so accustomed to absolutely everything in their life being dull and familiar. They don’t try and understand anything, and only value people of a certain narrow-minded type; the only people they actively choose to seek in their lives. If ever there was a Utopian society on Earth these people would focus on addressing their narrow-minded approaches to language before castigating others for their choices. In Utopia, instead of telling people off for swearing, people would be told off for not being expressive enough and using shit words. I won’t make a list of all those words that most people say all the time, but they’re crap and you will probably know exactly what they are when you come across them. Even when used ‘ironically’ they are still shit, because we know that they’re actually the only words they know. They don’t ever pull anything better out of the bag.

Getting towards the end of this, I believe that language has an enormous power to define an individual. You can judge someone on their choice of language. Shit people use shit words. Shit people are afraid of using words that other people do not yet use. So avoiding the use of expletives is not the most important thing. Expression is the most important thing.

Great people create their own words, bring old words back into play, mix things up. We are all different, only some people are the same and therefore rely on talking the same crap, the same crap that other people use. Learn to love words. You say them every day, don’t be a boring mollusc, retreating to the slimes of mediocrity. Express yourself. Language is an excellent opportunity to do so. Combine words that have not yet been combined. Words that juxtapose one another like acid and alkali. Is it purple or is it red? You decide. Fucking be litmus paper. You only get one life.

If you’re still a castigator after hearing my views on the matter, why not turn to Stephen Fry? Who often deconstructs stupidity, much like a dreadfully ergonomic spanner might deconstruct a poorly made Apollo mountain bike.

(But you have to be careful. I did an audition for Eggheads over the phone and had to answer a series of quiz questions. When I didn’t know the answers I said on a couple of questions “Oh fucking hell” inadvertently. He didn’t react to it over the phone but unsurprisingly, we didn’t get on the show and we were left bitterly disappointed. The regret still plagues me to this day…)

Wimbledon through my eyes

You know when for no real reason and without knowing much about the subject you just decide that you don’t like it almost sub consciously for the sake of it and then realise after a bit of time that it’s actually extremely good? I’ve had this with many things throughout the many years of my life; Nightmares on Wax, Detroit Swindle, Gorillaz, Arctic Monkeys (although that was Humbug’s fault, being generally such an annoying album), Robert Browning, Harry Potter, crack and now Tennis! A sport which I previously slagged off as the annoying cousin of Squash. So I’m just going to go through a few of my thoughts at this stage of Wimbledon 2015 having watched it for the first time this year. Discovering tennis has made some kind of impression on me.

I’ll begin with the positives. Tennis is very aesthetically pleasing to watch, especially when the sun begins to set. The bright yellow balls, the aces, chiselled calves, the head bands, the wrist bands…

I also love the POCK, POCK, POCK of the tennis balls. The speed of serve impresses me very much and how that much power is achieved through a relatively simple motion. Then perhaps more impressive is how players return them so often. I can only imagine what it feels like to smash an aggressive across- court forehand with another aggressive across-court forehand with a racket as high quality as the professionals’ inevitably are and on a surface like that. Good probably.

I love how much people back the under dog. And there was perhaps the biggest giant killing of the tournament through the slaying of Rafael Nadal thanks to the intricate and determined racket work of a certain Dusty; of whom we can all agree is a fantastic character for the sport. I was extremely entertained when he decided to skin up in between a set and spark up a large spliff during the match. Only joking, this would have been illegal.

Dustin Brown playing for Germany at Wimbledon 2013 Baked, obviously

I was impressed by K Anderson this tournament. Going two sets up against the world number one. I watched him at Queens also and he strikes me as a peculiar character and an almost inhuman one. I’ve not really seen him express him any emotion or personality but he’s a perfectly good sportsman. I heard that he resides in LA now, despite his South African heritage. He’s just moved to LA to do tennis, play tennis and to become a tennis machine. He basically is just a big old tennis machine. And good on you Kevin. Better luck next year.

Kevin-Anderson Computing…computing… tennis… tennis.. computing… tennis…

And like all sports tennis is full of characters not all so wholesome as figures like Kevin (above). I watched Kyrgios and he struck me as a very talented young player, although very irritating purely because of the amount of attention he draws upon himself. Walking onto court with his pink beats in his ears and playing matches in those massive diamond rocks in his ears Smashing rackets during the game and what have you. He’s only twenty though; I’m sure he’ll grow up a bit soon. He’s just trying to create a persona for himself, athletes who do that rarely ever actually fulfil them and ‘tennis player’ doesn’t seem to correspond to the persona that he is trying to create. The press have given him an absolute battering it seems and perhaps unfairly. He also attracted some very irritating Australian supporters who were loudly chanting absolute dross throughout the match which I was surprised was allowed to continue. “Hey Micky you’re so fine” all that kind of crap. You don’t get that shit at the crucible.

imagesWe don’t really hate you Nick, even if you want us to. 

Oh yes and I absolutely can’t stand the ball boys. The tradition is so hideously archaic and drives seemingly innocent children to behave in a peculiarly robotic and servile way.  I mean I know they probably enjoy it and want to and everything but Hell Jesus are they irritating to watch. What a childish and obfuscated perception of the world they must have. What are they thinking when they do this crap? Weird ball boy shit probably. Blame the parents I say. Bloody ball boys.

I don’t know if you are a tennis fan but I was watching Karlovic play Dolgopolov in a match which went on for an extremely long time due to a combination of Dolgopolov’s refusing to lay down and Karlovic’s evil service game. Karlovic and Dolgopolov were deep into a rally, playing to two clear points in the final set and Karlovic slips over and loses the point. He then decides to take 0.00001 seconds to gather his thoughts and relax for a moment and placing his racket inches to his side before a very irritating child appears holding the racket in front of him, paused like a statue. This super efficient racket service served Karlovic only as a means of rushing Karlovic to get to his feet. I found this weird and unnecessary. This isn’t the kind of child I would have been likely to have hung out with when I was a young boy.

I mean, I agree with preserving traditions but what I don’t agree with is the downright lionising of celebrities, royals and athletes. They are just humans, they don’t need our sycophantic cuddles to massage their already impenetrable egos. Parliament, the Monarchy, private education, all these hideously outdated tools of hierarchy construction must either adapt to the modern world or be abolished. And Wimbledon too must adapt and change the ball boy system, it’s doing the world no good. It’s an irritating facade. Get machines or prisoners to do that kind of work, don’t take advantage of children for the purposes of collecting your redundant balls when they are no longer needed.

_48092561_ball-boys Two moderately pixelated enthusiastic ball boys

Speaking of this lionisation of human beings who don’t do anything particularly admirable in order to obtain their position… Andrew Castle comes across as an utter moron in the way he commentates. He seems like all he wants to do is jump into a warm bath of tennis with Murray which is fine in a homoerotic sense but all he seems to talk about is how good he is at tennis and in such a grandiose and excessive way. Over and over again. It makes me think; What do you want Castle? Come on Castle, just tell us what you want!

Every shot Murray pulls off is described as ‘sensational’ regardless of whether it goes in or wins a point or not. The opponent is very rarely given praise for their play even if they win a miraculous point or break their opponent. All we get is commentary talking about how Murray has ‘dropped off’ or whatever. Expect a very long, very gay biography to be written by Castle called The Angelic Scotsman; On and Off Centre Court or something like that.

139262_1 What do you want Castle? Just tell us what you want!

Andy-Murray Andy Murray, 23 years old, 14 times Wimbledon champion, First ever Welsh tennis player

With regards to Murray I think he’s reasonably likeable in many senses despite the aggro he may get from certain people although I wouldn’t get behind him any more than any other tennis playing Joe, from any other country. He’s perfectly nice on camera but I heard that whilst she was a waitress he asked my old science teacher to ‘feed her his desert’. But I’m not going to hold it against him now. He’s a bloody good tennis player and that’s the only time I’m ever interested in the man- when he’s on court. (I’ll be eagerly watching him play Federa today, which I predict Andy will lose) I bet he’s probably actually very dull and uninspiring in real life like most athletes almost categorically are. We always tend to see them through fantastical eyes and create attributes and personality traits that only exist through our own dubious perceptions. Murray’s just a bloke who plays tennis- I think we are all happy to leave it at that.

The women’s tennis I confess I haven’t watched that much. Although I really hate it for the noises a few of them make and it spoils it for me really and takes my mind away from the tennis that is being played. Azarenka really got on my nerves and Sharapova as well. When you’re a woman tennis player and you go up against Serena you might as well go home. Whatever you do don’t actually play the match and groan all the way through like a fox in the night. That would be a bad thing to do.

Despite all these annoying things I think I would review the tournament positively over all and I’ll being watching the rest of it keenly like a falcon through a sniper scope. It’s no wonder it attracts the likes of Becks, Jose, Bear Grylls, Lallana, Jon Snow and many others to get down there and watch. But still, even like football; it’s just a sport. Sometimes full of greatness and awe but also human error and therefore irritation and disappointment.  Not to be taken too seriously.

Friday 8th May and beyond, in plastic

A couple of Fridays ago I woke up to discover that the people of the UK had voted for a majority conservative government. Conservative basically means- keeping things the same. The majority of people think things need to be kept the same. This day was a great day for David Cameron, fracking, nuclear warfare, fox killers, snobbery, badger killers, weirdos, energy companies, thick people, Rupert Murdoch, horrible farmers, the monarchy, the war on drugs, weirdos and many other calamities.

What is there even to do about this, what can we good people do any more? What is happening? Where am I?

Following this discovery I then realised that I had ran out of soya milk (Alpro) so I went down to the local Tesco express which I seem to spend to much of my life inside these days. Tesco is such a plastic place. The sounds that customers make and the life forms that wander around are so very juxtaposed to the creations of the rainforest, which is rich and teeming with natural diversity. Here is mostly dull people and shelves upon shelves full of plastic. Trust me, supermarkets are nothing like the rainforest.


I find shopping to be an abysmally dull experience, partly down to this big large ginger woman who often works there. She refuses to look at one’s face whilst serving one, and proceeds to invite another customer over whilst one is still mid-transaction. What is perhaps most startling about this remarkable specimen is that she does not wait for you to place your items in the designated space, alternatively she is often known to reach out with her hand and grab them from you in a small matter of swoops while you stand there unwittingly, allowing yourself to be vigorously compromised as a phlegmatic means to an end. The words she says are not real sentences, nor do they refer to a subjective experience of life or animated interpretation of it. She is large and mostly robotic.


Vigourous compromise, plastic bag, payment


I watch this person, and sigh, thinking ‘Why does her heart even bother to continue to beat?’. Enslaved and dehumanised by a mini-supermarket operating system. Surely not. I become flummoxed at the resilience and belligerence of this throbbing life-giver that must lurk behind that customer services badge somewhere, pumping wave of blood after wave of blood to a lifeless machine.

I often try to converse with supermarket operators, as I do with many strangers who I briefly encounter on a day to day basis. I once asked a different employee if they had tried the soya milk (Alpro) before. She politely said she hadn’t and I assured her of how nice it was and how its health benefits are all greater than that of normal milk, more protein, less fat, etc, etc. But she simply wasn’t interested, which was OK. I would certainly never even consider asking the employee I was faced with then. Because I know full well that she will never develop an interest in soya milk. Or any level of human conversation beyond hostile grunting, most likely. She provided me with a carrier bag which I reluctantly accepted because I had no bag space about my person (Later with contempt for myself I would take this bag to the cupboard at home specifically dedicated to accommodate excess carrier bags. Every day the door for this cupboard sits less comfortably as the growing plastic bulge makes the door protrude ever so slightly more every day). This lady doesn’t understand the possible consequences of her seemingly limitless and aggressive carrier bag distribution. But this is to be expected, I suppose.

I inserted my card into the receptive reader quickly and with no sense of passion. The reader received me, and when it reached its climax after I offered my pin number, the lady uttered “REMOVE YOUR CARD PLEASE”. She took my payment,  and was finished with me. The transaction was over extremely quickly, and left me feeling typically unfulfilled. But on a positive note, I had plenty of cartons of Soya milk now, so all was OK.

I realised that that short paragraph could also work as a metaphor for a sexual encounter with this woman, so I naturally decided to eroticize it a bit. I hope you noticed. Even if it was a metaphor for human-on-human sex, the results would have been exactly the same. Apart from without the soya milk.

On returning home I consumed my soya milk with some Weetabix and enjoyed it every bit as much as I normally enjoy it. Then it was time to go to an exam, and instead of opening the paper up to a question which I felt like I could respond to, my exam paper depicted the face of Satan, smiling at everything evil that has ever happened or will continue to happen in the Universe. My exam didn’t go well, basically.

mendes-baphomet-banner (To be honest though, I do think Satan gets a lot of unnecessary stick from the Christians. In the Bible and Paradise Lost all he did was defy God, and ‘brought Sin and Death’ into the world. We all love sinning, and who the fuck would dream of immortality under a tory majority? Fuck knows. What is so bad about the guy, other than his seeking of knowledge and rebelling against a tyrant who demands utter subservience or eternal punishment? Yeah you keep doing what you’re doing Satan. Good man).

Then I went to the pub with a small party and drank quite a lot. Watched Boro beat Brentford. Smoked. Cooked a couple of pizzas, and burned one of them ,which had developed a solid charcoal base with flickers of silver that looked a bit like graphite and didn’t taste very nice. The other pizza was fine and consumed by a perfectly satisfied party member. A debate occurred about how the other pizza burned. An argument was postulated by another party and was generally accepted by the majority: that the pizza was inserted into the oven with the Styrofoam base still on. Could plastic have played a role in the destruction of my pizza? I fervently dismissed this theory as nonsense, partly because of a lack of smell of burned plasticides, and partly because of a lack of plastic evidence. I was subsequently lambasted for this view by all other parties which made me feel a bit like Darwin after coming up with his Origin of Species. Then after 2 of the party left, both Styrofoam bases were discovered in the kitchen, by me and another party and my theory was proven to be correct. I expect the arrival of my face on future £20 notes, but I’m the sure the tory government won’t have it. Oh well.


But what I really discovered of value after the election was my profound love for Ray Mears- the king of bushcraft. I started watching loads of shows on Youtube, and they were incredible. Let’s talk about Ray and his potential significance following the plastic abyss that we have created for ourselves.

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Ray makes it unimpregnably clear that plastic and other human bullshit is not the solution for our troubles. Ray has an affinity with almost every natural habitat you’ve ever heard of. When he heard about the tory coalition he didn’t care. He was probably in the warm confines of a bivouac in Papua New guinea, drinking tree sap and allowing the gentle morning euphony of Birds of Paradise caress his wilderness-trained ear drums. (Unlike Bear) Ray realises that we only have one creator, and it is not God, it is the wild. The wild is far more your mother than your actual mother. Spirituality for the atheist therefore comes only from a connection with what is natural, biodiversity existing in harmony. Fish that clean shark’s teeth for them, stuff like that. Ray has become a master of the wild. Ray has dedicated his life to the wild’s intricate sufferings and delights. What the fuck are we dedicating our lives to? Fabricated human constructs that mean absolutely nothing.


A lot of people are depressed these days aren’t they? I read about this in a Fisher essay possibly part of a book called Capitalist Realism which was extremely enlightening but also extremely depressing because of its content. Fisher quotes from a finding that greater depression is directly correlated to greater capitalism, explaining the sudden increase in this ‘mental illness’ in the modern world. Depression for me is the by-product of a society in which nothing is real, nothing is obtainable, and where we are forced to enslave ourselves to things that mean nothing. Things that connect us to nothing real, nothing that truly gives us a sense of identity and worth. We have rejected everything that is real in favour of plastic, literally and metaphorical. Talk to tribespeople, the only thing that ‘depresses’ them is probably our deforestation of their natural habitats. To them, happiness is not a thing, only functioning as a community and a family through respect of their natural habitats and loyalty to their predecessors is. No celebrities, no governments, no money.

I have a garden that my estate agents haven’t done anything with, so basically as far as nature is concerned, anything goes. I bet they’d fucking love to concrete over it though. I like to go there sometimes to get away from Tesco Express. So many different species have developed there; Snowdrops, blue bells, forget-me-nots, nettles, maple trees, ivy, dock-leaves, bracken, sticky weed, dandelions, that fake nettle with the white flowers that sometimes you can suck the honey out of if a bee hasn’t got there first,  some strange yellow flower I can’t identify, and these all attract other wonderful life forms. I watched a bumblebee the other day for a bit. It looked lonely and sad.

cockchaffer1 Did you know this beetle is called a cockchafer and is actually native to the UK, only coming out in May times? A beautiful beetle. I used to see them a lot when I was younger. But I think they might have gone now. 

Obviously being in my shit garden is the closest to nature I’ve been in a long while, but I’m going to try and make this change, and experience as much as I can over the holidays. I’m going to watch as much Ray as possible for tips on how to survive in the wild, then try and forget everything human and depressing that there is going on at the minute, and live temporarily amongst the trees with my friends, and hopefully see a badger or two.

Fuck concrete. Fuck plastic. Fuck Tesco Express. Fuck the tories.

Drink Soy. Watch Ray. Go to the rainforest.

Horrible Ignorant Meat Eating PROTEIN MONSTERS

Not all carnivorous human beings are thick, but all thick human beings are carnivorous. Another unnoticed human ignorance which is simply begging for me to exploit is the ignorance that is shared by nearly all meat-eaters. I too was one until not too recently, and I too was the ignorant specimen I have grown to despise.

The decision to consume meat the way it is currently prepared for us; pumped with nasty chemicals, in filthy conditions, amongst thousands of other creatures in confined spaces by mindless corporations is nearly always based on ignorance, wilful or otherwise. Although in rare circumstances people do know the extent of the horror of it all, but continue to eat meat anyway.

ObamaEatChicken_zps1bed6493‘No I’m not giving it up, I WANT it!’!

I find this stance far less contemptible than the ignorant one. If you admit you are greedy then no one is going to attack you, at least you’ve made a conscious choice. Everyone else deserves everything they can get. (To a certain extent vegetarians [and myself] do also, because there is no reason to suggest that animals that produce dairy products are treated any better, or contribute to less damage to the ecosystem, although granted; the horror caused is significantly less. I’ll be a vegan sooner or later. But anyway…this is all off topic, this is not a persuasive article after all).

Ignorant meat-eaters aren’t agents in themselves, they’ve just swallowed everything around them unquestionably like some mindless dead-faced vacuum cleaner tube knocking over all the fucking ornaments. In fact I can confirm that I have often had conversations with these people and on many occasions they do not speak, they suck.

hqdefault Ask yourself meat eaters, ‘is this you?’.

The volume of people who ask the following question is staggering.  So I’d like to address it. It is by far the most hideous of the default ignorant meat eating queries:

“Yeah, but where do you get your PROTEIN?”

I have many questions to ask in reply. Do you know how much PROTEIN a human needs then? Do you know what humans need PROTEIN for? Are you planning on growing a spare skeleton or something? Do you know what non-meat foods contain PROTEIN and how much in comparison? Have you ever seen or heard of a human suffering with a PROTEIN deficiency? Do you even know what PROTEIN is?If you love PROTEIN so much why don’t you go grab yourself a placenta to munch on then? Horrible Ignorant Meat Eating PROTEIN MONSTER.

What I find hilarious is that these people actually think they’re onto something. They think ‘yeah shit I’ve got a deeply intelligent, scientific point here’. They have very little knowledge of biology. They have very little understanding of health generally, but they are trying to make an argument based on not eating meat being unhealthy. Then ironically, they can often be found sucking on a cigarette, sucking on a beer, sucking on ecstasy pills, sucking on copious amounts of sugar, sucking the excess dust off the skirting boards (proven to be extremely unhealthy), the list continues…

Consuming PROTEIN through meat isn’t even at all necessary for muscle mass and strength, even if you are a gym goer or athlete. There are vegan body builders. How do you work that one out, PROTEIN MONSTER?

Kenneth G Williams

Neil Robertson has also become a vegan recently. How much PROTEIN does it take to win a World Championship I wonder?

download (1)(Come on Neil)

Also elephants are also the strongest land animals. Herbivorous.  Gorillas are pretty fucking strong too. Why not try my exercise? Go find a gorilla, preferably one that looks something like this;


And complete the following-

A) First ask it how much meat PROTEIN it consumes.

B) If it says something along the lines of ‘a little amount’ , or if it ignores you, then it clearly doesn’t consume as much PROTEIN as you.

C) In which case, start a FIGHT. FIGHT the gorilla.

D) If you’ve defeated the gorilla due to superior strength, ultimately due to your greater consumption of PROTEIN, then you’ve got yourself a feast full of gorilla meat. Mmmm… tasty! (and also, rich in PROTEIN).