Friday, 29 October 2004

Another day, another relationship disaster

Another one bites the dust


Another of my, frankly pointless, relationships has recently ground to a juddering halt on the tumultuous and broken highway of life. Just because she had the offer of moving in she developed the wholly misplaced fantasy that I no longer required regular oral sex. A fact to which all married men will painfully testify is that a bride smiles on her wedding day because she knows she has given her last blow job. The collapse in d├ętente was precipitated by one of those utterly meaningless spoken exchanges that seem to punctuate any relationship I find myself in. Disappointingly she was able to speak, hindered neither by the presence of my manhood in her mouth or the raucous grind of my snoring which usually engulfs her side of any dialogue.

As usual she had found a reason for complaint, and as usual the complaint was about me. This time she chose to berate me about my incredibly amusing habit of breaking wind loudly when participating in sexual communion. I find a duvet rapidly inflating, lifting off the bed and drifting a few inches above the mattress a wonderful adjunct to time spent in repose. Since I was not the one that introduced the concept of vegetables, and the resulting gaseous bi-products, to meal times I did not think that she was entitled to any real grievance. You fill me with rubbish like petit pois, steamed pok choi, stir fried broccoli and grilled lettuce, you are going to spend the evening listening to my rear end play the Dam Busters march. If I need vegetables with my steak I will have chips and not some tasteless, green, paper.

Since this was going to a deep and 'relationship defining' sort of conversation she decided to broach the subject when I was in a good, in fact the best of, moods. That is, just after sex. I had managed to persuade her to perform her oral duties by taking a firm grip on her neck and propelling her head in the general direction required. Realising I was not going to release her until she started she eventually got on with it, amidst a great deal of complaint.
'It's disgusting. Have you ever tried it?' she asked, trying, and failing miserably, to sound clever.
'Damn right I've tried it. Nearly broke my fucking neck. If I had two less vertebrae you would be lay there reading a book wondering when I was going to finish.'
On one memorable occasion she even tried to ruin my shit with the classic,
'I think you have had enough now.'
'NO' I said, shouting at an almost hysterical pitch 'I have not had enough. You will know exactly when I have had enough. There is a very clear and delineating point at which I have had enough, believe me, you will not miss it. This is not a grey area. Afterwards though grey may, at some point, enter into the proceedings.'

When it is time to reverse the roles, then suddenly it is not so disgusting. Apparently chewing on her mud flaps is showing her my caring and sensitive side. And they are always going on about the clitoris. What the bloody hell is a clitoris? I have seen the diagrams and the gynaecology photographs but the real thing is a much more baffling. Okay, I say, turning on the light and producing a mirror, you show me where it is. Doesn't that always produce a real quick change in direction? When asked to generate some evidence as to the existence of this fabled sex organ, there is suddenly some other pressing topic of conversation to be explored.

Like most women her timing is impeccably bad, and the only part of the conversation, whilst it was still a conversation and not an argument, that I managed to hear was
'Wake up! You are not resting your bloody eyes you are snoring, loudly, which is something else we are going to have to discuss.'
Then the bitch had the audacity to accuse me, writer, artist and poet warrior that I am, of being insensitive. One fact that exemplified my insensitivity was that I do not offer to massage her enough.
'You complained only the other day that I massage you too much.'
'Fondling my boobs in public is not a massage.'
'You have enormous breasts, what do you expect me to do?' and instantly it was an argument. As arguments go this one was not much of a challenge. It takes far more than a degree in sociology to make someone who is naturally a bit thick into an erudite wielder of a well turned phrase. She was even reduced to
'All those times we were making love, I was faking it.'
'Faking what?' I asked, genuinely surprised.
'Orgasm.' now shouting, as if she had achieved some great Napoleonic victory.
'You mean you were awake when I was having sex?' I said, laying particular emphasis on the singular, first person, pronoun. 'I thought the sex was fantastic.' I continued 'I hit the high notes and all my bells were ringing. Afterwards I would collapse deeply into the arms of Morpheus.'
'Well for me it was lousy.'
'Who cares?' I asked.
SLAP!
'Ouch' I replied and off, out of my life, she and her enormous breasts, went.

Wednesday, 27 October 2004

Phew What A Scorcher!

The Freedom of the press




This is not the freedom to tell the truth, but the freedom to ruin your shit. Allow me to explain. By your I mean the average newspaper reader. A bumbling buffoon writing in a national newspaper recently caused an uproar by accusing the entire city of Liverpool of inappropriate emotional behaviour. In an act that demonstrated a supreme lack of belief in anything that he had written, the buffoon agreed, on the orders of his political masters, to go to the city and be butt fucked by the entire populace. But, being an old Etonian and quite used to this sort of thing, it was decided that this would not be much of a penance.

Still he travelled to the city, with his shit in ruins, to be shouted and swore at by the local, mainly illiterate, unwashed masses. One inadvertently challenging question put to him by a wholly inarticulate specimen was

'What gives you the right to say that about us?'

What gives him the right to say it is freedom of speech, and if you do not like it fuck off back to North Korea where brutal suppression of the individual is appreciated. (This is in fact my favourite response to any red necked, or even slightly right of centre, opinion. If you are being addressed by a trendy socialist replace North Korea with [President's name]'s USA). A better question would have been

'What gives you the right to say it in a national newspaper?'

He has that right because he is an old Etonian who has greased his way up to editing an unreadable rag. The follow up question then is

'How do I get to have my equally worthless and vile opinions published on nationally distributed toilet paper?'

The answer to which is, you don't. You did not go to the right school, you do not have family connections in big business, you are not a toadying lickspittle in the government, you do not get to be heard.

It is upon this crux that the complete fallacy of the freedom of speech argument hangs. To say something controversial and not be persecuted by the baton wielding instruments of government repression is an inalienable right. But only a very few get to voice their innuendo and propaganda in a forum that reaches all the population. A medium that is advertised and aggressively marketed in every supermarket, newsagent, corner shop and kiosk in every single city, town, village and hamlet in the country. More people in this country have access to the complete range of Fleet Street dailies than to the internet. Though it is true that after a particularly messy shit you can not wipe your arse on the internet, unless you want it completely ruined as well as messy.

Bear in mind that the majority of the British press is owned by foreigners who neither reside nor pay any tax in this country. To get anything you have written into a British newspaper, tabloid or broadsheet, the opinions voiced therein must be a reflection of and serve the same political ends of the foreign capitalists that own and control our press. Newspapers do not even report the news, they only pass the opinions of their masters upon it, embellishing it with lies and exaggerations until it no longer even resembles the facts. This is not freedom of speech but an Orwellian stifling of free will. All you will read in newspapers is what the Big Brother capitalists want you to read.

The solution to this problem is simple. Instead of allowing a poisonous and self-serving minority sole access to the written word, allow nobody. Ban all newspapers from publication until they can learn to report the news instead of trying to make it. That way more people will read interesting web pages like this one.

Monday, 20 September 2004

The BBC, Talent Vacuum

We Are Allowed To Bleed You Dry, We Are The BBC




British Broadcasting Corporation is funded in a totally unique way. This is part of the prattle from one of the adverts that fills the supposedly advert free BBC. It may well be unique but it is, in fact, just tax payers money. To indulge the pleasure of watching the idiot box in Britain you are required by law to purchase a licence. The money raised from said licence goes to the BBC who then spend it on massively overproduced adverts telling the viewer how fucking wonderful the BBC is and how lucky we are to have them.

It is not like we have a choice in the matter. Anyone owning equipment capable of receiving television broadcasts, including computer video cards with built in tuner, is required by the 1904 Wireless Telegraphy Act to purchase a licence. For that you get the privilege of watching the BBC spend your hard earned cash on trashy make over programmes and adverts telling you how fucking wonderful the BBC is.

'What about all that cutting edge drama they produce?' I hear the lackeys ask. What cutting edge drama? I ask in return. Ken Loache's Cathy come home, a prime example of harrowing social commentary designed to get the middle classes wailing and the slightly depressed committing suicide, was made in 1968. That was a long time ago. All they have done since then is axe Doctor Who and Blake's 7. 'But the BBC are always on the look out for new talent.' Yes they are, and if you go to the website you find they are only looking out for new talent if you are prepared to work for free.

Being by trade a computer programmer I have never read an End User Licence Agreement in my life, whether from the devil in Redmond or from the saints in the Linux community. So it was some surprise I found myself reading the rules of a writing competition held by the BBC. Here is a quote that had me vomiting with indignation.
'By submitting a story you grant to the BBC a perpetual, royalty free, non exclusive licence to edit, publish, make available and distribute your story throughout the world on any BBC media now know or hereafter invented throughout the universe.'

If by any chance you win, ie. you are sleeping with the judges, you then have to
'agree to work with the BBC production team, be available for filming and take part in publicity throughout the UK.'

No mention of remuneration you notice. No offer of a contract at the end of it. No publishing deals, not even an option on your next novel. Just a promise that they are going to ruin your shit by sucking the talent out of your body, then piss on the remaining, worthless, husk.

Not with my work you wont. I am going to get my own publisher and become world famous. Then if you want to publish throughout the universe for ever it is going to cost you. Starting with your approach to the negotiating table, on your knees crawling over broken glass. Also to be discussed is my brilliant idea for a new children's show that you so viciously rejected a few years ago. The one about a magic hospital bio-hazard waste disposal unit, called Pus Bag.



Saturday, 12 June 2004

Upper Class Tossers

 Mindless twats on horseback


There is a certain breed of braying, chinless, Rupert out there who considers the pursuit, torture and slaughter of animals for entertainment a God given right. I do not particularly mind that the animal is chased, or tortured, or slaughtered. But I have the decency to stick it between two slices of bread and eat it. On a good day I will even cook it first. I am what is called a pot hunter. To the Ruperts, this is one step down from a child rapist. (For the Ruperts breeding with your own family members has been a way of life for generations).

Because normal, upstanding, citizens of this country abhor such foul practices, these chinless wonders descended on the capital to protest at the attacks on their way of life. Barley and beef barons dragged themselves from their ancestral piles to bitch and whine how hard life was for them. These monsters that have turned the green fields of Britain into vast monocultures, whose unspeakable farming practices caused the BSE and Foot and Mouth disasters, whose illegal dumping of nitrates and sheep dip have wiped out thousands of native species, have the nerve to complain about THEIR way of life. Well boo hoo.

They complain about the lack of local shops, yet their closure is because rapacious cunts like them jump into their Range Rovers every week and drive a hundred miles to the nearest Tesco superstore to do all their shopping. The lack of public transport and police stations angers them, ignoring the fact that it was these self serving, avaricious wankers voting the conservatives into power for 20 years that got them all cut in the first place. They want more civic amenities. Well, Einstein,you don't live in a fucking city, you live in the fucking countryside, that is what living in the countryside is all about. If you want broken down and boarded up leisure centres surrounded by crack heads and prostitutes, move to some shit hole like Birmingham.

You think you have got it tough just because the majority of voters in this country want to stop your vile and detestable practise of using dogs to rip wild animals to pieces? Well try living on a council estate in Moss Side or Cheetham Hill for a couple of years. Your paltry collection of shotguns is going to look pretty pathetic compared to the range of firearms they have down there. And make sure you grind the foresight off, you will be glad you did when it comes to removing it from your arse hole.

The next time I am enjoying my right to roam across the hills and valleys of my own country and some stuck up cow looking at me through her teeth tells me I am trespassing, I am going to take my Stanley knife, completely ruin her shit, then in my best yokel accent say.

"Sorry miss, but you aint be understanding our city ways!"

So go on, march, the more you march the less we care. Nobody gives a flying fuck about you. Here is something useful you can do. Take your web footed inbred children with you and march over the edge of a cliff, it will give us all a laugh.

Welcome to the consequences of your own fucking greed.