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'u t e n s i l o b s e s s i v e'

 

i had a dream that someone (or, i think two someones) were trying to cut off my (right) hand with a serrated steak knife. one of them made an incision in between the ulna and the radius and cut neatly and easily to the edge. it was as they were preparing to finish the job that i woke up. i never saw either of the people involved, only their hands, their knife, my hand and wrist, in close up, against a white background. it reminded me of a dream i had annually for about three or four years when i was a child: against a similar white background a naked foot was lowered into view. a hand gripped the foot's heel and pulled back a thick flap of skin, about an inch deep. inside the foot was revealed no blood, no bone, but solid skin; several small seeds lay inside the foot. and that was it. answers on a postcard.

a strange feature of my new eastern locale: i keep hearing an ice cream van but have never seen it... an ice cream van? at this time of year? but it's fucking freezing cold. it struck me that perhaps it's a cover for distributing heroin and crack cocaine to the estates...

the dlr:
pros - better view, brighter, more room, feels less cramped, even in rush hour
cons - the average waiting time for a train is something like 10 minutes, o, and unlike the tube, cretins can still use their mobile phones while on it

as jon in japan has often pointed out, i have a somewhat obsessive portion of my personality, something that was brought to my attention again recently. i have a particular kind of spoon i like to eat my breakfast with (a different kind than i like to eat my lunch and dinner with), is that so strange? when packing to move, hostess elisabeth wanted to throw away my breakfast spoons, to which i protested; she recanted and agreed to keep 3 or 4. however, on unpacking, it appeared as if only one of these spoons had been kept, which left me feeling like a total spaz every morning for hunting through the cutlery draw and the draining board until i found it. there's nothing like highlighting an obsessive habit to make you feel like a world class mentalist. thankfully the other spoons have now turned up. i am spoon boy, hear me roar.

hoorah for finding the bathroom extractor override switch...

it was revealed to me last weekend that i am from criminal stock. it turns out my grandad fred (paternal grandfather, died before i was born) was in prison for around 9 months for breaking into a shop...!? my dad says he remembers as a boy being confused when hearing his dad and his mates talking about wearing socks on their faces. hmmm. then apparently there was a great grandfather who appeared on the front of the news of the world (i think) because he ran off with someone else's wife. at last my tainted and morally bankrupt genes show their origin. file under: excuses to be used in court.

the venerable gude announced on saturday that his finger itched "inside".

for those willing to stick with its theatrical look and feel for close to 3 hours, i heartily recommend the lars von trier film 'dogville'. the seemingly innocent fable-like story grows slowly but ends like a cricket bat in the face. great script. great acting. great film. rent now.

ker-rist this ken livingston thing is just fucking ridiculous -for those living away from the british isles read: www.rabble.ca/babble/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic&f=38&t=000062
the whole media furor is just so transparently whipped up to serve livingstone's enemies it's frankly amazing that there's anyone who can't see straight through it. i mean, i didn't vote for the man (in fact i didn't vote), i have no political axe to grind but it seems to me that the mayor is unique in british (world?) party politics in that he stands by what he believes in, says what he means and makes himself available to the public to a surprising degree. it is this that made him such a target and that brought about this current tsunami in a teacup. and now all these pressure groups with their own greedy agendas, all consumingly uninterested in common sense or the truth of the matter, pushing for their own exposure at the cost of the facts. meanwhile 'offended of hampshire' or whoever, dripping in the bile and frenzy of the daily mail, eats it up as cheap fuel for their righteous indignation. pathetic. would this fuss have been made if the human scum of a reporter hadn't just happened to be jewish? is it that that makes livingstone's comments anti-semitic? o don't be so cripplingly stupid. they were not anti-semitic. at all. comparing someone to a nazi concentration camp guard is no more racist than comparing someone to a racist. can we never grow up? can we never stand on our own two feet and make our own decisions? form our own opinions? referring to someone who does their job with arrogance, cruelty or sneering officiousness as a "tin pot hitler" or "nazi" has been common parlance since the war. does such language devalue the holocaust? i doubt that the people who use this phrase would think so and i'd bet my life that after using such a phrase no one has ever said "y'know what, i'm beginning to think that hitler chap was right..." if anything, using these phrases keeps the holocaust as a symbol of what most people would agree is the race-crime of the millennium. if anyone has 'devalued' the jewish people it's the reporter who 'doorstepped' the mayor, who used his accidental jewishness as ammunition against his boss's favourite pariah. stop reading newspapers (right-wing, left-wing, supposedly non-partisan, whatever) when they go out of their way to recruit you, their readership, as the morally outraged footsoldiers in a war of their editor's own political machinations; in fact, if you find yourself unable to read, compare and contrast different opinions and construct your own out of them, stop reading newspapers completely, they make you a simpering cretin and a dangerous liability to society... and not even in a good way.

it seems that our fan assisted oven is a television for cats. every time it's turned on she sits and stares at it, watching the fan cause the silver foil at the bottom of the oven to quiver and oscillate. o to be so easily pleased.

hostess elisabeth has finally admitted to being "a gay man trapped in a woman's body". i think a therapist would see that as progress.

hostess elisabeth was moving offices again and foolishly i offered to help. i arrive at the office at around 11 in the morning. cut to: hours later and i'm easing my aching form into bed at 4:15 in the a-fucking-m. as i lay there i couldn't help noticing that the light from my bedside lamp had cast a strange shadow on the ceiling -the unmistakable (and not altogether inappropriate) silhouette of the grim reaper, frozen, scythe held high, as if embarrassed, caught 'mid-reap':

can you see it?

as i slipped gratefully into sleep, it crosses my mind that this apparition may mean that i will never wake up... i am woken however, at 9am the same morning when someone new moves in upstairs and decides to beat out an avant garde percussion session on a set of metal shelving, or an iron bedstead. at first the sound permeated my dreams, i dreamed i was still helping with the office move, carrying huge metal sheets up never ending sets of stairs, clanging and banging against walls and steps....

the pope has been rushed to hospital again suffering what the media are amusingly describing as a "breathing crisis". i'm not sure i should feel grateful that another dangerously bigoted, deluded, deluding, retarded tit is about to leave the planet, or full of dread for the suffocating media coverage of the idiotic cloying, wailing and gnashing of teeth that will no doubt greet his death. by the end of the day it's still the top story on the news... i mean, it's not as if we're a catholic country is it?

...and now we're told that he's had a tracheotomy: www.healthatoz.com/healthatoz/Atoz/ency/tracheotomy.jsp
so doctors have opened a hole in his windpipe. hmmm, i wonder who's responsible for the multiple holes in his arguments?

and then appearing as another media wet dream there's charles and camilla. o for fuck's sake. i'm not sure what irritates me more, the fact that this story is trivial and pandemic, or the fact that i know in my heart of hearts that if they'd both been better looking and perhaps a little younger, that this story would be held up by all and sundry as a great romantic epic of our time. pathetic. a n o n e v e n t.

i narrowly missed getting my head kicked in last night on the dlr (so the following can be added to the 'cons' listed above). i was standing writing a note to myself in my pocket diary when two young men got on. one of them (the big one) leaned close to me and practically shouted "stop trainspotting!" (referring to my diary) thinking he was very amusing. i looked up at him, looked back at my diary, mouthed the word twat and went back to writing. i heard this moron talking to his friend, they clearly hadn't known each other long as he was doing his best to impress him. he told him that he was twenty two but people often thought he was older, he told him that he was an ex-boxer and rugby player but had to give it up because he got a perforated eardrum. as the train approached my station, he pointed at me and suggested to his friend that i looked like i was on crack. i ignored him and moved towards the doors. "sort your nose out!" he shouted (that old chestnut, now there's one i've not heard since school). at this point, rightly or wrongly, i was moved to answer back. i looked up at him and noticing his acne, said "sort your spots out" in a kind of 'why are you talking to me, i can be childish too' way. perhaps not the most intelligent thing i've ever done considering his size. he then feigned a boxing move and asked me if i "wanted some" (i considered asking him "some what?" but decided against it). at this point i left the train, telling him that he was "a very intelligent person". he spat at me but missed, his voice following me down the platform, telling me that i sucked cock (i think that was the knub of his jist anyway), i made the duck-like 'talk talk talk' motion with my hand and walked away as slowly as i could down the platform. i think i managed to walk the thin line between not allowing the idiot to treat me like a cunt and not waking up in hospital quite well (but then i think luck had a great deal to do with it); next time i may not be so lucky.

apparently i whistle in the bathroom, while being completely unaware of it.

um... our phone line seems to have gone dead...
ah, that's better.
when the bt man called back to say the line was fixed i was convinced he was another of those recorded phone calls, just a machine on the line from the other side of the world; there was a pause. "Um, hello?" he said, breaking the spell. i'll admit i was a little taken aback. it was the audio equivalent of pinocchio becoming a real boy.

hostess elisabeth reports that, upon passing pentonville mountain, the house is still standing empty, the curtains we left behind unchanged. all those rooms empty, still and quiet:

"as all partings foreshadow the great final one, -so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper what your room and what mine must one day be."

-from 'bleak house' by charles dickens

recommended: (audio) 'pregnant asian special' -cassette- by smell & quim / (comestible) microwaved chocolate brownies with vanilla ice cream / (visual) dogville / (sensorial) the moment just before sleep

reviled: (audio) an early morning avant percussion session / (comestible) soggy, leathery sausage in batter / (visual) boxes, again / (sensorial) aching legs after the office move