2 1 / 0 7 / 0 6:
'l e s b i a n s a n d r i d i c u l o u s h a t s'

 

“the bible tells us to be like god, and then on page after page it describes god as a mass murderer. this may be the single most important key to the political behavior of western civilization.”

- robert anton wilson

it was to my bewilderment that last week i found myself invited to a lesbian 'wedding'. (if i were feeling cheeky, i might be tempted to call it a 'welding', given the 'comfortable shoes' brigade's propensity for the wearing of overalls... that's only if i were feeling cheeky you understand). the inverted commas are of course because it's not a marriage in name but is called instead (o so romantically) a 'civil partnership'. i mean, are these people committing to love each other for the rest of their lives or opening a dry cleaning business? the bewilderment came less from the fact that it was two women tying a (if not 'the') knot, than the process of marriage itself, which appeared to me as strange, sterile and just plain pointless. i've never been particularly against marriage but what difference that ten minutes of reciting stilted words and placing of rings on fingers made to the actual relationship is beyond me. call me a lapsed romantic if you like but where i once saw a declaration of love to all, now all i see is a ceremony for others rather than the couple concerned, which says nothing about anything other than the ceremony itself: "we are gathered here today... to be gathered here today." again, i'm not so much against marriage as i just don't get it. i suppose it's like children, it either feels right or it doesn't. i have friends that are very happily married and yet something about it fails to connect with me. i know there are legal advantages but above that, what else? well, i'll tell you what else, in their civil partnership the two women concerned were given a certificate, that's what else. a certificate from christ's sake, a certificate not unlike the one i once received, for my attendance only, on a short first aid course. knocked up in less than five minutes on any half-arsed desktop publishing software. ladies and gentlemen the ancient and sacred institution of marriage. but then perhaps i'll change my mind when i meet the right man.

dear internet,
please believe me when i say that should i begin to suffer from erectile dysfunction of any sort in the future, i will, of course, seek relevant help and/or medication. until then i would ask that you kindly l e a v e m e t h e f u c k a l o n e. you hectoring cunt you.
yours most sincerely,
me.

is it fucking hot enough?! determined to keep up my regime, i journey to the swimming pool in the s e a r i n g heat of the hottest day since records began, hiding from the sun under my ridiculous cowboy hat. the hat itself was bought to be worn exclusively at glastonbury, to shade me from the virtually uninterrupted sunshine (in between deluges) and is therefore somewhat... flamboyant in its decoration, being designed chiefly to jar, as much as possible, with the flowers-in-your-hair pixie hats and gamboling tree-hugging foolishness of the aforementioned festival. with this in mind, forgive me when i tell you that the hat in question is black and has orange and yellow flames painted on it (that were there when i bought the thing) plus the added red skull and crossbones patch (guilty as charged) and four real human teeth (mine before you inform the authorities) strung from it. it was then with some trepidation that i decided to wear the hat among the housing estates of east london on my way to and from the swimming pool. how did this happen? i used to like hats, apparently as a child i went to playschool everyday wearing a different hat. how did i get to the stage that the only hat i own is a cowboy hat with flames and real teeth on it? a hat that lemmy from motorhead might well reject as " a bit much". at least i thought better of compounding the problem by mixing a cowboy hat with a cowboy shirt, eschewing my 'brokeback mountain' shirt in favour of a plainer and therefore less targetable garment. that said, i was still aware that i may end up feeling like i'd, to quote bill hicks, "turned up to a klan rally in a boy george outfit". i make a mental note before i leave to avoid the four or five full bin bags on the street on the way there that have lain untouched and uncollected for at least a week, maybe two, leaking a foul treacley stickiness onto the paving stones. in this heat the whole area around the bags has turned into a kind of holiday resort for flies, the veritable maggot circus that must be going on inside boggles the mind. surprisingly the bags were gone, having left a mark on the ground, no doubt indelible, a sort of black/brown tattoo on the pavement. maybe the authorities were concerned that in the unbearable heat the flies might burst into flames, thus setting further fires in the surrounding area. who knows the reason why the bin men may have decided to actually do their job. thankfully the scorched earth policy the weather seems to be operating kept most people indoors and so therefore unable to ridicule / steal / stab the owner of the aforementioned ridiculous cowboy hat. that said i did see a few glances and hear at least one car horn (that might have been for my benefit) but then it could have been so much worse. perhaps it will be next time...

a brief history of the colour red.

hostess elisabeth's dolphin-shaped spicy potato wedge! (the top one, can you see it?) if only the thing had shown the face of jesus, or the 'virgin' mary, we could've cleaned up on ebay... pah, bloody processed potato-based foodstuffs, we need a deity and all we get is an aquatic cetacean mammal.

i saw a bloke today on a platform at stratford. he was fully 'blinged up', swathes of solid looking chains bristling with diamonds and heavy looking pendants; a massive crucifix shone out from the centre of his chest. peeking out from behind this excess was a che guevara t-shirt. call me picky but this chap didn't look much like a marxist to me. idiot.

apparently the elusive tobias is also now getting a vasectomy. it seems i've started a trend.
q: how are the testes being worn this season?
a: slashed, sewn, divested of their procreative potential, but with new added potential for mutant offspring, that's how.

a nightmarish, if amusing, short film to keep all you single people up at night...

and so the bbc in its (blatantly finite) wisdom has announced another dramatisation of the story of robin hood. really? is this really what we need as drama in this day and age, yet another rehashing of this tired old tale? fuck me as if television drama wasn't shit enough (with a few exceptions), we have to suffer some new pretty boy leaping around the woods in green hosiery, firing arrows at fat, overacting noblemen? we're promised "sharp scripts" and a drama that "updates the popular legend for a sophisticated contemporary audience" and well, of course it might well be very well done, might be fucking great, might be the defining version for all i know but still the question has to be asked: really? where are the fucking dennis potter's? the alan bleasdales? more importantly where are the opportunities for people to actually create something new and different? ...and the answer came from television: g i v e u s m o r e o f w h a t w e k n o w, a mantra echoed ad nauseam, up and down the corridors of the film, music and publishing industries, world wide.

yesterday i saw a cream coloured honda civic. nothing special about it, just your average everyday honda civic... except for the fact that some fool had added those chrome 'rims' that continue to spin while the car is at traffic lights. piss poor 'pimping', piss poor.

an accusation that a faith crime has been committed... that's 'faith crime'. could that phrase sound any more fucking orwellian? christians and their ilk can complain about discrimination all they want, can use the revolting phrase 'hate the sin love the sinner' and talk about misrepresentation but the fact remains that the bible is steadfastly against homosexuality; in fact a copy i have to hand goes even further: "no man is to have sexual relations with another man; god hates that." -leviticus, 18:22, good news bible (given to me when i was nine years old). "god hates"? well there's a turn up for the books, a god of love hating. the above quote comes under the heading 'forbidden sexual practices', but might as well have been under the later heading of 'laws concerning gifts to the lord' because there can be no doubt about why all the major religions condemn homosexuality, and that's the fact that it doesn't contribute more bodies to the meatgrinder of the church. for a religion to prosper and spread, it needs your children. sodomy just doesn't help the virus spread. i see jesus dressed in black, wearing a crooked top hat, lank greasy hair framing his pointed maniacal features: "come and get your lollipops..." dictionary.com defines 'faith' as: "belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence" and it defines 'belief' as: "the mental act, condition, or habit of placing trust or confidence in another". 'mental act' seems very close to me to 'thought', which moves the phrase 'faith crime' a little too close for comfort to 'thought crime' for my liking.

knitting for psychos. nuff said.

i recently enjoyed a trip to see self proclaimed 'mentalist' marc salem (dya think that's what it says on his birth certificate?) courtesy of the elusive tobias. sadly, the performance was taking place at the tricycle theatre, kilburn. for those who have never been, kilburn looks not unlike a demilitarized zone of some kind. i recalled the last time i'd been there, some ten or fifteen years ago; if i remember rightly, and in a surprisingly accurate symbol of the place, a bird shat on me. on the way to the theatre some unspecified emergency at what looked like a d.i.y. shop on the kilburn high road had closed off one side of the pavement. whatever had happened required four, count em, four fire engines; and yet there was no sign of any actual fire... what it could be that required this kind of response i was unable to fathom... a whole host of cats stuck up trees? (what is the collective noun for cats? a 'slink'? a 'pin cushion'? a 'curiosity'? an 'arrogance'?). anyhoo, the show... for the most part what mr. salem did i had seen derren brown do, and with a little more aplomb and showmanship, but it was undeniable that salem's lack of pretension (cheesy gags notwithstanding) drew the audience to him in a somewhat different way, disarming them. he guessed the colour of marbles that people picked randomly out of a bag, he predicted a headline on a newspaper page, torn up and picked randomly by an audience member; you know the sort of thing. the whole idea of course is to make what isn't random at all seem just that. by the time he'd reached his finale, in all honesty the best bit of the show by far, we were all more than ready to be made to have our jaws drop. he was triple blindfolded (50p pieces and surgical tape, followed by a blindfold) and while a few audience members were told to write down something about a trip they had taken and something they had thought / felt while there, various objects were collected from other members of the pubic. in between correctly and with stunning accuracy guessing what these objects were without seeing or touching them, he would suddenly address the audience by name and tell them where they were on the trip and what they had seen, were feeling etc. i say again, he was blindfolded t h r e e f o l d. impressive entertaining stuff. go see.

so the idiot girl from the vets calls me up in the morning, half an hour before my alarm is set to go off, shattering a sleep that i was lucky enough to be able to fall into (what with the crippling heat) to ask me a piddling little insignificant question about different addresses that hostess elisabeth had given them at different times; the equivalent of "is that acacia avenue, or acacia street?", yes, that petty and inconsequential, compounding her imbecility by continuing "because i saw that they have the exact same post code" well then they're the s a m e f u c k i n g a d d r e s s then aren't they? people, i dunno.

"jul 11 1945
for the first time, napalm powder is mixed with gasoline and sprayed on live human beings. this feat is achieved by u.s. army forces against the japanese on luzon in the philippines. in grand internet tradition, we now give you the recipe to produce this horrible substance: take styrofoam, add benzene and gasoline; ignite; pour on [insert ethnic slur here]." - rotten.com

"some people think the internet is a bad thing" - john hurt, for aol

it seems that some endlessly naive and foolish christians, impatient for 'the rapture', are eager to see irael's bombing and impending invasion of the lebanon as a sure fire sign that their time has come... one of my favourites: "something inside me is exploding to get out, and i don't know what it is" -your staggering credulity perhaps?

scabies and mentalmen, after a little research, i can now announce that the collective noun(s) for cats is/are as follows:

a clowder of cats
a clutter of cats
a glaring of cats
a pounce of cats
a dout of cats (house cats)
a nuisance of cats (house cats)
a kendle of cats (kittens)
a kindle of cats (kittens)
a litter of cats (kittens)

you may take your pick, but my favourite, and the clear winner as far as accuracy goes, has to be 'a glaring of cats'.

recommended: (audio) 'the dying submariner'/ 'the dead submariner' -cds- by andrew liles / (comestible) 99 / (visual) ridiculous hats / (sensorial) anything colder than the surface of the fucking sun

reviled: (audio) the sound of football on concrete / (comestible) home made wedding cake / (visual) bin bag pavement tattoo / (sensorial) t h e f u c k i n g h e a t

 

and finally: . so now you know.