Ton Dernier Acte

When I am gone, distant from this green and woody earth
remember to leave tears out of my eulogies ~
they are neither wanted or needed
for I am in a kingdom no mouth shaped love can touch.
I am not laden with ageing flesh and cataracts,
nor feel tender pain through gums and fingertips.
The hand-me-downs have left my heel
like eels in lather;
cigar smoke breaking free from rats on a leash
and there the tides meet coral raptures.
The hands strike for armageddon,
slap for the dawning of human chains.

Welsh. In Blood. In Spirit. In Tongue.

I am bringing up my daughter Elwen, the same way I was brought up; speaking fluent Welsh. Everyone on my mothers side of the family were Welsh speakers (and fiercly proud of being Welsh) and so naturally it will be carried on through Welsh stories, schools and everyday chatter.
It would be a tragedy of the highest order if Welsh (Cymraeg) ever died out and I will do my damnedest to make certain it doesn't. And if everyone in Wales followed suit our beautiful language would be safe. I have very little time for those who stick to english when conversing or singing with their children. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Would you see this happen in Italy or Greece? Their children sticking to english? Never! Babes there are taught Italian and Greek first, english second (if at all in some areas) and we are a poorer place for not doing the same.
Not poorer in cultures and lands of course (we Celts can rival anything on the Mediterranean) but poorer in day to day ways. We should ALL, each one of us Welsh make sure our children speak our mother tongue.
If you dont speak it yourself, LEARN it! If for nothing else the good of your children (and country.) Should our 'iaith' fade out due to laziness it would, as I have said, be a terrible, terrible tragedy. I see so many people claiming to be proud of their Welsh heritage, then PROVE IT! Embrace our language, speak it often and ingrain it into your children. Language is vitally important to a country; it is one of the seeds from which so much can grow.
Do your child and Wales a huge favour ~ Siaradwch Cymraeg. Nawr!

No Wind In The Sails

If I were to predict the age of my demise I would place a bet on either forty two or forty three. And since I am thirty nine right now, it doesn't leave me with much time left. But am I concerned? Does this early journey to the casket have me chewing on my thumbs and basted in a worried lard? Well quite frankly no. And I'll try to explain why.
Having sat in the hood of death, and under the stalks of misery, for a number years now I have reached the decision that dying at forty would not be as big a tragedy as many seem to believe. It might be 'young' but to me it is almost the perfect age to shuffle into the ether. And NO I am NOT 'depressed' or 'down in the dumps' or whatever other flimsy diagnosis could (falsely) be heaped upon me.


Abide with me

I have done enough in my nearly four decades; drank enough to sink a battleship, kissed enough horny lips, banged a head to metal until the cymbals woke the dead, eaten more snakes than eagles. The list goes on and on, way beyond the last mile that condemned prisoners are fond of speaking of.
So forty doesn't look as bad a year to drop from the tree to me. Afterall what can I do at forty that I couldn't do at thirty? And do it quicker too.
When I reach forty I will be able to do whatever I did at thirty (only slower) and when I get to fifty I will be doing the forty stuff (again only slower.) On and on the bandolier of time is fed through the same tedious chapters. To me there is only so much repeats I can suffer before wanting to throw in the mortal towel.
At twenty I wasn't too impressed by those in their thirties, who seemed dead on their feet to me, and now that I am coming to the end of my thirties I can say with feeling that I was correct in my younger assumptions. Life is thoroughly unimpressive.
Now that I think of it, there really is no young and old to my mind. Its all one, long stretch and I do not really wish to string out another four decades doing the same things but taking longer to do them.
However (and heres where those who see my thoughts as 'suicidal' are proved wrong) I do not WANT to die. Why on earth would I? I have recently become a father to a beautiful, adorable girl who I love with every fibre of my soul so eventhough death looks quite attractive, I will not be taking the dirtnap for a long while. If I have any say in the matter.
I want to live, I really do! Jingle bells, jingle bells, dashing through the snow all of that. Its a wonderful thing is Life (even for the permenant hospital dwellers and those scrotes on death row.) I have so much to live for, but in the same breath I don't see the tragedy if some miserable disease were to strike me down this instant. All im saying (in my rambling kinda way) is I am prepared to fall at any time, and if one is able to complain and whinge in the EverWorld (afterlife) then you certainly won't here whining from my soul. Forty is a long time, anything beyond it is a bonus. If I live a life as full as a eighty year old in half the time, I don't mind dying at forty.

The Wisdom Of The Clueless

Heroin users in the county of Carmarthenshire are being encouraged to smoke the drug by a 'community partnership' (whatever that means) in an attempt to cut down the use of needles among drug addicts. Utter madness ! And a perfect example of how removed from reality some people are. Well intentioned they might be, in tune with addicts they are not. But I am, and can safely say without fear of being proved wrong that trying to get junkies (or recreational users, there are a few) to inhale heroin rather than inject it is like trying to control a hurricane.
The kind of people who are out to get high don't care much how they achieve it and I know there will be old friends reading this local news report with mile wide grins on their faces. Just as I would be if I were still filling my arms with that rubbish. Its like trying to preach the virtues of beer drinking over spirits but at the end of the day it will ALL kill you DEAD no matter how you achieve your blotto.
In fact the more I think about it, the mpre dangerous this idea is; drug users are none too bright to begin with so this could be a green light for them to go out and get blasted on smack. 'I saw it in the paper,' they'll slur. 'Its okay to use foil as long as its not needles.' Mark my words, someone somewhere WILL use this while attempting to justify their drug use.
However most of them will ignore it and carry on shooting up. There is already a mistrust (even contempt) toward 'suits' among the users and this will only further the animosity. Who wants to listen to advice from people who clearly have NO IDEA about taking drugs? The general consensus would be 'get back in your company Mercedes and leave us the hell alone!'
Sure their barmy ideas make the councillors and yoghurt knitters feel good about themselves and thats fine, tap yourselves on the back dears, but don't carry on like these ideas will do any good. They won't, believe me. As I have already said, things like this are only good for supplying the addicts with just more excuses to use.
Replacing foil with needles is like giving alcoholics benzodiazepenes (valium type drugs) to take instead of booze, effectively cutting off one dragon's head and replacing it with another. Addiction is addiction is addiction! You can never hope to help people caught in this type of vicious whirlwind by keeping them in the same toxic broth, or giving them the OK for one method of abuse while dismissing another.
One of the people who supports the 'needle for foil' scheme told the Llanelli Star newspaper. 'It's actually a step down. It sounds ironic in a way but it is encouraging people out of using needles and taking the first tentative step into getting treatment.'
My goodness, really? Does he really believe this gumph? Surely 'getting treatment' requires the addict to make an honest decision to get clean and seek the relevant help, not just switching from injecting to inhaling the drug. The first steps should NOT be toward snorting heroin fumes off foil but finding professional help in opiate withdrawal. The methadone route had very limited success (most of the people I knew where using heroin on top of their methadone prescription) and I don't hold a much better forecast for this idea.

Ignorance Is Not Bliss

British crime and the leniency of judges are highlighted yet again with the tragic case of a woman who was savagely murdered by a cruel, thuggish ex lover. Nurse Jane Clough, 26, had only recently given birth to a daughter, who now due to a daffy justice system will grow up never knowing her mother.
Miss Clough had split from her partner after having horrendous brutality forced upon her which nobody should suffer but even apart from him she still feared for her life and kept a diary which proves her fears were very real. Its a damning piece of evidence that shows just how little faith the British people have in its criminal justice system to protect us from the bad elements.*
How right Jane Clough was to be afraid because instead of refusing bail and letting him stew in jail, the judge in his wacky wisdom decided to grant the man freedom. A decision which has now allowed MURDER to be added to the list of crimes with which he was accused of. I have tried looking for this idiot justices' name but it has eluded me thus far.
Another tragic case where our softly softly approach to crime has clocked up yet another senseless killing. Dickens was right, the law IS an ass. And not only an ass but its willing to sacrifice the very lives of innocent people in favour of light sentences for the guilty. This is truly monstrous.

* If I were to witness a violent crime I would ignore it completely because reporting it and relying on authorities to keep me safe during any subsequent trial would be too stressful and I would not trust police or judges to keep me safe from criminals intent on retribution.
I am not alone in this train of thinking, many others feel exactly the same way and this is how leniency towards crime in Britain has led to vicious thugs gaining the upper hand. Justice ought to be ashamed. And reviewed.

A Poet's Last Meal

In an attempt to stir some appetite into my gin soaked stomach and to satisfy the morbid urge which permenantly resides in me, I am going to compile a list of foods I could never live without and which would certainly be on my last meal wish list should I ever find myself on death row.

1. Welsh Fry Up

An obvious first choice for me as my life would be unlivable without this fantastic meal. Scientific fact right there. But the bacon MUST be crispy and not undercooked so that the rashers look like pale straps of leather and NEVER under any circumstances 'cooked' in a microwave. Thats just committing a terrible culinery sin. Not to mention wasting perfectly good swine. Eggs must be done 'sunny side up' too as our American chums call it. None of this frying on both sides like I have witnessed in some cafes. Why do it? I want my yolk yellow and runny not resembling a burnt offering. Nice premium pork and apple sausages of course. And a few black pudding pieces and a slice of fried bread to complete the job. Never add hash browns because contrary to what some believe, hash browns DO NOT go with a Welsh Fry Up. Ever.


'Thats enough for me love'

2. Cawl

A Welsh dish and strong contender to be our national food. It contains lamb or mutton (with the fat trimmed off the broth during cooking), beef, pork or bacon. Vegetables used also vary, though leeks are often included, as are potatoes and carrots along with celery and onion and parsnip or turnip.
'Cawl cennin' on the other hand is a leek cawl that is made without meat but using meat stock. Cheese is a delicious addition. Cawl is best made by grandmothers and old aunts as they have the right skill required to make the sacred stew. There is truly an art to cooking it. Get it wrong (as young 'uns usually do) and you end up with a watery bowl of soup. That is not cawl. Cook it correctly using the old traditional way and you have a broth fit for God Himself.

3. Roast Dinner

Sundays were the highlight of the week for me (food wise) when I was growing up. We would go to my grandmothers house for Sunday dinner and boy the beautiful aroma would hit you even when walking up the garden path! It could be roast chicken, beef or pork with mashed potatoes, roast potatoes and the offending veg like swede, parsnip, carrots and sprouts. (I tended to eat the vegetables first in order to get them out of the way quickly.)
Pork was my favourite. One of the reasons was because my grandmother made great pork crackling/rind. Im not sure why but Christmas dinners were never the same as these dinners and of course all a festive dinner is is a Sunday roast on steroids. Maybe thats the answer, too big.

4. Roast Duck With Mushrooms

Get this dish from a Chinese restraunt and its a cracking eat. The giant mushrooms compliment the fleshy, juicy pieces of duck perfectly. And never go the chips route with this meal, always egg fried rice. Putting chips on the plate makes it 'feel' wrong because all the food is chunky. Big pieces of duck and mushroom with rice go much better.

5. Fish & Chips

The great British seaside favourite! You cannot go wrong with fish and chips when done well. Nice golden, crispy batter which melts off the fish to reveal white flakes of cod or hake. (And indeed a lot of other fish too.) If the chip shop gets the chips right and they are not the soggy type offered usually at funfairs, then all the better. I am certain I can smell vinegar even as I type this! Ah yes, vinegar is ESSENTIAL to this meal.
I went through a time of ignoring fish in chippy's, opting instead for pie and chips. What a fool I was! Cod is far superior and healthier too. (In terms of fish meat and the beef in pies not the batter and pastry.) Happy to report that my ignorant palate is now cured and I am in love with fish and chips these days.
But be warned! The shoddier places can make this fine dish a mushy, horrible mess where the batter is soft and the chips are swimming in grease so always choose a chip shop that don't have dead flies on the window sill or slabs of battered fish which have been left in the heated part of the counter for what looks like the best part of a week. (Every town has one of these chippys.)
My personal recommendation is Park Road chip shop in Tenby. I can guarantee you the BEST fish and chips here. Honestly they are divine.

6. Lamb Moussaka

This is a relatively new meal for me having only discovered it 2 years ago but as soon as I tried it I absolutely loved it. Different countries have their versions of moussaka but its the Greek type which sirens my tongue to the dinner table. The dish includes layers of meat (lamb is my preferrence) and aubergine topped with a white sauce. Also thrown in are courgetes, part fried potatoes andsauteed mushrooms which is all then baked to make a mouth watering feast. Delish!

7. Cheese On Toast

An old favourite of mine since boyhood days, a timeless classic that I have never (could never) get bored of. And as simple as boiling a kettle. Toast a slice of bread on one side, turn over and put sliced cheese on top and grill until the cheese has melted and the edges of the toast are...well toasted. Ive tried a few different types of cheese but mature cheddar seems to work best. For added flavour you can also put a dash of Worcester sauce over the melted cheese.

'four slices ta!'

8. Lamb Vindaloo

Can you tell im a big lamb lover yet? (And im Welsh too, ooer!) And this is another newbie for me since I only tried one at the beginning of this year. Amazing stuff! Its famous for its ability to scald the linings of your gob off and do severe posterior damage when on the exit route, but to be honest thats one of the reasons I enjoy it so much. I love extremes. The lamb is tender, the sauce and chili tingling with every bite. This is what curry should be all about, not those lightweight pretenders.
It would also be hilarious to order one of these as a final meal before execution as the clean up crew and autopsy lad would have an 'interesting' time.

9. Welsh Cakes

The only sweet thing on my list and it has to be the beautiful Welsh cake. In Welsh they have many names like Picau Maen, Picau Bach, Teisen Radell or Cacen Gri, depending on which part of Wales you are in. (Picau Maen is the commonest here in West Wales.) They are one of the few cakes that, in my personal opinion, go well with a cup of tea. (Glengetti of course!)

10. Noodles In A Scotch Egg

This is one that you won't find anywhere else. Its a concotion that I myself came up with a long time ago. (Roughly 200 years. Or feels like.) I was rummaging in the fridge during a rare break from drinking and upon noticing nothing more enticing than a scotch egg I grabbed it from the shelf. Now being a man of LARGE appetites (both drink and food) one puny scotch egg just wasn't going to cut it. So I headed to the cupboard and the first thing I clapped my famished eyes on was a Pot Noodle. (Chicken and mushroom flavour for the record.)
The idea hit me in an instant; pull the egg from the....er scotch and fill it with freshly boiled noodles! Don't waste the egg of course, just pop it in your mouth like a yolky gobstopper. And believe me, it tastes great! You only need to cut a small hole in the breadcrumby scotch shell, just enough to get the egg out and then simply tip in the noodles.

N.B. ive not tried any other flavour Pot Noodles so don't know if the beef or curry flavours would work.

A Man In A Witches Hat

The pope is visiting Great Britain this week. Should I be happy? Should I be falling over myself to touch his hem like tone deaf idiots did with The Beatles in the 1960's? No I should (and will) not. The man has so much evil under his collar that its a wonder he is not crippled. Not him personally of course but the Catholic church as a whole.
I find the whole organised religion thing quite sour, and where there are organisations like these there will always be trouble. What shocks (frightens too) me more is that these papal visits draw crowds in by the hundreds, if not thousands. Granted they have pockets of protestors but there are more yelling as if a successful rock band has just hit town.
Funny thing human beings. A species that, while technologically advanced from apes and hippopotamusses, are really very backward in most other ways.

Words On Fire

Two words to send me to the valium cabinet - Political and Correctness. Put them together and they have me running to the hills, shotguns in both paws and looking for targets. Does anyone really get upset over descriptions that 'don't fit right'? If so there are some seriously insecure people wandering around.
Pull yer socks up you feeble minded and soft centered people! To think we are not 'allowed' to call tramps tramps or a drain a manhole is actually insulting. Remember the gollywog debacle? Hundreds of hairy women (it was probably them) decided that the name 'gollywog' was offensive to black people and thus not to be used. What happened? Black people admitted it was ridiculous and much hilarity ensued. The supposedly offended party wanted NOTHING to do with it.
Where do these people come from? Do they sit around knitting yoghurt all day while trying to decide what other words are offensive to people? We can't even sing nursery rhymes anymore because these wallies have said that lines like 'ba ba BLACK sheep' might be derogatory to black people. Yes this nonsense is what Britain has come down to. Pen pushers with degrees in sociology (probably) puffing up their wimpy chests and demanding we dumb down to everyone. Nothing can be said anymore before checking up that every word is acceptable to everyone.
Well im sorry (actually im NOT) but I for one will not stand for it. Get your silly little heads from out of your lentil spewing backsides you liberal horrors, a tramp is a f**king TRAMP and my GOLLYWOGS are gearing up to kick your petty suggestions straight into touch.
Its actually insulting to the minorities they speak up for but of course these cloth eared fools will never understand this.

Only Stone Lieth Here

Allow me to say before I start that I do not believe death to the End, quite the opposite in fact. I believe there is a rootin' tootin' howler of a party when one crosses the veil into the Afterlife, a place where I can personally thank Coleridge for his wonderful poetry and ask Freddie Mercury what he was doing in Queen. I really do believe in that stuff regardless of what my fellow poets and writers have written so it may not come as a suprise to read what im going to say next.
Graveyards. Why do people visit them? Is it because they are the place which holds a loved ones bones? Or is it because in this ever increasingly busy world, a cemetery is one of the few places left one can find any semblence of peace?
Allow me to set my stall out fully here. Two years ago my mother passed away at an early age. Naturally I was devastated but since she crossed over to those platinum pastures I can count on two hands how many times I have visited her grave. Heartless? Hardly, I weep for dying deer in the middle of the road, it is simply because I know (really know) that she is not in her grave. Sure a shell of what was once my mother lays there but her spirit is now enjoying a very different plateau. She is with me every day so why would I want to visit a slab of marble? That makes no sense to me and in fact looking at cold stone only serves to make the mourner even more miserable (if that were possible) because nothing echoes sadness better than stone.

Mister Ed Burger and Lassie Curry

By now you will realise dear reader that I am more carnivore than omnivore and today im willing to push the boat (or cleaver in this case) out further and suggest adding horse and dog meat to my already bulging at the seams diet. And why not? I know we have a close relationship with these animals through work (farms, police, etc) and entertainment (My Little Pony, Lassie, etc) but would it be so wrong to dine on them also? Afterall meat is meat and some countries do partake of these meats so its not entirely taboo.
Different places have different attitudes of course; for instance in Ecuador guinea pigs are eaten much like chicken is here, whereas we British keep them as pets but I wouldn't turn my greedy nose up at a guinea pig casserole. In fact it sounds delicious. But going back to horse and dog, is it so wrong to make curry out of doberman or shire horse? There are certainly plenty of them and I would feel more comfortable snacking on horse than say alligator.
I know that dogs and man have been living together, helping each other, for more than 30,000 years. Some studies say its actually closer to 100,000 years. But so have chickens. And cows. Ditto pigs. Oh and sheep. And living with an animal for close to 100,000 years? This is probably why I am so utterly sick of the creatures and do not find my Labrador Lasagne idea the least bit offensive.
Look im already snacking on the rest of the natural living world, I might as well add more variety to the menu. Cats don't taste too bad as it happens, similar to rabbit but more 'livery'. Bit of onion and thyme would sort it. Horse meat is okay, enjoyed the meat in burgers that ive tried but that was smothered in sauce. Another meat I kinda ruined with sauce (tobasco) was snake and I regret that.
I don't believe there is anything I wouldn't at least try. (Perhaps bat soup or buttered mice.) And im keeping good company with another animal lover here too.
What gives some countries the right to try and stop other countries from eating what they want? YOU might not like the sound of Alsatian, egg and chips buy THEY do. I find it downright bad manners. They are not savages just because what they eat offends your precious 'morals' (or whatever it is that gives you the urge to interfere.)
Iys quite simple ~ eat a pig you might as well chow down on ANYTHING else.

Fake Tan And Window Dressing

Supermarket own brands; yay or nay? I must be honest, when I was in school I used to frown upon the cheaper Happy Shopper products and insist on grand labels. I was a spoiled child/brat and if my beans were not Heinz or my cola not Coke, I would refuse to have anything to do with them. The budget things were for the tramps and I truly belived this. (Sorry dear Mother!)
These days im less fussy, and in fact see little point in buying certain 'big' named foods because they taste INFERIOR to the stuff which is cheaper. In fact I got so intrigued by it all that ive been experimenting with different products. Noodles are a huge rip off if you choose the popular brand (they also make crisps) over the supermarkets own because there is no difference whatsoever in taste. Especially if you eat them like I do from the inside of a scotch egg. (I remove the boiled egg, pour the noodles inside the breadcrumby ball and eat it as one would eat an apple.) Price between the two is a steep rise too, we're talking over £1 here.
Those packet soups are the same (im really highlighting my shabby diet here) and in fact the branded ones are WORSE as the sodium content of these things is so high one might as well drink a mug of salt. Again the difference in prices is sharp, tho not as sharp as the salt in the pricier labels' versions. Give me Morrison's soups anyday over those potentially lethal snacks.
Healthy food too such as fish can be found if one is not too bothered with plain packaging. A pack of 4 'branded' tuna cost £4 for 4 tins whilst if the shopper dismisses the name (and with fish it really is only a name) they can pick up 3 tins for £1! Fish is fish whichever way you look at it, there is no way im shelling out more for something which was hoiked out of the same ocean. Ditto crab.

Stealing The Dragons Claw

Spirits should be served and enjoyed NEAT, either with ice or not but they should never, EVER be mixed with cola or orange, or any other sickly soft drink. Why do people do this? Are they mad? Do they know of what they do? Ive watched them in taverns order beautiful smokey bourbons and whiskey only to go and ruin them by insisting on having a splash of cola added. And vodka, which seems to be the most abused spirit, gets orange, cherry, lime and God knows what else thrown at it.
It truly is like discovering the fountain of youth only to then go and piss in it.
Neat whiskey, gin *insert favourite spirit here* are grand drinks, the perfect way to wind down the days labour and tricks and ought to be treated with respect, not cheapened with fizzy pop. Its like giving mortality to the angels.
Mixing is a grave sin (in my peachy eyes) and if it were up to me id make it a punishable offence. People found to be cruel with animals are forbidden from owning them and this is what I would do to the mixers. Discovered lacing your shots with fruit flavoured soda? Banned from ever drinking spirits again, no ifs or buts, you get to drink lager for the rest of your days. *Shiver*
I wonder why they do it? Is it because they dislike the taste of spirits? If so why bother drinking them at all? Stick to those wretched WKD type drinks and leave fine stuff to we who enjoy the finer things. Perhaps its to make the drink last longer but if that is indeed the case then people are sacrificing QUALITY for the rather shabby QUANTITY. They deserve the most savage of hangovers.
I will never understand those who are happy drinking WKD and the like. Those are foul tasting drinks filled to the glassy gills with sugar. Vile nonsense. However they do compliment the cheap gold often worn by the fans very well. Nothing says CHEAP quite like alcopops, Argos gold and a dangling cigarette but I digress.
Whiskey and the rest should never be candy flavoured and is utterly spoiled as soon as the liquid sugar hits the glass. Imagine a nice Glenlivet, Aberlour or a 16 year old malt Longhorn getting that sort of treatment? Its vandalism, nothing more.
Resist in the temptation of the lemonade route and try enjoying your libations NEAT. There is a world of difference as all the aromas and blends come alive in your mouth, tasting it in all its raw perfection. Wonderful!
I might be persuaded to understand why people put energy drinks in Jagermeister because the caffiene in those type of drinks combined with alcohol is similar to a speedball of morphine and cocaine and can keep one in the game (drinking) for longer but I still prefer my Jag neat and WELL chilled.
Also apart from the appalling taste of mixed spirits there is the hangover. In younger and more ignorant years I myself wrecked drinks by tipping cola into them and the hangovers which resulted in such stupid behaviour were the most violent and miserable as I have ever known. (And as one who has almost drank himself to death on more than one occasion this is saying a good deal.) Little wonder people are sick outside bars and clubs. But like ive said, they deserve it.
Ive experienced little to no hangovers from keeping it NEAT. Heck more often than not im enjoying a full fried breakfast after a night of whiskey. Or gin. Or Jagermeister. You get the picture. And it has nothing to do with a being snobbish. You are reading an article written by someone who eats mostly with his fingers, belches proudly like a hippo and is as easy going as you're likely to find. Drinking is one of my favoured past times and when I indulge I do NOT want to be tasting soft drinks and I do NOT want to feel as if I am drinking them either. When I open a Strathisla I want to taste WHISKEY not cola. Simple.

The Monday Which Is Really A Friday

The headline is exactly what it says on the tin. I shun the usual 'weekend celebrations' of a Friday in order that I am able to partake of a drop (or ten) on Monday. I find Monday a thoroughly depressing day, much worse than Sunday, and I never intend to spend any Monday sober as long as I live. And even with a bottle it is only TOLERABLE, never HAPPY. It is a giant itch that only my brand of liquid relief is able to soothe.
And why not? I find Fridays a particularly busy day and write a good deal on those days. Perhaps my creative antenna is tuned better, or the ideas in my mind have a better Feng Shui about them? Who even cares? It is enough to know that Friday nearly always brings a bountiful crop of sonnets and wordy imps to my door and if I ignore the pleasures of wine on those days, then surely I have earned the right to treat Monday as part of the weekend and indulge accordingly.
I don't need an excuse to get erased (a better word for blotto) but I do need discipline. Even the most shambolic among us need the big D or else it all falls to bits in a worthless mess. So discipline it is then on a Friday so that it makes Monday far more alluring, dolled up in its 35% proof garments.
I don't see anything pretty on the M day. Its as if the drizzle of the day (even in sunshine) completely blunts my otherwise keen ability to see BEYOND words and events. It is like a shroud over inspiration, pretty words are hard to jemmy out of a Monday and so I shall do the sensible thing and pass on it. Im betting Wordsworth and his pal Coleridge did the same.
It is a grand day to be born on (guess what day I was born?) and not such a bad day to die on either, but as for getting anything of real substance written it is a wretched, miserable day, fit only for firewood. And alcohol. However lets back track a little here. Perhaps pornography is best written (if it can be called that) on Mondays.

Lament To Mother

Two years ago today you crossed that barbed path and the silence weighs heavy but not still. As I look to Pickles kicking I am reminded that nothing ever truly dies to those with open eyes, and you know me Mother, my eyes are wider than most. The songs of forever after don't hide from me on this wretched earth and I play them repeatedly knowing End is not so final or frail, and knowing you are not at End.

For You

There is hole now where once I ran to hide
from bitter things that would eventually pass;
a shelter where comfort was in abundance
and I knew to be safe.
A beach where all things were possible
even a peaceful world,
where I indulged without war or anger.
It has withered now you have gone
and I no longer find sanctuary.
I miss you mother
you were my peace,
my cotton swab -
all roads lead to you...

@Steven Francis poems 2010

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On ....Wales

One would think sitting here on the tail end of July with a fan buzzing away at my side as I croak out these words that I was bathed in glorious sunshine. That my Crocs (rubber shoes not pets) would be smoking on the back porch from yet another blisteringly hot ramble through the Welsh hills, while the cat sought relief in shade with a shrew puppet. Thats how it would be in a lot of places. Barbecue smoke ascending from every garden as toddlers and beer bellied men wallowed in flimsy looking paddling pools.
Alas it is not to be as I live in West Wales, on a tiny corner of the United Kingdom and it seems we don't 'do' good weather here, its just not British. We do real ales and fried breakfasts, seasides and young hoodlums (often together) but attracting a bit of lasting sunshine is beyond our Sceptred Isle. (Who said septic? Go to the back of the blog.)
Oh we get it occasionaly when theres nothing interesting happening elsewhere in the world. If its quiet on the Mediterrean front or nothing doing in Australia, then the sun will show its buttery face over Blighty but by and large we are persona non grata to the mighty orb. Even if the beer is COLD and pinball tables twinkling.
I wonder why this is? I know we can be a grumpy bunch but surely the sun can't hear our whining? Not from that height.
My guess it was down to one of those pagan druids who damned us to everlasting rain. They were always potching with spells while dancing starkers on mushrooms. Probably offended the Weather God who is not the most content of chaps to start with. (Well He DOES change his mind often but as He's a God I guess He's allowed.)
Its sad really because we have some beautiful places to visit for both locals and tourists alike. Look at Pembrokeshire doer example with places like Solva, Tenby and Newgale, which when the sun is out are truly stunning, almost like relics of fantasy lands dropped into reality to keep the notion of paradise alive. Places definately gauranteed to soothe away the anxieties of even the most restless spirit.
But anyway enough of sounding like the West Wales tourism board, lets get to the (vaguely) serious topic of British weather. Having a near constant grey canopy to live under can be extremely daunting because it robs one of the OOMPH (Americans would call it ZIP) to get out of bed in a positive and jovial manner. Its little wonder that across the pond you are greeted in shops with a merry 'Have A Nice Day Sir/Madam,' whilst over here its more like a gruff 'paper? 40p mate now sod off!' And while the last few words might be exaggeration on my part its not too far off the mark, but can you blame us? Our climate would take the grin off a dolphin.
And this whiny rant (oh I know when im whining don't worry) is coming from someone who rather dislikes the sun. Living in somewhere like Australia would send me around the bend. (Make that another bend.)

The Walrus Stole My Bicycle

Queen and The Beatles, two of the best known and most successful groups ever to have existed on this crusty old planet. Their combined albums would probably generate enough hit singles to actually power said crusty planet and their live performances are legendary (or so im told.) And yet for all of these successes and glories I am not, or ever have been, a fan.
In fact it goes a little deeper than simply disliking them, I thoroughly detest their music and not a tune I have heard convinces me otherwise. Actually thats wrong, there IS one track by Queen which I don't mind but can't for the life of me remember the title, such is the impact these two acts have on me.
I don't know why but I find the songs childish and listening to an entire album by The Beatles would be a torment for me. In all honesty I would rather suck blisters. In fact I know very little of their songs having never knowingly listened to them but what I have heard ive thought rubbish. And im not saying this to appear different or be a cool kid apart from the masses, I genuinely think the music to be juvenile and in some instances clutching at straws.
On the flip side I do regard Freddie Mercury as one of the best frontmen to have stepped on stage, he had the glamour and a commanding presence which DEMANDED the audience to look at him. A fine voice too and a guy who was destined to be famous doing whatever he chose. The trouble was (for me) that Freddie was in the wrong band. Controversial thing to say to fans of Queen but of course im merely stating my opinion. I would have loved to see him front a band like AC/DC or Whitesnake. (There was another fantastic frontman - Bon Scott.)
The only redeeming feature of The Beatles was George Harrison. I enjoyed his tune about a weeping guitar (however tacky) and the Travelling Willburys were cool but The Beatles left me cold. How Lennon can be called a great songwriter is beyond me. And that Imagine jingle was the biggest pile of rancid phlegm ever to have seeped from a speaker. Drugged and lost in his own pantomime where he thought himself some kind of guru, Lennon was a man who believed everyone loved him. He saw himself as a walking piece of art and im convinced that as soon as he closed the door on the world and retreated to the privacy of his inner sanctum, he laughed at everyone. Thats right, laughed AT his legions of fans. I don't wish to sound heartless but im glad he's not around today.
But enough on the band members, lets look at their music. The reader will have to excuse me not knowing many titles but ones I do know are 'Help' 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' and im struggling now. One about an octopus in the sea, oh yes and a Yellow Submarine! Its all very tiring and there is nothing fantastically creative there, any teenager given enough acid could come up with it. I think a lot of people believe that because its The Beatles then they MUST love them because surely I can't be the only man alive who think they sound like chimps with xylophones?
Nothing they or Queen have written (apart from the nameless Queen song) have ever shaken my spirit and got my foot tapping merrily along. They're just a boring bunch of acts and I will always be STUNNED at how well they both did. Still as the old saying goes, there is none so queer as folk eh Fred?

Eagles and Sea Birds

It is the start of the 150th Open on the Old Course at St Andrews, Scotland and as is the way for any prestigious sporting event held in Britain the wind and rain have been their predictable selves and turned up to greet both players and fans. Its as inevitable as a dangerous animal finding its way to Australia.
Anyone not from Blighty is looking around thinking 'THIS is summer for you guys?' Better believe it. In order to have the privilage of being home to Shakespeare, Coleridge, Barry John and myself the UK had to agree with the WeatherGod to near constant rain. (This agreement was also supported by the SportsGod, who not being a fan of CCTV and speed cameras preferred US sporting events but thats another story.)
They shouldn't plan these things, what the organisers ought to be doing is waiting for one of those rare scorching days to come along (they do sometimes if not doing anything interesting) and then immediately announce the Open to be erm...open so the players could rush to their private jets and all pile over in a mad rush. It would be much more fun that way, like a big international gang running when the school bell chimes.
Not that golf needs to be made more fun, its fine as it is and those who think it boring don't have any concept of risk or skill. Not this kind of sporting risk anyway. Does the player go for an easy shot down the fairway? Or try and drive it over the lake to get a (hopefully) simple lay up on the green? Play it safe or send a ball sailing over the pine hazards? The bold favour the daring strategy and the glory it pays out in. If you get it right of course.
Still this vulgar British weather is spicing everything up like an albatross in the henhouse. Or a badger. Perhaps they should shoot for badgers instead of birdies? Not shoot as in shotgun sense of the word but shoot with 3 wood drivers. It would be like Mario Kart Does Golf.
One thing before I start to get REALLY silly is the hazards at the fabled Old Course, and more precisely the bunkers. Why are they considered trouble if a golfer lands himself in one? The sand is raked so even and flat that it can hardly be called a hazard to a professional. Ok if a player finds his ball pressed up tight against the bunker wall its tricky but more often than not they find the ball in the middle of the sand, propped nicely due to the iron smooth sand. And from what im watching right now the guys are more than able to free themselves out of the giant holes. Neither coffins nor hell if you ask me. (The bunker on hole 6 is called 'Coffin' and the one on hole 14 is 'Hell'.)
Far better hazards would be craters you would need a ladder to get out of and something wild (and hungry) running around the fairways. Baboons anyone? Or perhaps a few pirhana in the Swilcan Burn? Okay daft but at least have the bunkers live up to their names by actually being HAZARDS. Stop raking the damned sand for God's sake! You can bet your caddie's shirt that when St Andrews was first played, nobody tinkered with the sand. And they had rubbish clubs back then too making the course doubly hard to play. With the type of NASA designed golf equipment on offer today I think its a cheek that the organisers make a round easier by making the bunkers as level as a billiard table.
To be fair there ought to be two choices; either playing the course with new equipment but with old style NON raked bunkers, or play with OLD clubs but allowing for the hazards to be fluffed and smoothed.
But life is never as fair as that so hazard gripe over. And nothing could ever top the roaming baboons anyway. (Well topless lady caddies would but I won't go into that here.)
Interesting to learn that 150 years ago the winners cheque was a mere £10. Today its a little bit more than that standing at around £850,000. (Excluding the accompanying sponsorship deals of course.) Now that may sound a lot, and it IS a fair chunk, but when you figure that the golfer must pay his own air fares and such then at least the prize moolah is actually EARNT. As opposed to a lot of other sportsmen who only have to turn up to get paid. (Stand up footballers.)
You see to earn the big bucks in golf you have to have consistency and keep featuring in the top 20 or 30 otherwise you win very little prize money. And what you do earn as ive said goes to hotels and airfares. I know the sponsors keep the wolves at bay but play rubbish and you wont attract them. So golf keeps it real in a sense, in that they play not only to win but put wine on the table.
The winner of this years Open Championship at the Old Course was South African Louis Oosthuizen, a little known player outside the world of golf and im very happy he did. I get bored with the big names making off with the trophy all the time so having Louis win here and an Irishman (Graeme McDowell) win the US Open last month its very refreshing. It gives the sport a shot in the arm, especially when young exciting talents like Rory McIlroy emerging on the scene. Bravo to golf!

Death On The Internet?

So its 8.18pm on a Wednesday evening and here the author sits on the floor, half propped up by a foot stool and gulping for breath. I have over abused myself (again) with booze and fast food and sweet Janine (whoever she may be) I am paying for it now. It is a scenario I have re-enacted a thousand times - binge and gorge, fade to repeat but this first night without the comforting sauce never gets any less frightening.
The only light I have is the glow from the computer screen as I prefer the creeping darkness and there is a weight atop my chest like there was a mill stone placed upon it. Oh the thoughts of heart attacks or strokes are beating at my mind, almost daring me to take a sip of alcohol to loosen my nerves but I must resist. I simply have to cleanse my system for a while. I know I am charging headlong into death as a result of an insatiable and wreckless appetite but the wise streak in me is at work tonight.
Everytime I feel a twinge I look for death around the room, praying that if tonight is the dreaded time then I may leave with courage and not whimpering like a scolded pup. Do not be mistaken, this is not the alcoholic delirium tremens that heavy drinkers often find themselves battling after a decent binge. I am not hallucinating or trembling or anything of that sort, there is only the heavy chest and dread feeling that the time of dying is so very near. I feel other men would crack under this utter doom I feel right now.
Of course my eerie surroundings only enforce the grim atmosphere that clouds me at this minute. And the heavy rain outside battering the black windows sound as if a hundred different phobias have taken a physical form and are headed for my front door riding grand steeds, both phobia and horse clad in velvet and diamonds.
At times my chest lifts giving me some time to breathe freely again, pulling on air as if each gulp was giving me strength, settling me back down to earth. Often when some terrible specteral vice has my lungs gripped I feel a brush from a feather could knock me into the grave so the relief when it ceases is instant.
It comes and goes, breathing fine the breathing heavy, breathing fine then struggling like a landed fish once more. Not pleasant but the amount of times I have gone through this I feel like my soul is shrugging its glassy shoulders as if to say 'you really enjoy this drama don't you?' And naturally I don't but the scent of over indulgence is able to seduce me at whim. I don't usually struggle too much either so my route looks to be only ONE way. For every fear that stabs me when I heave or gasp there is a bigger hunger for excess which drives me ever onward.
After this anchor on my breastbone begins to lift another blow is aimed at my bloated shell - sadness. I feel tears welling in my eyes over nothing! Well nothing sad in particular because a daft picture online might be enough to set me off or I remember a great quote; the trigger can be so bland and yet it arrives with such force, almost pressing me into the floor. And with it comes a mighty despair. I sit defenseless on the floor, sobbing, not in any theatre of self pity but at the amount of arrows and rocks I have aimed at my own body. Suddenly the grim reality hits home, shattering any shred of confidence I have and all I can think of is a desperate future. One of coffins and bramble thickets.
All of this foul moods and feeling last around 7 or 8 hours depending on the abuse the night before, but it FEELS like weeks, feels like Chinese water torture or death by a thousand cuts. Feeling a whisker away from death both physically and spiritually is extremely wretched. I cannot switch a bulb on and instantly show the reader what its like but rest assured the results from my lifestyle are as miserable as any medieval dungeon. In fact something tells me a dungeon would be a hell of a lot more comfortable.

Where Sharks Shred Flowers

After visiting some of these prison penpal sites one thing that is glaringly obvious is the fact that most on it are single and probably desperate women. There is little wonder there is no substance to what they write, no hope of good debate. These women falsely claim to be only looking for friendship, to help someone through a tough ordeal (one of the inmates making) but sensible people know they're lying. Fact is they are single and with no hope of finding a decent person they crawl onto these sites and 'find love' with murderers and robbers. Disgusting.
Call me heartless all you want but its not me who sleeps alone after a day pouring out petty ramblings onto a letter. It isn't me who will never lay down with my beloved, or never see them in nothing but prison attire. I will never need to THINK about how a kiss feels because I have them and have them in abundance.
I ought not feel anger towards these lonely women, instead I should pity them and be sad about their predicament but I cannot because some of them do much harm in their silly ways, which are not just silly but vulgar. One only has to read these vile prisoner support sites to see this. Places where violent criminals are made to look like gentlemen and crime is overlooked over a desire to meet a 'soulmate'.
What of the victims of crime? Do these women ever spare a thought to the carnage that has fallen on the victims family and friends? They can't do otherwise they would cease writing to these wretches immediately and beg for forgiveness for being so callous. Writing to murderers is NOT being caring or Christian, or any other kind label some like to stick on it. It is being cruel and thoroughly heartless in the face of good people who have lost so much.
I understand how cold the world can get when alone and I also know how hard the desire rages in the spirit when one finds themself seemingly alone but writing to killers is not the way to lighten the burden. Trust me.
Men and women in prison for heinous crimes such as murder and rape are not in the game for love. Nor companionship and only a fool would believe otherwise.
These foul specimens are advertising not for love but money and no matter how much they protest, how much they say it isn't so, they are WRONG and they fool you to believe different. Inmates have little else to occupy their time and crafting an image of pity for themselves is one of the things they have learnt to master. Especially when their sentences are so long.
Of course the true mark of any person is often for what they are known for, so murders and other violent criminals haven't really anything got anything going for them and quite rightly so. Theses people deserve no sympathy and woe betide anyone who drops their guard to offer any. It is deluded in the extreme to think some people can change. But they can, if they want you to beLIEve they can. Did you see the glowing LIE just then? Thats exactly what killers and rapists do. To anyone who corresponds with them.
Inmates write for THEMSELVES, never for the authors of the loveletters. Folly to think they do. They are looking at four walls every day, little wonder they craft the most sincere adverts for their amorous admirers. There is no stopping to think if the SINCERE part is in any way HONEST in the gusto to trust a murderers word. It is not by the way. The greatest trick the murderer ever pulled was making murder look like a crime where the KILLER is the victim and not the real victim. Hence the palty sentences we constantly hand down to perpetrators of this horrific crime.
No. The prisoner is ONLY in it for themselves and desperate women seem to be in abundance to worship the sob stories. It is in fact two desperations meeting head on; those of the incarcerated and those pathetic live alone women. And those locked away are creating ever more victims because have no doubt that however idiotic these penpals seem to be, they are undoubtedly victims. Being used for a criminals ends, nothing more.
But write away! As everybody who is deserving of a real life get to enjoy a proper Life then so are certain people doomed to exist in letters only. Letters to wretched inmates with terrible UNFORGIVABLE crimes.

In Preperation Of Mega Horns

I have a heart, the heart of a woollen fish but the head of granite. A lion's head, stubborn in habits and brave on paper. On paper. The sharp edges of reality are often sharp and cold to touch. But isn't it the way? As I am wheeled in on a portable electric chair, yelling all things DEATH that I should shirk with fever and cower should the unimaginable become REAL.
Many if not all are true of this and with the advent of the internet it has become even more evident. We can rage and seethe, whine and yell our bravado all we like to our faceless audience but it is all a sham. A logo-less flag flapping in a empty gale.
This is essentially the face of the internet. Blank hooligans rattling at cyber bars while trees grow stronger outside. And taller. We have discovered a wonderful tool but need to grip the power to its full extent. We will too in time just as we learned to control fire but in the meantime we shall have to put up with the SCREAMERS pouring their self-loving superiority into the webs endless vaults. I just wish they'd add some humour to the pomp. People always take others that bit more seriously if their SPOUTING contains a dash of comedy because it makes you feel more down to earth. And of course not so hostile. Nobody who is true to themselves (and beliefs) want that.

Child Zombie Chills

I was a cruel child. Not regular cruel, or 'naughty boy' cruel but genuine vicious cruel. I was the type of kid who would salt fish gills whilst the fish was alive and kick puppies if I was bored. Not a nice boy but one who survived on good deeds and pleasant manners. I was good at the con trick. A sweet choir boy facade, I could walk on butter and leave no trace.
However a dark heart lurked within my frame. By the time I reached 8 years old I was plucking goldfish out of their tank at home and stabbing them with corn on the cob spiked holders, caught in what I can only describe as a morbid fever. Utterly thrilled by the power I had over the death of another living creature when I was so young, I knew too soon the mechanics of a kill. Newts were also not spared from my madness and I would collect them in tens to put in a giant boiler tank in the garden filled with a black water. Not all would be killed but many were unfortunate enough to be splattered against the wall by use of catapult.
What would possess such a normally mild mannered and timid boy to become such a fiend at times? I was born into a loving family and wanted for nothing. In fact I was a spoilt brat and seldom did anything not go the way I wanted it. I got all the love and attention I needed but always in the back of my mind was death and its grand mystery. The reaper has sat on my shoulder since forever, like a pirates parrot headbutting every idea into a grim scuttle that holds the pitch gem coals of mourning, loss and misery.
I remember well how I would creep downstairs whilst my parents slept and headed to the goldfish tank with sadistic intent. Plunging a hand into the cold water I would grab the slowest fish with a rising, grisly excitement ringing through my spine and place it on a table, getting my pyjamas wet from the poor creatures thrashing. It was this moment during my mania which felt the most potent; the time just before the kill, where I had all power in my young, tender hands. Sometimes the motions of the fish could break the spell which seemed to hold me mesmerised and I would feel pity and put the goldfish back but usually it ended in the other, gorier outcome.
As the intense power buzz reached the summit in my perverse head, I would bring the sharp prongs of the corn cob holder down onto the body of the miserable fish and smile whilst stabbing it repeately. Not frantic stabs; stab one, watch it dying, stab two, watch it dying, stab three, look at it dead.
And after life had been snuffed out I would flush the carcass down the toilet and put my corn holder 'weapons' back into the drawer.
In the morning I would get the obligatory ticking off by my mother but I do not think my parents were that worried about their sons disturbing habits. It only happened twice with the fish so perhaps they thought I disliked those particular fish? And the catapulted newts was a one off. I was not an evil child, I didn't kill every animal I found. Bigger animals such as cats and dogs were never in danger, in fact I was (and still am) an animal lover excluding those instances where I temporarily became manic.
The only other time I experienced one of these dark 'outbursts' was a few years later when I discovered a slow worm under a flat piece of plywood in the garden. I happened to have a nitrogen spray on me (another story) and that same dark mist descened upon my spirit and I was compelled to spray the reptile, suffocating it in spray while I looked on in glee.
I am at a loss in explaining these quite frankly sick (but mercifully brief)periods of my bygone years but I am relieved to report that they did not shape the man I was to become. These were aberrations in an otherwise normal childhood, a childhood I must add that was filled with a LOVE for nature and animals. At all other times I have acted with nothing but kindness towards other creatures, weeping uncontrollably in some instances over losses at pets and tragic stories.
Its fascinating how many serial killers have began their 'career' doing what I was doing and quite frightening if I allow myself to think how near I was to the same edge. But whilst their rage, hurt, anger, call it whatever, consumed them making them target bigger animals before moving onto humans, my rage was quelled by a streak in my spirit which smothers everything; it is gentle and kind, it is the backbone of my very being. Beyond my rough exterior and savage yells lurks a peaceful imp.
And God love it because without it there would be only steel along with the cold, black eyes of a Great White shark. Also learned men would be proved correct with their tedious theories and never ending waffle and I could never have that.

Bored Cup Twenty/Ten

So one of sportings great festivals is almost upon us. The wonderful football (yeah right) World Cup is due to begin in a few days in South Africa and peoples of the planet should rejoice in glorious raptures and euphoria as this kick about makes everything alright again (double yeah right.)
Am I the only person who is sick to the gills already? Before its even officially started? Football has never been high on my list of interesting sports, in fact I utterly abhor the game to the core but in these last couple of months my loathing has been tweaked up a notch or six. Everywhere I turn that wretched black and white ball makes its presence felt; in newspapers, magazines, on radio and television, even on sweet wrappings and in supermarket aisles! Players from all teams adorn shampoo labels and lager tins with their thug-cropped hair, promising to make you fabulous with whatever you drink or wash with. It is truly nauseous.(And I won't mention decrepid old pundits/players wailing embarrassing songs of support. Cringe.)
Fine if it gives fans a little HWYL as we say here in Wales but to the disinterested the build up has been like trying to swim from a tidal wave in that just as you think you have got away from it you look behind only to see its gotten bigger. I dread to think what it will be like DURING the damned thing, and please God spare us from an England win! The fans are insufferable when only THINKING they can win it, if they do actually pull it off I for one am going to see what my options are as to living in Cambodia.
If it wasn't so hyped up I wouldn't mind, im all for a feelgood vibe and God knows we need it, but this over saturation of what is essentially JUST A GAME is making me very bitter towards the entire thing. Other sports don't blow things up to this ridiculous extent (not even in the US), so why a game played by over paid, vulgar cretins needs to do so is beyond me.
Popular it may be but that does not make it so great as to warrant half the globe bowing before it like man discovering fire for the first time. And it IS going to get worse! The further England go the more the media and every other cashing-in leech will suck the life from it, showering flags, merchendise and bunting everywhere, as if forcing EVERYONE to take part. Of course those who don't will be labelled a miserable killjoy and shunned like a pariah but I don't care a pip.
I would get more thrill replacing my brain with sawdust and rotten cabbage than I ever would sitting through a football match. That ought tell you everything you need to know about my feelings toward this forthcoming world cup snoozefest. You can't really blame shops for trying to cash in but I wish they would remember that not everyone wishes to be part of it. And if anyone has a submarine or space shuttle on offer that I can use for a month or so I would be eternally grateful.

The Might Mighty

In the beginning a lot of people thought nothing would come of the latest human fever that is 'blogging'. The blog they concluded was nothing more than a fad in which aspiring writers could beaver away, hammering out their ideas and creations while the rest of the world plodded on to more exciting pastures. Sort of like World of Warcraft but with Words replacing Ogres.
But rather than dying off as fads are wont to do, blogs are becoming more popular by the day, and are quickly being recognised as a legimate media. Most newspapers and magazines have blogs connected to them, with the bloggers themselves appearing on radio and news segments. And it is a wonderful thing in my screen-shot eyes because it is fulfilling a prediction I made many years ago regarding this wiry beast the internet; that it would give many many thousands a career which would have been impossible without it. (Including other areas like music.)
Rightly so too, there are too many talented individuals out there who can now reach a deserved slice of recognition whereas in the past they would have been missed. The old routes into the spotlight were often down to luck, or worse privilage. Yes inevitably there is also a tidal wave of shit; teenagers with too much time on their hands boring everyone with suicide and vampires, or budding philanthropists attempting to save the gargoyles but who cares? There's always a SKIP arrow to click out those creepy eyed does.
Personally I believe that blogging (or self publishing on teh interwebz) is a breath of fresh air which can only revive a flagging interest in writing. This planet must have lost thousands of gifted people who have simply quit their literary endevours because they saw it going nowhere. Of course one could argue it wasn't taking off due to lack of talent but come on! Get off your snobbish horse and admit it; there MUST have been SOME emeralds lost amongst the bile!
Im not saying everyone who has a blog or website is a Shakespeare or Coleridge in waiting, but there IS a crop of untapped talent out there and by publishing their work online then at least its being read and not lost forever. It is a grand tool of the future and only a crusty old sap would deny it. There has always been bad and good and so it will contine with blogging communities but at least with the web there is hope to read more of the great.

Pausing In Prayer

This praying buisness is a lot like sex; some people do it lots, others when they fancy. And of course some not at all. Im in touch with my spiritual side so I mutter a prayer most mornings, albeit through the parched relics of the night before. But what exactly am I doing? Does prayer mean that whilst praying I have a direct line to the Almighty? Or is it merely something I say to 'prepare' myself for the day ahead? A little motivational shunt?
The more I think about it the more questions crop up. You see by asking God to relieve me of some kind of ailment or trouble I keep having to re-live that problem. For example if I had lived through a bad stage in life and craved solace in prayer then I would have to go over that stage each time I put my hands together.
Or are troubles really lifted, or made easier to carry? I think I know the real answer because many of my personal calamities have been soothed away by passing it to more capable and mightier hands but at this moment I feel need to question things.
Even if we were talking to nobody I still think its a good idea to pray. As Ive said it sets you in motion for the rest of the day, helps get priorities in order and think about whats important in life. There's no harm in it and for those who say getting on ones knees is subserviant behaviour (I pray in the bathroom by the way) then I only have one thing to say; if there IS a God you had better be subserviant to Him/Her.
People with no faith in anything beyond the nail tend to mock those who do, and this is fine with me. Afterall they are as much in the dark with regards to the Big Plan as the believers and everyone is FREE to think how they wish. However as with everything else in life I am straying off the path.
I pray not to get into Heaven or whatever its called; I just want a little guidance for the bits of my spirit which have gone astray. And in some ways I use it like I use alcohol.
As for having answers to my post drinking ramblings well its up to me to find them. Im not asking for solutions, just a guiding light or pint of beer to follow when times are rough and I need something stronger than me. I have experienced first hand the workings of God so I know im not talking to myself when I pray. But its personal so I prefer not to preach it from the chimneys and I don't understand those who do.
I will wrap this up here because im beginning to sound like the type of praying lunatics that I have no grain for but yes, I do seek a good path and a little prayer and a lot of beer helps the sand not get in my jeans.

Rock Beats Paper

Crime in Britain is spiralling way out of control. And not only that but manners and behaviour are disappearing too. Teenage 'hoodies' stalk the streets in feral herds looking for weak targets as they swig from strong, white ciders. Lurching about wearing cheap, gold chains and tacky fake designer clothes like they were in Compton and generally making law abiding citizens lives a misery.
And what do we do about it? In short, nothing. We do nothing at all. We hand out petty fines and ASBOs (Anti-Social Behaviour Orders) and hope everything will be fine. Well everything is NOT fine! The very heart of society is being corroded by these vulgar, young thugs and all the authorities can do is dish out useless fines and bits of paper in the hope the cretins will learn from theor 'punishment'. what a joke! A massive slap in the face to everyone who lives by the rules.
There is a cure of course. There is a solution which if brought back and put in place would have these tearaways cowering like the pathetic cowards they are. Bring back corporal (and capital punishment). Order would be restored pretty damned quickly if ASBO's were replaced by birching; and one could be certain that the flogged offender would think long and hard before thinking of returning to his or her wild ways.
I laugh at the social workers and liberal fools who think they do something good. They're just understudies to folly. Caretakers of a broken ideal. And I guffaw even louder when they say corporal/capital punishment is barbaric. No, it is not. What is really barbaric is the way we ignore victims and let the great unwashed thugs drag us under even more. They're laughing at you. As am I.
No order will ever be returned if you persist in molly coddling.
Go to any magistrate court (at least in my neck of the woods) and outside you will see young people laughing, getting drunk/high before entering and going in front of the judge. They even commit further crimes whilst waiting to be sentenced for the ones that brought them to the court! I have seen it with my own eyes. Respect has utterly diminished. Don't think for one second that these types have any regard for you if you happen to be a social worker or whatever lily hearted title you hold. You are being used. You might THINK that you have tools at your disposal to reign these people in but its only an illusion. They are playing authorities like Guitar Hero and the reason the authorities cannot see it is they are blinded by a self inflated belief that they are important, or wield any power.
No, the real power is in the hands of the wild and be warned; if you punish with kid gloves you will be rewarded with a lawlessness such as you have never witnessed before. This country will see courtesy and manners drown in a tide of flat lager and cold ash. And this rot will be difficult to reverse if we contine like this. I already fear we have gone beyond the point of hope.
When will liberals realise that treating yobbish teenagers with 'tender care' only results in chaos and further deteriation? It is NOT working the way that we punish these days. We MUST return to tougher ways because if we don't we WILL be sorry. Some people think they are somehow 'enlightened' if they see beyond corporal and capital punishments. We shall see how enlightened they are when everything they hold dear is suffocated by clouds of fear.
People are already too afraid to venture out at certain times because of loutish behaviour. And its no longer restricted to over zealous pranks and broken windows, there are children walking our streets and parks armed with guns, knives and God knows what else. Admittedly firearms are not as popular (how long this lasts is uncertain) but weapons equally lethal are carried with the same devastating results. Sterner sentences for knife carrying have been brought into effect this is true but should it really take a blade to be found before any sort of decent punishment can be handed down? No it shouldn't, we ought to be able to answer any crime with severity REGARDLESS whether weapons are carried.
Having suits and cotton hearted, yoghurt knitters deal with these violent gangs is only good for one thing; more and more red tape and taps on the wrist while the lager louts run rampant. Its rather like putting chickens in charge of the foxes. The solution is simple; bring in the wolves. Let iron and leather be the tools of punishment and we will see just how paper punishments have failed.
These cider guzzling bandits ignore rules and civilities in favour of communicating via barks and threats. The peaceful approach will always be useless because barking is louder than whimpering, which is what the liberal do-gooders seem content in doing. But they have failed us, this softly softly approach has brought nothing but damage and worse, the most unforgiving of all is that these faint hearts have made more victims with their methods than supporters of harsh punishment ever could. They won't like that of course but its true. Soft sentences send a message that we are fine with criminal behaviour, that we accept it even and by letting thugs go with gentle strokes all that happens is the toll of victims rises.
They should be disgusted at themselves but these smug fools never are. Their heads are too lost in cuckoo land for any semblence of shame to reach. Its all very well trying the humanitarian route but as soon as it reveals any hint of not working then it should be discarded and strict hands resumed.
I am not saying that bringing back the birch or the noose will get rid of crime completely. That is impossible but bringing them back WILL restore some degree of order. Do you really see young gang members going back to their gangs after they've seen one or two of their number flogged publicly? I can almost guarantee they would not.
Sure there would be persistent offenders as nothing stops those aside from a trip to the gallows. But my bet is that we wouldn't need to turn to the rope for crimes like murder and rape if corporal punishment were ever reinstalled because the majority of yobs would have been sufficiently dealt with BEFORE they had any more criminal ideas.
We all know (apart from the liberal dolts) that what we have in place now isn't working. And never will. So lets let the hammers reign again and do away with fines and petty court orders. I'd like to see these cretins waves their whipping scars about in triumph like they do their ASBO.

When Porn Tells Lies

Im going to be honest, I love pornography. I really love pornography. Who doesn't? (Ignoring the usual suspects who shall remain stale by being ignored.) Good pornography livens up a sex life bringing new ideas to the mix, as well as 'relaxing' those odd flat moments. I have never agreed with those funny few who tell us 'Porn Is Wrong' or that it leads to wicked deeds like rape and murder. And yes Im fully aware that serial killer Ted Bundy claimed porn could fuel dangerous perverts but sensible people will ignore him. He was a cowardly murderer who was trying to use psycho babble to stay his execution. That was all.
I have been watching pornography since I was 14 and im sorry to have to inform the nay sayers but it hasn't corrupted me. Not a bit. I do not see women as objects, nor do I mistreat them or go lurking in dark alleys. My diet of bar room lunches and blonde starlets has not crippled my soul. (Well those wet lunches might have scarred a bit but thats a different story.)
However there is a giant BUT to be added to my 'Porn Is Fab' claim and it has a lot to do with the fabulous internet. There are far too many sicker type of videos being uploaded onto regular porn sites. Videos which are not remotely pornographic and are down right disturbing. Who wants to watch fake rapes and videos where women get beaten and abused?
Im not naive, I know there are vile individuals on this planet but when one actually sees what type of things they get up to then it brings it home that much harder. I think many would call them ILL but EVIL is more appropriate a label. Sick people don't delight in beating women, bad people do. There is NO treating these twisted types and purveyors of such despicable filth ought to be jailed for life.
On a different note they give pornography a bad name. If someone new to it were to browse sites with horrible images or videos then they come away disgusted at us ALL when its nothing to do with normal users. The majority of porn viewers do NOT salivate over creepy 'fetishes', we just want a little spice and certainly nothing involving violence or abuse.
Pornography IS good. Too bad a minority who belong in cages are showing it as something to be ashamed to view.

By The Skin Of My Blood

Never do anything by half is a tenet I adhere to without fail or compromise. I live at the mercy of extremes and never shy from excess, whatever the outcome. Its not that I have no care for Life because I DO (and Love to Live it) but I see little to no point in moderation. There is no taste in it; moderation is very bland like the white breast meat of chicken. I prefer dark meats along with even darker pleasures.
Some of my habits, such as drinking over 30 alchol units a night, would be considered by some as a deathwish, but it simply is what it is and I cannot abide sticking to one or two glasses when I have gallons swilling in bottles before me. I eat to get full, same as I drink to get drunk. If anything it is GREED that fuels my unhealthy appetite, not death. And a loathing of doing things in halves. Enjoying sensible measures does not appeal at all and while death will surely be the final result, it is not the motive.
I see no fun in having a few glasses of wine with a steak meal. I want ALL the wine, I want ALL the beef, the whole damned cow! My arteries and organs are hardened to such calamity, they shrug it off like they were forged in granite. In fact my body at times DEMANDS the vices that fire my soul.
If I get no satisfaction in only eating one beefburger what is the point? Ditto with anything else I partake of. Of course some people are content in living healthy and staying within sensible boundaries, good luck to them but its not for me. Im having too much fun with a deadly diet. And im not a fool, I understand there will be a price to pay but im willing to pay it. For a fancy time in blood halls and surfing on the light of alcohol I am glad to pay.
Forget about lecturing me on the virtues of water or fruit, I have no time and even less need for calm. Wreckless souls are not dim, we fly at a 1000mph KNOWING one day we will crash like bugs on a cars windscreen but we only ever take a quick glance at the brake before dismissing it completely to carry on ripping through fierce lanes of gluttony.
Its not all howls and giggles however, as years roll on the gathering scars get heavier (both on skin and in spirit) and harder to carry. What used to be minor coughs and headaches become inflamed by near constant abuse and at times it can become a chore to simply focus. The waves are rough and if no proper care is taken, one can find themselves in a hurricane of misery. To live so near to the knuckle takes dedication, demands are high but on the flipside the pleasures outweigh the thunders.
For myself I find no inspiration from walking on a path of moderation because those monsters and demons do not inhabit those routes. There is no 'theatre of the absurd' there, nothing to lift my imagination. I need the demons that dwell within to stir me to write my verses. My creations would be a lot less interesting were they forced to come out from sober realms. Im not this way to live up to a character or fit some stereotypical portrait; this is me, always has been, even before I was aware of what I have.
White meat has never turned me on. I belong in the fetid ranks of fatty tissue and fire water where all things come to life in a sombre yet accurate 'vision'. I sit on the hem of death throwing words into the air before that final drink or pill carries me off to death's heart where I will learn which of my many sermons was closest to being accurate. God love those dangerous toxins because I need them to spin my yarns. My world is a place where hardly anything is taboo, a place where oblivion is welcomed.
I am not running FROM anything, im running INTO things. Obviously excess is no 'absolute teacher' or divine eye opener but it does point you in the direction of certain truths if you keep your eyes open. Sometimes shadows can cast a light and many dark times have revealed answers for me.
Most people are content in moderation and are quite happy for the longer life that stems from wise limits. But its not for me and if sticking to goose fat and gin wittles my years to nothing then im grateful because a long life on earth will do me no good. I am not depressed and neither am I suicidal, I Love Life to its giddy hilt but in the same breath I also KNOW that a short quality filled snifter of it will do me more of a favour than dragging my wheezing frame through to its twilight years.
I have discovered so many different channels by living under the bottles beak and in the spot where the fragile seed landed all those years ago now stands a firmly rooted tree, displaying a multitude of branches of all persuasions. And when these roots wither from bitter juices my bark will not frown like most other barks seem to do. It will glisten like the scales on a carp.

Conning Hood

Now that yet another film about Robin Hood (will it ever end?)is about to hit the silver screen I feel something pulling at my blog-strings and it needs to be splashed over this smaller screen.
I have never subscribed to all that 'rob from the rich, give to the poor' malarkey which the Hood tales are intent on spouting. It reeks of a thief having some kind of heart, yet at the very core of 'thiefdom', dwelling in its inner mechanics, the heart is merciless (in the ribcage of a thief).
You see to me, the main ingredient in the 'soul recipe' for cooking up a bandit is GREED, and as long as GREED has a hand in the proceeedings then any notion of a 'thief with a heart' flies out the castle window. Even if one were to argue that Hood and his merry men (its all sounding increasingly iffy) had made enough loot to be able to share the spoils with the poor, their very natures would forbid them.
I know im waxing way too seriously about what should be a happy tale about jolly highway men striking a blow for the poor and put-upon people, but I don't care. If Robin Hood ever really lived in his cosy tree house in Sherwood forest then the laws of banditry dictate that he (along with his merry men)was a cad who never threw a shilling to the poor.

Chaucer Invaders

Imagine this on an arcade cabinet screen, twinkling like multicoloured berets in dark sands;

**** Todays Hi Scores ****

100,000 Shakespeare
80,000 Byron
65,000 Plath
50,000 Larkin
40,000 Pollack
35,000 Keats
20,000 Behan

Now there are those who would snobbishly scoff at the idea of writers or painters playing videogames. (Or 'wasting their time' as these wet dogs would no doubt say.) They would be too intent on other things, with minds somewhere among the clouds they'd insist, but I beg to differ. Artists of yesteryear did not indulge because games didn't exist back then, they were science fiction. But had they been around they would have done. Bet on it.
On slow days when the word bug was taking a sabbatical, I can easily picture Philip Larkin collecting orbs in Warhammer, or Oscar Wilde twisting Mario's knobs. Or Hemingway spilling his drink whilst roughing up Level 6 of Pac-Man. And why not? They partook of everything else on offer and videogames these days are not the exclusive realm of teenagers. They have found a new gear and today its not only about shooting things out of the sky. There is fine storytelling and great artistry to be found in the console world and Keats, Coleridge and the guys would have loved it.
What better way to spend a Laudanum break than break out a spot of Soul Calibur or Crazy Taxi? Writer's block getting you down? Need to burn off that amphetamine/gin cocktail? Then Guitar Hero is your game. (And honestly, who couldn't imagine Lord Byron rocking out to Welcome To The Jungle?)
The thing is, too many people take the authors of classic literature (or even humble old good literature) much too seriously. In reality the arcade cabinets would have a-calling the letter peckers as loudly in 1810 as today in 2010. Afterall, artists live for high scores and those glitter epitomes they carry.

A Grave Doubt And Mask Of Strange

Death will be the biggest suprise we will ever have. Or it would be if we were able to feel it when it claims us but I have an ever growing suspicion that we won't. I haven't completely lost faith in the Ever After or Other Side and its more than likely a 'What If?' moment on my behalf, a little shred of doubt nestling into my lobe, but I have to wonder; what if we are being conned? What if there is nothing beyond the coffin lid but grit and maggots?
Fine after we die of course as nothing will matter to nothing but it leaves Life itself whilst we live it a lot harsher.
After such an exciting prelude to Life when we are thrust at birth into a glaring sun, it would be the mightiest of flat tyres to have us suffocate at the End in a pool of black as if being stamped out by a giant exclamation mark. Life has a pretty morbid sense of humour even if nobody is at the celestial steering wheel. The forces that govern black humour seem to fuel themselves, they need no hungover God to fan dark capers.
But I digress. Could it be that we go about our lives under a godless sky only to return as dust on an infinite (empty) bookshelf? Its a miserable thought, and where as millions of atheists have no trouble living under that grey shadow, for someone like myself who has always had a strong faith in 'flowers in the clouds' it is enough to send shivers through my soul. In selfish, ungrateful moods when I despair at the world which my mortal heart is anchored to, images in my minds eye of golden pastures and silver rivers nestled in some eternal valley, are what keeps me ploughing on. The splinters I gather today, the scars and weights that lay heavy, will (I believe) be plucked out and soothed when I teeter on my last foot steps.
And then the doubts arrive like annoying sun showers during a picnic; drenching the mind butterflies, making them difficult to fly in the buttery air. A bruise in the honey pot. This could be all there is to Life, in the here and now or the here after; this might be the only flash of light we get from an eternity of darkness. Terrible thoughts butting into the sunshine until there is nothing for it but to accept that we may get nothing after the rigor mortis is done. And the question begs, why should we? Afterall life isn't a tour of duty that each of us choose to sign up for with promise of rich rewards awaiting us when done.
On days such as these when I find myself hurtling inside an invisible ball toward a pond of mud, it is quite easy to imagine life without its blossoms and ribbons; silent from the trumpets fanfare. I see everything as if in code, things happening for a sensible reason. No magic or mystery, just trees growing because they are trees and razors sharp because they are razors. Im simply following the white lines in the middle of the road with the brakes cut and steering locked. Rolling along, breathing, clicking my heels, more breathing, no excitement at cardboard scenery, breathing becoming shallow, pulling on gin draughts, eager for End, breathing stalls. Dead time.
Without that flower I sometimes catch glimpse of in the crack in the sky, the world goes bland and shatters any sense of adventure into smithereens on the sober marble floor. The fires burn for nothing and inspiration disappears leaving a mass of withered weeds where once was an ocean. A little dramatic maybe but the reader will understand what im saying; without a nod of hope to sun battered horizons and a gate upon death into glorious meadows then I feel my body sag under almost unbearable weight and my skin feels as brittle as egg shells.
It will matter little in death of course but right now, trying to imagine having cold soil as the only shelter from my cadaver, it is a barren scene. Thankfully my notions of eternity behind iron masks do not settle for long inside my head, certainly not long enough to put me into permenant despair. And strange, little things that occur in life which cannot possibly be of this world happen often enough to dispel the scene of ghostly desert plains.
Strange events are what I cling to when I begin to lose vision of my spirit because odd things have no plan or structure, and by breaking the 'normal' rules of life they prove (without doubt in my mind) that something exists in other worlds. Anything weird points to creeps and gods at work. I like to think of it as a leak in the universal cistern, where occasionaly things from some OTHER world spill into ours.
Of course I have no right to demand golden chalices of wine and paradise by the bucketload when I turn DECEASED and neither do I deserve them. Im just another vessel of organs and bone trying to make sense of this pit stop. Only I can't help but think there is more to life than atoms. The force which created mountains and rivers, then decided to chuck in a few ghosts and chupacabras into the mix for good measure, and rest assured the being that thinks like that has left us more than mere coffins as the final Full Stop.

The Mind Casket

Now before anybody accuses me of being as dry as a callus on an enviromentalists sinewy finger, let me state quite clearly that I do in fact enjoy some television and I have programmes which I would follow religiously had I the inclination to chase up their listings in tv guides. There are some fine productions to be discovered if one can summon the patience to sift through the endless tide of garbage.
It is the TV addicts, the ones who kneel at the chins of soap stars and reality show judges, which I cannot abide. They make me sick to my stomach, which due to a lifetime of unholy binges on nefarious goodies takes some doing as my constitution rivals that of the most hardened Oxes and pathologists.
Some people will spend entire days and nights rooted to the glare of a screen being bombarded by cookery shows and endless advirtisements. There are even poor wretches who insist on leaving their idiot box ON in the background as if switching the infernal thing OFF would be like cutting off the oxygen supply in the room.
The rot in their brain must be as damaging as the havoc alcohol causes on livers of habitual drinkers. In fact, scrap the 'must be', it IS as damaging I have no doubt whatsoever on this. In short it is a living room lobotomy affecting everything from manners to the arts. Our grand culture is very nearly in tatters as Shakespeare and Wordsworth are shunned for The X Factor, and communication been reduced to snorts and grunts like baboons at a karaoke bar.
I realise im sounding alarmist (and probably hysterical to a few) but it matters little what I am; if video killed the radio star as the song went, then television killed the spirit. It has turned many of its stupefied audience lazy to the core and robbed them of the pleasures that children of not so long ago got from books or building things outdoors.
How many children (or adults come to that) actually pick up a book these days? How many rip the plug out of the entertainment system and disappear into the pages of a great novel? Very few I would wager and it is a real tragedy because books, especially those first ones we read as children, are so important in stimulating imagination and forming individual ideas. With television we simply create zombies, shuffling from one scene to the next without any real solid thought. Everything is spoonfed to the watcher until they are ready for bed.
And the less said about the cancerous celebrity culture which television promotes the better. Suffice to say that cheap looking glamour models and jack-of-no-trade-famous-for-nothing mutton heads have no substance or value, and one would be better looking into the bowels of hell to find a hero. That awful 'culture' is crass, tasteless, something so vile and empty that even pinheaded teenage tartlets ought to ignore its stench. (But of course they don't, perhaps even can't.)
A lot of parents are raising their children in the company of monsters. Helping them dance to a sordid tune made of jingles and paparazzi dust. Of course its not soley down to television and it would folly to try argue that it was but it does own a substantial piece of the destructive root which is finding its hold more secure each day.
It is not all apocalypse of course. There are jewels to be found at the end of a remote control; well written dramas/series and some truly fascinating documentaries. As I have already admitted, I love a bit of television. Im not an ogre buzzing off lofty ideals best suited to the Victorian age. Perish the thought! Give me my dose of dramas like Bones, Prison Break and The Sopranos and im as happy as a pen in ink. Or throw Spongebob Squarepants and National Geographic on and im just as thrilled.
Television is not a demon to me, its only when people throw themselves so totally at its mercy that it bares the sick side to its 'personality'. As with everything else in life, overuse inevitably leads to toxic results. And those results could be disastrous to society. Problems are already beginning to rear their troublesome heads with obesity levels in children risen in these past few years to way beyond what is considered healthy. It will take longer for the brain damage to make an appearance but I have no doubts whatsoever that it will. And I don't mean regular damage, but troubles to the mind both emotional and in creative ways.
It is unwise to allow the shimmering screen entertain any ages for long periods of time (and with the advent of games consoles and the internet even more so.) Moderation must be applied or society WILL become less lead by the spirit of Man and more tempted by shallow themes or vices. Inspiration will disappear from our grasp and our children will be content in merely sitting back and allowing others to think and sculpt, to write and paint. But there will BE no others and futures will be doomed.
Scoff if you must;. the idiots and soulless monsters in forthcoming years are in your care for now. And there are still those with a need to build. Repent those smirks only when the aerials have bound our wings and mindless entertainment has made us so fat that spirits fail to fly.

Gibbons & Lentils

The Greenies are a fraud. There, ive said it. No doubt some of their spineless kind would liked to be called 'eco warriors' or some such tripe but as the word 'warrior' often points to people with courage and honour they will get no such title from me. Green Nutcases is what they are and what they'll always be to me. Completely lacking in moral fibre and possessing a streak so hypocritical they could probably use it to power a small country.
'Save The Trees!' They shout. 'Save The Planet!' They yell, begging humanity to change its ways. We all know somebody like this. Those jellied types who try to offer gentle advice when in truth their lecturing goes by without so much a murmur. Sensible people stand, glazed over by the ant assed ramblings of the near mad and feeble.
Do these cretins not realise that this 'fragile' planet doesn't need us protecting it? It could quite easily carry on without us, and its damned arrogant of the Green Nutcases to think it couldn't. But then arrogance (and ignorance) is a common feature among the lentil brigade. They talk a big fight but are no more than cowards skulking behind a false veneer. Who do they think they are fooling? Certainly not me.
I can look beyond their facade; whenever they attempt to take the morally higher path I can actually see their tongues blister under the weight of lies. Sewer rats have better polished morals, and no doubt conduct their lives with more sincerity than these fools. And they speak in a such grand voice as if they are somehow superior but its a sham, and proof that they are bigger toads than toads could ever be. Their houses crammed with earth busting products.
Another thing which is a Green Nutcase favourite is trying to stop everyone else having a good time. (Probably because they themselves are wallowing in such misery.) They are happy to ban hunting and dog racing, anything these weirdos consider 'inhumane' is fair game (pun intended). Yet wise people never do this. I myself hate football and television (television does much more harm than hunting but greenies are not expected to understand this) but I do not wish to see them outlawed. Why? Because I DO care about others, I am NOT a hypocrite. I am sensible.
The best way to deal with them is to ignore them completely. Cowards and mad people tend to go away if they see nobody taking notice of their strange ravings. And know this my friends; the moon bathers can preach all the gutless sermons they want, if this ships sinking they're going with it. Where is the superiority in that?

Music From The Mirror

Music for me is as much part of life as the blood surging through my veins. Living would be a damn sight poorer show if I didn't have my favourite artists/bands playing in the background, but I fail to understand the attraction of tribute bands.
Make no mistake, I do not have absolute animosity toward them like I have for my other pet bugs, but I do find myself tutting and rolling my eyes whenever I see them in music magazines. I understand the whole 'immitation is the sincerest form of flattery' angle but I prefer the originals. And while I admit that some may be excellent musicians who mimic their chosen artist perfectly (sometimes even better), I only raise my devil horns for the real thing. Call me a snob if you like, I don't care. I couldn't see myself rushing to buy tickets to see what is essentially a rip off of my all time favourite bands.
When I want to catch the likes of Iron Maiden, Slayer or Motley Crue, I don't wish to see their uglier doppelgangers strut the stage, hamming it up to classic songs. Or worse, behaving as if they actually WERE my musical heroes. And this seems to happen a lot. There was a Guns n' Roses tribute act doing the rounds a few years ago, and happily I didn't witness it but a friend did, the singer of the act walked around the tiny club they were playing in as if he was Axl Rose!?
Now it is said that the smaller the band/artist then the bigger the ego because unknown names need to make a noise for themselves. (People like Keith Richards don't need to do this.) If this is true then the pouting and antics that this Axl wannabe must have been truly awful to see. Indeed the same must be said of all the aspiring AC/DC's and Metallica's, im willing to bet that they ALL believe themselves to be huge names in their own heads; legends in their teapots.
Nope, I have no time for actors (for this is what they surely are) playing copied music because nothing is of their own design, from body moves to music style. And to my mind there is nothing impressive about playing by numbers. By all means perform your greatest gig in front of your bedroom mirror but don't expect me to go out and watch it, much less PAY to see it.
I want to be Running To The Hills WITH Iron Maiden, not running for the hills to escape their younger, dumber brother.

Rebels Of The Nil By Mouth

The current media and 'social commentators' would have you believe that Britain is dissolving amidst a flurry of teenage rampages, crime and illicit drugs. That we are heading down the path of no return. I tend to agree in most part but if we are going to implode in a ball of blood and vice, I hope the young bandits are capable of sending us on our way with a bit more style.
Im talking about this craze of legal highs thats whipping the country. Readers here will think me irresponsible but I have to ask, why on earth are youngsters today messing around with legal drugs? Websites are filled with things called Snow Blow, Retro Pills, Underground Doves, Smoking Herbs and the latest stimulant pariah, mephedrone, also known as Meow Meow, M-Cat and Bubble. Who honestly wants to take these ridiculous sounding 'drugs'? The names are as weak as the ingredients in the substances.
'Hey man, wanna come out and shoot some Meow Meow?' 'Nah dude, I got me some retro pills to chill out to!' Sounds more like the Milky Bar Kid than Billy the Kid to me. Nevermind the danger, I would die of shame if caught dabbling with this garbage. I don't understand it, and maybe with ever advancing footsteps into middle age Im not supposed to 'get it', but I can't see the big thrill.
If somebody wants to take drugs (and heres where I become irresponsible again) then for the love of rock n' roll and all that is 'Outlaw' please take the time to seek out REAL drugs. Preferably ones sold by a skinny, acne-ridden dealer on a dodgy housing estate who is willing to take your DVD collection as a chemical part exchange. There is nothing like playing in the big boys arena to make one feel alive. (Even if the 'alive' bit isn't for long.)
In the area I grew up, drugs started to arrive on the scene in the early 1990's and I found myself readily indulging in their X Rated delights. Cannabis wasn't high on my list of favourites (excuse the pun) but I embraced the comforts of valium and morphine with every heartstring tugging on my lovebone. Apart from the obvious charming sedative effects of those drugs, it was daring and utterly dangerous. The ritual of unsheathing a new syringe from its plastic wrapper, dissolving the morphine on a spoon, then drawing some blood before pushing the plunger into a plump vein was very attractive. It was sheer hedonistic bliss, always flirting with a deadly consequence.
All that is slowly disappearing because the kids are getting tame in their chosen poisons. Sure these 'legal highs' have their dangers but however number of bodybags they rack up, having the word LEGAL associated with a drug kind of dumbs it down a little. Its like someone dying of drinking too much water.
All drugs, illegal or not, contain the ingredients for calamity of course, and mess with either for long enough and you will find yourself on the wrong end of sanity or life. But at least the heroin crowd had the stomach to hold both barrels to their face before pulling the trigger, instead of tip toeing around the baby drugs found on dodgy websites.
If you are going to mess with addiction then do so wearing snakeskin boots because nothing is so embarrassing as an appetite for death if you are going to step off your self erected gallows in carpet slippers.