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?
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Thursday, 15 July 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
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.
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.
Monday, 12 July 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
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.
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.
Friday, 25 June 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
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.
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.
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