In 2014

Bo wi: <500

Ci: <2,000

Co: 2

Dr (np, i): 0

Dr (np, l): <40

Dr (p, l): 2

Fr dl: <10

Fr m: <10

Go at: <10

Ha: <200

Ho: 1

In 2014

K: 0

Me co: <600

Me ea: >600

Pi: >1,800

Re: 3

Shi: >600

Sho: <400

Sn (l): >3,000

Sn (w): <15

Sw wo: <2,000

Wa: <200

Wo: < 100,000 inc e & fb etc

X: <20

Dr. Sheuss

We landed that rocket on that comet. Can you believe what we’ve achieved? Said Hank at the food bank.

We can have more gas in with a bit of fracking. Goes to show what we can do. Said the bosses, wearing sunglasses.

Nothing is real; illusion is all. I have proved it with language. Said the philosopher to the smackhead.

You are not alone; God loves you my son. In His arms you can repose. Said the priest to the dead baby.

Humans are fucking shit aren’t they. Said a man by a computer screen.

Then he had a cup of tea in his nice warm house.

Monday, 8 December 2014: Free event

I will be reading from my book in progress 1,000 Days of Sun.

There will be wine.

Two definitions for an Anticulturalist

1. anticulturalist

 we are surrounded by data

 this is only information when interpreted by the individual for his own needs

 therefore there is only one world view, only one world: the world of the individual

 this also applies digitally

 when information is pushed out to the world by any individual, this is inefficient and dishonest communication

 this is because information is received individually at the end-user stage as data

 it only becomes information on interpretation by the individual for his own needs

 culture is a shared illusion that the data has a certain shared meaning or force

 culture is a fatally flawed communication because each individual interprets data for his own needs

 culture does not exist aside from this shared contract of delusion because individuals cannot express this effectively. Imagine describing a colour to a blind man.

 Each person therefore is an Anticulturalist but this definition is also flawed because each person will interpret and utilise data for his own needs. 

anticulturalism is as unstable as anything else when signified, signifier and information are self-destructive concepts.

2. anticulturalist

. someone who does not like gardening

Guitartboard

I have solved the thorny problem of learning to play guitar... this will help the process. Simply hand out darts to your audience, and if you fuck up the song they get to try their luck at the dartboard. Hey presto! Instant guitar excellence, or alternatively your hands will get so injured you'll never play again. Double win!

An unused band name appears in a dream

Wearable poem 3: Anticulturalist

The anticulturalist 2.0

The Anticulturalist is both at the centre of and central to his own choosing and his own choices.

The supposed possibilities of imagery, emotions, arts, samples, foods, mash-ups, instantly-delivered data through the Internet are active only when accessed by the Anticulturalist and do not otherwise exist.

Nothing exists as an idea unless created expressly and personally by and for the Anticulturalist.

He does not care about or acknowledge politcs, love, history, context, cultural signs, signifiers, signified, slogans, thinkers, matchbox philosophies, television, music, altered states unless they specifically and individually refer to him and him alone. These data are not information until expressly achieved by the Anticulturalist, and may never become information if he chooses not to make them so.

Anticulturalism is anticommunication, antiempathy and antisex.

Anticulturalism believes in whatever is convenient at the time for the anticulturalist and the anticulturalist alone. For this reason it also resists labels including its own.

The Anticulturalist notes that culture is spread by force and fad; postmodernism by archness and arrogance that has collapsed under its own definition.

Anticulturalism is referrent to nothing aside from the individual that created and controls it. It is not a state of belief but of denial of the concept of externality. The Other is never central to anyone but itself. Thus, there is no Other. There is only Self.

Anticulturalism notes and states that every man may be an island and the island is self-created by each individual’s personal dictatorship which is also self-created and always in flux.

An apology from a fan to Bangor City Football Club, October 25, 2014

The Welsh Premiership table makes some pretty awful reading

We’re bottom of the league, the season’s hopes are disappearing,

We lost again – 2-0 at home – a terrible result

But I’ve got a confession, boys: I think it’s all my fault.

The Stjarnan game, the Euro trip, I’d booked to fly abroad

But on the eve of getting there an illness struck me hard.

My travel plans were thwarted, Lord, but I just couldn’t fly

We lost 4-0 without my voice to help the team apply.

At home the Iceland lads came down to drink in the Belle Vue.

They passed around the vodka shots; I’d had more than a few,

But when we started to the game there were still glasses full

It’s bad luck to leave alcohol like that; it’s terrible.

We won in the League Cup! Oh Joy! The season was on track!

The next game’s venue – England, on a plastic piece of crap,

2-0 the score – we lost of course, we never seem to win

Against the franchise; still, who cares? Those bastards mean nothing.

But Monday came, Newtown again; this time was not the same

It was too sunny; I’d forgot to bring a pair of shades.

I couldn’t see, that’s what it was, and three goals was the cost

Without my lucky Turkey hat, and that is why we lost.

An Aber game is usually an excuse for a laugh,

Away we go down winding roads, with beers in our bags.

This time, a Friday night? By Zeus – I just couldn’t attend.

We shipped two goals, then fought back for a 3-3 in the end.

So not the best; but not the worst; some unease at our start -

A 2-1 versus Cefn in the cup gave us some heart –

And then, another Friday game – big spending Airbus next

They had us off 2-1. But I was wearing the wrong kecks.

Rhyl was worse – oh God help me – 2-0 up at half-time

Somehow we lost; 3-2 the score. But the fault was all mine.

I was at home, watching on TV, tucked up with the flu,

My lemsip Cofi-yellow. And we know what that can do.

Prestatyn next. Another lot we really ought to beat;

A nothing side; a mini-Rhyl, a team we should defeat.

I must admit again here to my culpability;

I didn’t have my lucky pie –we drew the game 3-3.

Four days went past; Prestatyn once more in the league's own cup

Where our form had been decent; it had kept the spirits up.

But Christ Almighty, I fucked it up; I’m sorry of it still.

I didn’t have a lucky piss: we lost the game one nil.

The Friday next – another Friday, our unlucky night –

We were a goal to nil up then out went all the floodlights.

For fuck’s sake: everything was going really, badly wrong;

I’m sorry, boys, it’s my fault: I had unlucky trons.

October dawned. No wins, two points: officially bad form,

The kind of sequence of results that sends teams dropping down.

Me? I blame myself for this: a home loss to Carmarthen,

I’d not walked down my lucky way; was driven by my father.

Port Talbot – on a Saturday – shock horror! What is next?

A 2-0 loss, that’s what. A result that left us all vexed.

But it was only me that knows why that one went to shit:

My lucky shirt was in the wash so I couldn’t wear it.

Cefn at home. Another goddamned Friday fucking night.

Another chance for City though to start putting it right.

0-0   on 88 so muggins here, he checks the time

We lose one nil. It’s my fault: I’d committed the crime.

Finally, October ends, at home to Connah’s Quay.

Yep, Friday night again: this really starts to grate on me.

No surprise here: we lose 2-0 and I can take no further.

I had no cash so couldn’t get my lucky Big Les Burger.

So Nev, and Dilwyn, Gwyn and Pegler, Citizens and fans

I’m sorry for the bad luck since the first game’s whistle rang;

Please don’t sue me for lost earnings, it would be uncouth.

(You wouldn’t win in court: I’ve got a fail-safe, lucky suit.)

I moved back to Bangor 15 months ago and spent some time writing down some moidering I have heard, mostly on buses from town to Coed Mawr

I don’t care yeh –caws a nionyn –Na dwi dim eisiau fo! I’m just trying to have a laff with you now before I go to prison and you’re trying to make me eat cheese

-iawn lads –alright you misfit –seen that prick on Facebook –yeh that banter page or whatever it’s called –he just slags off Bangor City –I reckon it’s Penfold –wouldn’t put it past him –small man syndrome aye, got a chip on his shoulder the midget tranny prick –I know you are

-how do you feel? –like I’m going to go to prison yeh. When we get to Caernarfon I’m going to go to the court and show I’m there then come back at 2pm so we can have a bit of a laff yeh.

-you were on one last night lad. Do you remember? You moidered that Tracey’s ears off. –Tracey? –yeh, Tracey Tits. And she’s the biggest moiderer of the lot. –ah yeah she gave me a hell of a row. –that’s cause you were staring at them. Fair play, they are fucking massive. –not my fault is it, I never grew em.

-That stinks –Wasn’t me. Mine don’t smell. –It’s absolutely minging. A, a, symphony of ming. You minger.

-How does it follow that I wouldn’t know where they were yeah? I jamp and legged it. Then in the morning there were six coppers there.

-What it is yeah, I heard a rumour that your ferry was fu… that your ferry wasn’t working.

-What are you doing you now yeh no. –I need something to eat yeh. You had my cheese already yeh. –You said you never wanted it. –Yeh I didn’t then yeh but now I’m hungry yeh, you know I’m hungry cause you had it. –Caws a nionyn. –I don’t care, you better buy me another one the same, with ham yeh.

-It’s ace when people get off the bus yeh, there’s loads more room. –Menai Bridge Fair tomorrow. –What’s the scariest ride you’ve been on? Mine’s the red ladybirds. Only joking, it’s the kids’ tea cups –I don’t know why they don’t just do it in half term. –I went on one, a massive one, and I had to take my shoes off and grip this bar thing really tight. I was sick everywhere. –Ugh, Abdul J Bechod. –What does bechod mean, is it the same as bless. –Sort of, ‘ahhhhh slyyy’ –I hope my mum gives me the money. I’m gonna go tomorrow. Staying in Llanddona. –Llandonna kebab.

-I’ll ring this girl now. Hiya I’m on the bus now going home OK. You what. That’s right yeah. OK doll. Yeah I forgot about that. We’ll do it again, tomorrow. Yeah. Yeah, OK Doll. Tadra.

Ryan’s got swimming. I forgot. She rang too late. She’s coming up tomorrow. Ring after work tomorrow rwan.

…

-It’s gonna rain now.

-Looks like it yeh.

…

-Those potatoes are nice yeh. I was watching them in front in case there was a bad one but they’re lovely. –lovely yeah.

…

-She says they don’t do lunch. They’re always sitting down drinking and watching.

-I think she lives with her mother now. Two boys.

-You’ve got a very neutral accent.

-Yeah, I’m half-Welsh, half Scottish, half Irish and… part English.

-Do you speak Welsh?

-No, but my sister does. Fluently.

There was this woman in the paper. What did she do now?... …Beans!... She just started eating beans. Lots loaaaads of weight… …wouldn’t want to do that myself. Just beans, yeah. Proper Heinz beans. She should have got shares in Heinz… Not sure what she did for breakfast  but just beans for dinner and her tea. She cooked her family proper food but she’d just have a plate of beans… …me, I’d want toast or cheese for a bit of flavour yeah but all she did was eat beans for 12 months.

-Hiya, ti’n o lew?

-Yeah

-wus this un th un we got th other de?

-thnk sur, hafta check bus tickets, yeh

-when I cum bak there wus six of thum all outside, stood

-We’re gonna get back to you quite literally as college finishes.

It's Billy Bubblebath's remarkable cirkus!!!!

Roll up! Roll up! Each night at noon the circus is in town

With marvels strange and wonderful; the sawdust’s on the ground

It’s Billy Bubblebath’s new show! It’s really rather good, you know

So gather all around

We’ve Danny Spesh, from Marrakesh, a juggler so great

That he can use but motes of dust! Come on and celebrate!

His microscopic juggling is wonderful and puzzling

So don’t you dare be late

Next on the bill is Degsie Dill, from way up in the north

We’ve measured him a hundred times and now we’re pretty sure:

Up from the floor, at six foot four

He’s Britain’s tallest dwarf

The strongman and the bearded lady had a secret scam

A tryst, romantic, torrid, sexy, in a caravan;

Nine months have passed, and here at last’s

The UK’s youngest man

We used to have some elephants, but no-one’s seen them lately

A small guy came, inspected them, and shook his head most gravely.

With pointy ears, we’re sure, we fear

He was from elf and safety

The acrobats have lost their hats; they won’t be on tonight

It’s such a shame; it’s not the same without that precious sight

But that’s the show; you never know

What happens night to night

So why not try the coconut shy, where everyone’s a winner

And every fallen nut’s a prize to take home for your dinner

Quickly, kids! A ball, two quid!

Or four balls for a tenner!

Or try your luck on hook a duck, a brilliant money-spinner;

We don’t have any goldfish left, they flew away for winter,

No matter yet! What will you get?

A plastic Spongebob figure!

The ringmaster’s a disaster, he’s drinking on the job

Last night he burnt his tent down; left a chip pan on the hob

But we love him; he gives us gin

The alcoholic slob.

Send in the clowns! They’ve come right down to spread the laughter for us

They tumble and they jest around, they flop in silly chorus

But wake up – that ain’t make up

It’s a contagious illness

Our conjuror’s gone to hospital; he’s under the weather

He cut himself in half but forgot to put himself together

The magic turned out tragic

He’s in pieces, the poor beggar.

Now if you dare, and like a scare, there’s the haunted house of hell

Where skeletons and vampires play; there is an awful smell

Can you enter this dark tent, where

Terrors tend to dwell?

The human cannonball’s on soon; he’s ready packed to go

So take this chance to catch his act, he’s leaving tomorrow.

He says he’s tired of getting fired

Each and every show.

And last of all, the greatest act we bring to you with glee;

The lycra-clad Vertigo Lad who balances with ease:

Ladies and gents, the show presents

The world’s lowest trapeze!

So roll up, roll up, boys and girls, ladies, gents and undecided

We’re only here for eight more months! The shortest we’ve resided!

It’s Billy Bubblebath’s new show! It’s really rather good, you know!

Well. That’s what we’ve decided.

Everything I have ever learned about life (part 1)

If you want your dreams to come true, simply change your dreams

So far, I am immortal

Most people are wasted at their jobs, which is grand if you can get away with it

All gods are substitute parents

If you own more than one pair of shoes you are rich

Wash your hands, body, teeth etc quite often

Don’t wear sunglasses inside

When you fuck up, admit it and get on with fixing it

It is impossible to injure yourself falling over drunk

God either can’t, won’t, or isn’t

Free Will is a top excuse

Love is a mask for foul deeds all too often

Animals speak in different accents depending where they are from

Cars break in the following places: alternator; chassis; fuel pump; fan belt. Everything else is made up.

A good kitchen knife is vital and it is also inevitable that you will chop your finger top off with it at some stage

Glasses will smash

Getting real hand-written letters through the post is the best thing ever

If you drink you will probably get a hangover. So fucking deal with it and don’t whinge

Sing whenever and however you want

The worst music is dishonest music

Also Coldplay. I fucking can’t stand that shit

Countdown is really difficult

All of my male friends have a favourite mug which gets refilled with cup of teas or coffees without getting washed until it has an actual visible crust on the bottom

The more plates, bowls, pans and cutlery you own, the less often you will wash up

Magic is real but is not what you think it is

Everyone looks at their own snot in a tissue

Here are some useful starts to phrases for liars: ‘I am not racist, but,’; ‘To be honest,’; ‘The reality is,’; ‘I have every faith’

Beware anyone who identifies themselves as A Quarter Irish; A Writer; Agnostic

Life is a stumbling oafish battle between the walking poor and the working dead

The best food is leftovers

The second best food is seconds

Ostentatious Christianity is a good way for money rats to express their fundamental inner socialism without irony

Henry Rollins and Steven Seagal always need a poo

The worst thing in the world is saving a choice morsel for last only to find out it is a piece of vegetable masquerading as meat

The only canvas you own is yourself

The best smell in the world is strangers’ chips

Nothing matters as much as it appears

Breakfast; Dinner; Tea and nothing else

There are patterns everywhere

Eat what the fuck you want and take the consequences

God Is Odd (extended remix)

Jesus was a strange one baby, hippy as a lad

But even his adventures pale compared to his old dad

God

Who’s odd.

Abraham, my child, my child, upon this glorious morn

Take a hike up this big hill and kill me your first born

Said God

Who was odd.

Job my lad, my favourite one, you’re pious as they go

But just for kicks I’ve made a bet to destroy all you own

I’m God

I’m odd.

Ezekiel the brave came down in chariots of fire

A traveller from stars beyond in shimmering attire

Said God

The odd.

Poor old Jonah, just a working prophet, as you do,

Had to go to Nineveh who’d pissed off God the goon

Cause God

Is Odd

We all know what happened next; the storm, the sailors and the whale

The big man in the sky destroyed Nineveh anyway

That’s God

The Odd

Even after that Ol’ Eternal Eyes was far away from done

Killing the tree that sheltered Jonah’s sad eyes from the sun

Ah, God

How odd

Sodomites begone now, you ain’t living your life right

I’m gonna blast you brotherfucking heathen outa sight

I’m God

The Odd

But wait there Lot mate, and your wife, it ain’t your fault

But don’t look back, woman. Ah too late, I’ve made you salt

Said God

The Odd

At least you got your daughters, boy, and they’re pretty hot

They’ll get you pissed and fuck you till you’ve given all you’ve got

Hey! God,

That’s Odd

Slavery, selling your daughters, smashing babies’ heads

I’m God the Odd and I decide who’s living and who’s dead

Yeah, God

The Odd

Let’s talk some numbers, guys, let’s get integer kicks

Kill count: 371,186

For God

The Odd

The Bible, ah we love you man, you got that funky jive

Total kills: 1,862,265

Due to God

The Odd

Ah God

You Odd

You Odd

My God

Today's awesome new quiz

What something are you?

On religion

A while back, probably twenty years or a bit less, a pamphlet popped through the door.

It was by the Christadelphians.

One of the articles in this colourful and somehow sort of old fashioned newsletter had this headline:

THE MIDDLE EAST CRISIS – SOLVED

Obviously the Christadelphians didn’t get the chance to implement their plans yet, I guess.

This morning I had an idea to help a bit:

GET RID OF ALL THE OIL THAT IS THERE

Obviously then the West and East and whoever else would have to find other reasons to bomb kids and stuff.

I am pretty sure they would find plenty.

A while back, maybe a week or so, I heard a knock-knock-knocking at my door.

A woman, dressed in white and black,

Plus her friend, who was very smiley, both started saying how they thought they’d seen me before:

IT WAS NOT TRUE – OBVIOUSLY

They told me they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I didn’t tell them he’d just popped out so they’d missed him by minutes.

This is why:

THEY HAD A SMALL CHILD WITH THEM

Around six or seven years old, I guess, so I just smiled back and gently told them to leave a leaflet instead.

But really that is child abuse isn’t it.

A while back, say, three years or so, I was walking with my wife in New York City.

It is in fact a hell of a town.

A young woman dressed in Christian Aid clothes thrust a clipboard in my guts in the street and said, ‘You look like you want to help kids out of poverty,’ and I told her:

SORRY, I DO NOT SPEAK ENGLISH

Obviously that is a really cuntish thing to say and I felt a bit bad later about it, but then I realised she started it.

My wife tells people that story and punches me and shakes her head. But as we walked away the young woman said:

HEY! YOU DO SPEAK ENGLISH!

And of course, she was right. Later I had a hot dog from a man selling them in the street and the onions as ever smelled much better than they tasted.

It was quite nice, though.

A while back, maybe thirty years or so, I had a conversation with an adult who was running a church youth club I went to.

He was a really nice bloke with blond hair.

I said I was confused really about why he worshipped this god bloke and he said something like:

TO ME, GOD IS LIKE BRYAN ROBSON

At the time I still thought I might be a midfielder when I grew up and I suppose I sort of still do really.

But I said:

BRYAN ROBSON DOESN’T TELL ME I’M GOING TO HELL IF I SUPPORT A DIFFERENT TEAM

Which I thought was pretty good for a ten-year old. The bloke admitted it was a bad analogy and then we carried on passing the ball to each other.

Now I think I was just being a little shit to get a rise.

A while back, me and my wife were walking down the street in Bangor and we passed some young men; handsome young men at that.

They were Mormons.

They were wearing black shiny shoes sharp black trousers starch white shirts and shiny eyes. And I said:

WHY CAN’T THEY RELY ON ALCOHOL AND PRESCRIPTION DRUGS LIKE THE REST OF US

Once they’d gone past and were out of earshot, obviously. But of course a part of me was jealous.

Because, ultimately, what is life but this:

FINDING YOUR OWN ANSWERS

What I think I object to is that people who think they have found their own answer want it to be your answer too.

And it never is, so leave me the fuck out of it.

Kids are lucky and doomed. When you’re four or five or six the world revolves around you. Toys are not just allowed but they are vital.

You play and paint at school.

Every little achievement, every word learned, every friend made and every toilet trip is praised. Because:

EVERYONE LOVES A CUTE KID

Later, when Santa is dead, the actual world of lies and cheats and governments and sneaks and crabs-in-buckets is revealed.

And that disappointment, that disillusionment, that crushing let-down is the root of all religion, or drugs, or whatever. I think, basically:

WE ALL WANT TO STAY FIVE YEARS OLD FOREVER

Which is when our dads and mums or whoever know everything and are gods and are everything and this is before we realise people who write newspapers or make TV or war or fight in streets are the same blagging fuckheads that we are.

That's what I've learned so far.


It might take a while to work out any more, if there is any more. Until then:


SMILE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE

On politics and art

Politics is the study of control.

Art is the study of life.

Politics loves systems.

Art appropriates them.

Politicians speak out loud.

Artists whisper in corners.

Politicians whisper amongst themselves.

Art shouts in new colours.

Politicians tell us we’ve never had it so good.

Art asks us to define ‘we’, ‘never’, ‘had,’ ‘it,’ ‘so,’ and ‘good.’

Politicians send us to war.

Art is a war against itself.

Politics is all about money.

Artists burn the paper it’s printed on.

No politician ever showed the world their unmade bed.

Artists write their own headlines.

Politics creates schisms.

Art revels in revealing them.

Politics is the art of opposition.

Opposition is the politics of art.

Politics sees no beauty.

Art dismisses the concept as unreliable.

Politics commisions pictures of ministers.

Art gives the politicians what they think they want.

Political manifestos are masturbatory pamphlets with stuck-together pages.

Art is ingenious, incessant intercourse between nations, strangers, ages.

Political speeches climax with sweat and applause.

Art can be two minutes of squelching noises.

If Damien Hurst makes a tree out of diamonds in a forest, and no Saatchis are there to buy it, is it art?

If a prime minister averts a slide into poverty by self-denial, is it politics?

If a Chinese artist is denied a visa, is that a political or artistic situation?

If a government wages war on its poor, is that in fact a Futurist statement?

Politics is about who writes the next chapter of history.

Art looks forward to ripping the words up and making a collage.

Politics moves in its own circles.

Art has a million pathways to a million truths.

Politics is statistics.

Art resists this.

Politics kills.

Art lives.

Viva Les Davies

(G)

Bangor City gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
Got a whole lot of striker that's ready to score,
So get those stakes up higher

(Em)
There's a thousand centre forwards waitin out there
But they ain’t gonna get near City’s flair
He’s just the devil with goals to spare

C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies

G
How I wish that there were more
Than ninety minutes in a game
Cause even if there were forty more
I wouldn't sleep a minute away

Em
Oh, there's Siony Edwards jinking out there on the left wing
Johno and Miley mopping up everything

And wearing number nine is the mighty king
C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies

Em
Viva Les Davies with your crosses flashin
And your long-range blasters crashin

G
Other clubs’ hopes down the drain

Em
Viva Les Davies turnin footy to magic

Making centre-halves panic

A
If you tackle him once

                                D/7
Youll never be the same again

G

He’s gonna keep on the run
He’s gonna strike coaches dumb
At Nantporth like Farrar Road
Who needs that midget Messi
Or preening Ronaldo when we got Big Leslie up front

Em
He’s gonna give it evrything he got
Nev knows, baby, the ground burns hot

A million hopes and dreams in every Les Davies shot

C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies

C – D7 -- G

Viva, Viva, Les Davies

The Gospel Of Joe

1.1            Let’s get this sorted from the outset, right. ‘Gospel Truth’ is a load of shit.

1.2            That said, here’s some things I thought of last night in a dream.

1.3            Though I’m going to leave out the bit where I was being chased through a bus station by a gang of youths who were angry because I had no shoes on. Feel free to come back to this bit as a parable if you like, but really I doubt there’s much in it.

1.4            Although of course my mates would automatically say ‘That means you are clearly a closeted gay.’

1.5            The closeted bit is the saddest bit of that sentence really isn’t it.

1.6            I’ve got a set of suggestions that I’ll try and explain. There’s seven of them.

1.7            Let’s call them The Ten Commandments.

1.8            No, that was a joke, Seven Suggestions will do for now.

1.9            Let’s start with an easy thing I think we can all agree with:

1.10        Things Are Fucked Up, Let’s Face It.

1.11       . There’s so much bollocks going on – corruption, murder, war, rape, and other heavy metal song titles – that just doesn’t need to happen. Hence:

1.12       It Probably Isn’t Too Late

1.13       To be honest, if all of us just stopped being cunts for a while we could get to the First of our Seven Suggestions:

1.14       Suggestion One: Don’t Be A Cunt.

1.15       If this was written on the hearts of us all I think we’d get along better.

1.16       And in reality that Suggestion encompasses the remaining Six Suggestions but because Things Are Fucked Up, let’s try and get more specific.

1.17       Suggestion Two: Nobody Is More Or Less Important Than Anyone Else.

1.18       Things that are do not make you more or less important: money, material possessions, colour of skin, genitals, sexual preference, land of birth, sporting affiliation, family accroutements, lineage, speaking voice, car, and so on.

1.19       I mean, come on, let’s be honest here: none of that shit really matters but how we treat each other does. You may refer back to Suggestion One at this point.

1.20       Does this sound familiar by the way?

1.21       I seem to remember the last time some daft cunt suggested people were important he got nailed to a tree for his troubles.

1.22       Don’t do that, obviously.

1.23       Suggestion Three: Each Person Can Do Whatever They Fucking Like As Long As It Doesn’t Hurt Anyone Else. This Includes Fucking Themselves Up.

1.24       Because of Suggestion Two, which follows from Suggestion One quite nattily I think. Dread.

1.25       Suggestion Four: Please Don’t Be Nasty To Animals.

1.26       If for no other reason but to avoid countless fucking threads on social media about it. This refers back to Suggestion Three, then Two, then One, in that order.

1.27       Is this starting to make sense?

1.28       Gospel Truth, remember, is a meaningless epigram. It could even be said to be a contradiction in terms given the nonsense that the last lot of gospels led to over the last couple of millenia.

1.29       Suggestion Five: Art Is Valuable Because It Has No Utility.

1.30       Let’s rephrase that a bit. Art in all its forms is useful because if makes people think, or makes people feel whatever way they feel about it.

1.31       Even if that feeling is: ‘That’s Not Art, That’s Just Shit.’

1.32       (As my good friends Chris and Tony once said.)

1.33       But it’s art if it says it is and art if anyone says it is.

1.34       Suggestion Six: There Is Plenty To Go Around So Let’s Fucking Try A Bit Harder Please.

1.35       The previously-ignored Suggestion One and Suggestion Two have led to our current scenario where even in the same city as I type this in my nice warm house full of food and love and cats and that, there are people begging on the streets.

1.36       Maybe they’re alcoholics or drug addicts but maybe not.

1.37       Does that make it my fault?

1.38       Sort of.

1.39       But things like taxes are being used to build bombs and kill other people and make bankers rich instead.

1.40       That’s not my fault, I don’t think. I mean, I voted and everything.

1.41       But that disappointment with the way the world turns out isn’t unique to any one of us.

1.42       Suggestion Seven: Democracy Is A Good Idea Wasted On People.

1.43       It only benefits those who can manipulate it. America got a president who lost an election once, because he got the lawyers involved.

1.44       What was the voter turnout last election?

1.45       Or in any election?

1.46       Apart from those ones which are in puppet regimes where the president gets voted in by 99.994% on a 123.33% turnout.

1.47       Those ones are a bit suspicious aren’t they.

1.48       I sort of think that Suggestion Two being forgotten has led to Suggestion Seven.

1.49       But back to Suggestion One.

1.50       If Nobody is a Cunt, then we’ll probably be OK.

1.51       That includes me.

1.52       I don’t think I really try hard enough sometimes.

1.53       But that’s probably something to do with being a human isn’t it.

1.54       Although that’s a cop-out in itself.

1.55       Anyway there were about ten of these youths.

1.56       And they did take the piss out of me due to not having any shoes on.

1.57       I did have socks on, but my feet were cold.

1.58       We were on our way to Porthmadog for a football game.

1.59       And one of these lads kept hoofing a football at me.

1.60       Then we got to a bus station where there was like a shoe shop.

1.61       But the entrance was dead high up on a wall and I had to jump to get there.

1.62       And someone was holding my feet to try and pull me away.

1.63       But this bloke had some nice blue brushed leather shoes for a tenner.

1.64       I don’t know what happened after that, because I woke up due to a cat jumping on my balls.

1.65       Lo, it was sort of funny but hurt also.

1.66       The little bastard.

1.67       Amen.