Pandas: “Leave us to die in peace”

Special Report by Christopher Anusol

Giant Pandas want humans to leave them alone.

Tian Tian, spokesman for the vulnerable species, told reporters yesterday that the iconic species had been trying to quietly slip away for some time.

“We made a vow to give up shagging way back in the Sixties,” said the 3ft bear. “And do you really think we don’t know how little nutritional value bamboo shoots have?”

“Seriously, folks, we just want to go extinct. Please stop trying to make us breed. It’s quite undignified all round.”

“Can’t you save bees instead? They pollinate most of your food, you idiots. And, if you look closely, they’re cute as well. Seriously. If they were 4ft tall you’d have them as pets.”

Release

The national symbol of China is notable for its black-and-white markings, particularly around the eye sockets. But Tian Tian said that this was nothing to do with either cuteness or camouflage.

“Those deep eye sockets you see are purely down to us staying up all night listening to Bauhaus and The Cure,” continued the ursine plodder. “But you wouldn’t know those bands because you’re not a proper goth like we all are.”

“Please just let us be, we’re not interested in your rules, regulations and social pressures. We’re different. You just wouldn’t understand.”

“Death to us would be nothing but sweet release,” he added, taking a swig from a vodka bottle shaped like a skull.

When contacted for a comment, the National Society for the Protection of Pandas pulled no punches.

“Nín bōdǎ di hàomǎ shàngwèi bèi shìbié,” they told us. “Qǐng guà duàn diànhuà zài dǎ diànhuà.”

What I am doing and what I am not doing and what I wish was happening

I am supposed to be doing something else. I’ve got, let’s count, on the table, on the to-do list:

·         One PhD

·         One music article to write up

·         One travel article about hotels to research and write

·         One travel article about events to write

·         Some stuff for a book to consider and write

But instead, and I think he’d probably approve, I’m going to write about my friend.

My friend was in my dream last night, making a guest appearance. He didn’t do much, just came on in a cameo, waved to everyone, smiled, and went again. If it was Married With Children or suchlike, he’d have had a round of applause and some whoops from the studio audience.

I suppose there’s no real meaning in it, much as there was no real meaning in it when he visited my house in Tocky once, and when he left we saw him moonwalking past the window, looking in at us with a daft little kid’s grin on his face. He had a really quite cute little kid’s grin, when something tickled him.

Of course, much as I and all of us would love to have him back, I was glad that he came and made a cameo and did his little grin. I’m glad he’s not having to react to the country burning itself down. I’m glad he was just happy to wave and be happy and say hi. Christ on toast, we have to keep hold of these moments of joy. So many people want to take them away. They don’t even know they’re doing it. And the band played on.

AMWAT/1876

Let's just talk a bit about this.
There's a squad of 26ish players. 21 of them hail from Italy.
Those Italian lads are in digs up in Liverpool.
They train there, along with the Liverpool-based manager, plus the Liverpool-based non-Italian player/s also in the squad.
The 'owner' of the club is either from Liverpool or Italy, depending whether you believe the latest strange emanations from strange sources.
Once every two weeks, this whole shebang trundles down the A55 and plays for 95ish minutes at a ground overlooking the Menai Straits, in Bangor, in North Wales.
Then the whole shebang trundles back to L1 again.

The question is: what do you call the team?

Who do they represent?

What's the point?

On the other hand:
A squad of maybe 16 lads, 14 of them living within 30 minutes or less of the grounds they play on every week. The other two have been in the blue shirt before, in different circumstances, winning and losing and celebrating and licking wounds felt as deeply as any other local player, fan, manager.
They train locally, with their local-based and Welsh-speaking management team.
The owners hail from all over the UK; one share each. Each shareholder having a link, an affinity, a love, a historic bond with the city.
They trundle in from Bangor and Anglesey and Shropshire and Buckinghamshire and Scotland and Brighton and London and New Zealand, when they can, to stand on grass banks but stand together at that, trainers muddied as the team's boots are muddied.
95ish minutes later, and a pint or two maybe, they trundle home again.

What do you think of that team?

Who do they represent?


Some still don't get it, and probably never will. But our arms are wide - we ARE Bangor. It's us. Because when it becomes 'them' then that is the end.
The end of them.
Not of us.

That's the faith, says one of us, that we've kept. And he's right.

280819

My friend once asked me:

“If money was no object,

What would you do?”

I thought for a moment.

“Hmm, good question,” I said.

“I’d bomb the fuck out the moon.”

I don’t think she expected that answer.

I don’t think I expected it either.

A headline in the paper:

“Another crisis at Mount Trashmore.

Why must this stench continue to grow?”

The next day, a letter:

“Let’s ship all our rubbish abroad

And throw it down the nearest volcano.”

I mean, obviously we printed that one.

I mean, that was a doozy. Amazing.

One of the cats has a cold.

“Atchoo,” he says, not unreasonably.

“Atchoo, atchoo, atchoo.” It’s cute really.

It would be weird, strange, absurd

Were that not to happen occasionally.

Odd things do take place here, certainly.

Most things are possible, like the Beatles said, though I prefer

Them when they’re being accidental philosophers.

I don’t care to waste words

When I’ve got so many unwritten

And better things to spend time doing.

But today everyone’s world

Burns and stinks with its own unbidden

And unnecessary self-shitting.

So let’s send the bombs to the moon.

Let’s throw things down volcanoes.

Let’s say all we need is love.

There’s nothing to lose anymore.

It’s already all fucked.

Isn’t it?

Wise rules I have done a learn on

·         Download it now. It might not be available tomorrow.

·         Do not ever try and do reggae if you are not actually from Jamaica (and nearby).

·         Always know where your remote controls are. Have a place for them.

·         Fry your eggs slowly on a low heat.

·         Always stroke dogs and cats, if they want you to. If they don’t, they will tell you.

·         Check size and weight of luggage allowances really carefully. Those cunts will keep changing and you will get fucked.

·         Doing things for a laff is usually the way to end up doing ace things.

·         Don’t overthink. Don’t overplan.

·         Overeat. Overdrink. Whatever. Don’t fucking moan about it afterwards though.

·         The older you get, the more you appreciate having a poo.

·         If a book is shit, don’t plough through it. There’s loads out there. Read a good one.

·         Leave my favourite mug alone.

·         Yes the world has gone fucking mental and we’re all going to burn one way or another.

·         You are not ‘entitled to an opinion’ if that means you have ‘already decided to ignore the actual facts’ and ‘decided not to listen to any nuances’. You will get called out on it, and you will be eventually called a cunt. Not least because you are a cunt.

·         People are nice on their own aren’t they.

·         After a certain age, nobody asks you what your favourite dinosaur is. That’s sad isn’t it? Ask someone today. They will definitely have one. Dinosaurs are awesome.

·         Try and do what you said you would do. If you can’t, or fuck it up, be honest and apologise. I mean, it’s not fucking rocket surgery is it.

·         Capitalism’s failure can be tracked entirely through the proliferation of weird and useless kitchen gadgets in charity shops.

·         This could also be interpreted as its success, of course.

·         It is generally a bad idea to read John Pilger before work.