Monday, May 22, 2006

ID Cards &c. &c. &c. WAKE THE FUCK UP

You have eight days.

You have eight days.

You have eight days.

You have eight days.

You have eight days.

All passport applications received after the end of THIS MONTH will require biometric data to be taken.

You have eight days.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Jurisprudent Juxtaposition


"There's a fucking funfair blocking off the entire Tory-ridden centre of my hometown and I'd rather do laundry and file tax papers?" I shudder and pull on my jacket.


Poor kid. Just upset and drunk. Just wants to be left alone. Drunk and angry, head hung from hooded shoulders, dripping itchily down the witching-hour pavements through half-dismantled fair rides, and rigged fairground games, whose early closing extinguished my brilliant flaming plan to win myself a goldfish. I was going to call him Mephistophiles. Five policemen in hard helmets and high-visibility smocks loiter boredly and obstructively on the outskirts of the dissolving fair. Not looking where he's going, the kid knocks a cop's flank as he trudges past. Cop takes exception to this; lays hand heavily on kid's shoulder. Irritated and inebriated, he shakes the fluorescent arm off. Policeman grabs kid by arm and speaks to him. In no mood to stop, the kid shakes him off again. A second bobby steps in with strong speech and stern arms. Enraged and confused, the kid writhes and bounces to escape his undeserved and unexplained cage of luminous yellow limbs. Police shout at him and drag him aside. Drunk, depressed, and panicking, the kid flails, half-heartedly lashing out with inchoate gestures of distress against his nightmare-logic captors. Arm makes contact once. Just once. Seven-foot copper in hard pointed hat swings the kid's arm behind his back and drives him face-first into the asphalt. Hurt and lost, the kid kicks and gulps like a fish out of water. Cuffed behind his back.

Fat, disturbed fairground proprietor-type hauls himself up beside me. "Did he - did he actually do anything?"

"He was just drunk, I think."


Arrived Gloucester Green 20:00. Proceeded to Quaint Brasenose College, where Thaddeus and I were offered an unparalleled view of the downstage-right portion of Dream. Scotch was imbibed. Vinegar merlot cabernet sauvignon was consumed. Quiet comments about the (lack of) direction, design, and casting were made.

The Turf was descended upon by Thaddeus, the freshly faeried Kedazzle and Myself. Pimms and Diet Coke isn't all that bad, incidentally. Drunkening progressed. Various licensing laws were breeched. Shakespeare was shouted at the world at large, and Kedazzle and myself retired to a front-garden portion of Magdalen College to fall over and nearly finish the litre of Glen Rossie and be emotionally damaged at one another. Acts of gross indecentness very nearly ensued, forestalled only by Kedazzle's insistence that the Gods would steal her degree and banish her from Oxenford if ensue they did.

Clawing my way up the roughcast wall of Magdalen, I noticed a pair of pointy-topped figures in black, and another pair in reflective yellow, standing several yards apart beyond the low wall separating street from lawn, staring.


Walked home post-shift. For ten minutes I was convinced I would never get out of the hollow-way beside Hogsback Wood. I couldn't see my own hand in front of my face. All I could see was a mushroom cloud-grey and dying ember-purple patch of torn sky held together by erratic staples of deformed treetop directly above me.

Passing by my usual mountainous short-cut, I see an eight-foot-tall, utterly inanimate, hard, conically-topped figure staring straight through me from the shadows at the foot of the path. Petrified, I stand and stare back, my chest aswirl with secreted dread. A trick of the light. Pause for a moment; move on. Nothing to be frightened of. Two more steps and every hair on my body stands alert and shivering. A block of lead impedes my heart, and I turn back in haste, relief, and shame.

Emerging, finally, into the dubious comfort of Holtspur's desperate lights and vertiginous lanes, I feel a wet crunch underfoot. Snails. Add a good half hour onto my journey thenceforward due to compulsion to pick up and relocate every snail that has foolhardily snuck out onto the sidewalk in the damp of midnight. Futile, I know; The fools will only drip back onto the pavement again when I've gone. Found forty huddling a foot from one bush. Several have weak shells. The first such that I pick up crumbles between my fingers. I register a tiny, high-pitched squeal. My imagination must be running away with me. A few snails later, it happens again. Then again. I shudder. It happens again. Cringing in existential discomfort, I abandon this patch, and step forth - onto another snail. Swinging wildly at the foggish aura of terror that pervades the space around me, I stop for a moment to be blinded by the interrogatory headlights and faded, gaudy patterns of a passing squad car.

Blinking in its wake, I spot a freshly crushed snail spread across the lane.


Adapted onto The Rhexis, from my LiveJournal, at Withiel's request.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Fresh Blood



For his first offering, Mr. Akay has chosen to return to the topic of Bono and the MPH campaign.


The State of Bono

Gas-bagging über-humanitarian Bono celebrated his forty-sixth birthday yesterday. So, what better time than now to give his smug face a good slapping with the metaphorical penis of far-sighted mild annoyance in the form of the written word? "But wait, stop," I hear you cry. "There are far worse people out there than this harmless minstrel. Consider Robert Mugabi, George Bush, Michael Winner for instance. With targets like these, why would you possibly want to have a go at Bono?" My answer is simple: because it’s fun.

To illustrate my point, here is a charming picture of the man Himself.


Bono (Bono Vox of O’Connell St., a.k.a. Paul Hewson, a.k.a. Prevalent Arse) began his career as a humble rockstar with that rag-tag bunch of eager young "musicians", U2. Now, despite their considerable musical limitations, U2, I would say, have produced some fine songs. What made these songs so fine was their lack of pretention of any kind, and the palpable exuberance emitted from the man in question. I refer the reader to the likes of "With Or Without You", "The Sweetest Thing", and "Stuck In A Moment". None of them bad at all.

How things have changed.

Excited was I, whenever it was that U2's most recent effort hit the shelves, in the form of the seemingly politically-titled How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb. Little did I expect an album that, largely speaking, could be described as a festering turd, spitting repugnant bombast into my ears at every turn, with an obnoxious swagger to it that I, for one, find absolutely repellent. Not only that, but it packs about as much political punch as a seventy-five-year-old bigot with no left trouser leg, careering around a shopping mall, screaming about socialism. And the lyrics - God, the lyrics... All of them are penned by Bono. Let me give you a few tasters:

Yahweh, Yahweh
Always pain before a child is born
Yahweh, Yahweh
Still I’m waiting for the dawn

I am you and you are mine
Love makes nonsense of space
And time … will disappear!

And my personal favourite:

Freedom has a scent like the top of a new born baby’s head

What? Why "the top" of its head, specifically? Think about what you are squealing, Bono. Think what a new born baby’s head, the top thereof or otherwise, would actually smell like. Here are two words to help: "vaginal fluids". Mmm, freedom.

U2, it seems, is a band in decline. For anyone looking for an alternative, I heartily recommend The HDs. Them’s good. [Shameless sycophancy grudgingly accepted. -SXV] Anyway, far more distressing than any of this would be Bono’s growing "political activism", which bothers me immensely the more I think about it. And I’ve done a lot of thinking.

Let me be clear about this. I have no problem with do-gooding. Bono has managed to raise significant awareness about the plight of Africa, and the crises of debt and trade. But, does he really have to do good quite so loudly? Does it not say in the Bible, no doubt one his favourite "books"; "when you give to one who is needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be a secret" (Matthew 6:2-4)? I rather think it does. Bono gives with his right hand, and wears a fucking wrist-band telling the world that he’s actively making poverty history on his left. Not to mention the insincerity of the man. Here is another quote from the man Himself - and I would like to add that I saw him saying this on TV, and during the last bit, he made a cupping gesture with his hands. He was discussing how to deal with the problem of AIDS:

"We’ve got to make AIDS sexy, as well as earnest."

Surely the root of the problem with AIDS is that it is, as Bono so cleverly put it, "sexy"?

Thar she blows, Bono. Thar she blows.

But what I really resent about his self-righteous campaigning is far worse than this. It is that he arrogates Himself the role of leader of the masses. And for sure, someone’s got to do it, but Bono is not remotely qualified to be the One. We defer to his decisions about whether or not the Powers That Be are making enough effort to supply foreign aid, and whatever he tells us, we believe, because he’s such a persuasive man. [Ha. -SXV] His political show-boating has encouraged awareness, but is "awareness" really enough? Shouldn’t people be told to Wake Up and Smell the Shit Hitting the Fan, rather than relying on Bono to do it for them? If this encourages anything, it encourages that most sickening and, sadly, popular approach to modern life: apathy, or, as I like to call it, the Way of the Pig in the Pen.

"I don’t need to actually care or bother to find out about world events, or to apply any pressure on them myself, because some untouchable demi-god like Bono will do it for me."

This is worrying me immensely. Not because I don’t care about poverty, not because I don’t want to cancel Third World Debt; I do care about poverty and I do want to cancel Third World Debt, but I worry about the power over us ordinary people [Who, us? -SXV] that Bono seems to hold. With his Celtic bollocks. I mean, thanks for the effort Bono, but out of (a) actually making people care, and (b) just getting a mass of (from what I hear) fairly bored groupies to gather in a field for a day of rather uninspiring musical performances, which would be best?

Consider your face slapped Bono. Your smug, silvery face.

Still, he’s not as bad as Chris Martin. Tosser.

[Copy ends.]

I look forward to Mr. Akay's continual posting and development as a Rhexis author. Anyone nonplussed by my reference to development need only read early Black, Veins, and Glands articles and compare to contemporary efforts.

Welcome aboard, Rose.


Wednesday, May 10, 2006

You'll Be Glad to Know That I'm Not Posting Drunk

Jesus fuck am I stoned.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Forgive Me, Scruples

E-mail, found today in spam folder, dated 19th April.

I sadly 'dated' this prawn from Sept 2004 to Jan 2005. I would love to add tidbits should there be any fresh news re: the new report findings.

Only brave enough to lift head over parapet now....

Confirmation of my knowing him?

Old phone number of his: 07808 319 370 (his emergency line lol)

msn sign in name: Thumperbunny2. He spent hours on msn while at work.....




Monday, May 08, 2006

Thank You Stephen Colbert

Most of you have probably seen this, but for those that haven't... Thank You Stephen Colbert.

Thursday, May 04, 2006


Bastards on the run. Faith in political system slightly restored. Weather continues fine.

Veins and Paddy v Gerrards Cross

Setting: quiet residential road in Gerrards Cross - home of the rich, selfish, arrogant, inhuman, and rude. A quiet, sunny spring afternoon. Enter Paddy, SXV, and Harry from around a corner.

Paddy You guys stay here; I don't want them thinking I've brought an army to walk the dogs.

Exit Paddy through some sort of triple-fortified potcullis to collect the aforementioned hounds. Bored, SXV picks a stick, approximately three feet in length, from the gutter at his feet. After absentmindedly digging a small patch of greenery from a pock in the sidewalk, he carefully inserts the stick fully into the hedge behind him, presumably whence it came. Enter a Woman.

Woman I SAY! What are you doing here?


SXV Waiting for our friend; he's acquiring some dogs.

Woman Why are you putting that stick in my neighbour's hedge?

SXV(More confused than intimidated by the absuridty of the small, angry, middle-aged Woman. Smiling genially.) I thought it could do with more stick.

Woman Yes, well I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't ruin my neighbour's hedge!

SXV (With mild mock-guilt.) Well, if I thought it would ruin the hedge, I wouldn't have done it.

Woman (Pause for angular upple-middle suspicion and prejudice.) Where do you live?

SXV (Continually amazed at being treated like a truanting schoolboy; trying not to laugh.) Beaconsfield. (And not the rich bit, but she doesn't need to know that.)

Woman (Trying not to be mollified.) And you?

Harry Stoke Poges.

Woman Well, I suggest that you not ruin my neighbour's hedge.

SXV (Smiling broadly at her and carefully removing stick from hedge.) I do apologise.

Woman Well, if I see you here again, I shall have the Police down here!

Don't the Police have better things to do than apprehend hedge-augmenters?

SXV (No longer in control of my laughter.) Oh? Really? Well, thank you for letting me know!

Woman (Walking away.) Yes, I will let you know, and so will everybody else!

SXV Marvellous!

Woman Don't be so bloody cheeky!

Paddy returns with two dogs. He is approached by the Woman.

Woman (To the dogs.) Hello girls! (The dogs whimper and turn away to Paddy.) Patrick!

Paddy I'm sorry, do I know you?

Woman Do you know that young man? (Points to SXV, dissolved in laughter, and still wielding the offending stick, twenty yards away.)

Paddy Yes. Why?

Woman Would you tell him that he is a very rude person. He was ruining my neighbour's hedge. If I catch him at it again, I shall call the Police!

Paddy (In disgust.) Madam, you are showing your class.

Woman Is he your friend?

Paddy Of course. What of it?

Woman Well Patrick, I suggest you keep better company!

Paddy Madam, I will keep whichever company I choose. (Walks off without a second glance. The Woman leaves in a huff. Paddy approaches SXV and Harry.) Who the fuck was that?


One wonders if, had I been wearing my usual attire - black on black, often in suit-format - rather than the filthy old Lonsdale trainers, ripped, ill-fitting, Soldier '95 pattern combat trousers, and orange t-shirt with the slogan "Do you MIND? I'm trying to IGNORE you!" emblazoned on the front in comedic typeface, all of which were important elements of costume for the character I had just played in a student short film, her reaction would have been the same.

One wonders, furthermore, how her reaction would have differed had I falsely informed her that I lived, like her, in Gerrards Cross, or perhaps, say, Slough.


For Your Amusement

I found the following objectionable, superlatively puerile, doctored chain-letter posted as a MySpace bulletin today. I thought I would share it with you only because doing this to drippy bullshit-mail is an Interweb equivalent of tearing it up and writing "RETURN TO SENDER" on the envelope. Edited for netslang and appalling SPAG, but not for content.


Body: Mandy and Austin have been going out since Seventh Grade. Now they are in Eleventh Grade. Mandy has been thinking of breaking up with him. Austin is gay. Very gay.

One Friday afternoon, on their Fifth Anniversary, Mandy and Austin were talking over the phone...

(Phone rings at Mandy's gay.)

Mandy Hello?

Austin Hey baby gay, how's it going?

Mandy All right, you gay?

Austin Pretty gay. So are you still up for that gay mouth-to-pussy watersports orgy?

Mandy I'm sorry, I can't go: I promised my little sister that I would eat her out to today.

Austin I'm gay.

Mandy I'm really, truly sorry.

Austin I'm gay

Mandy I can't, sorry, I have to go with Alyssa and her boyfriend to the mall to buy her fat-people clothes.

Austin You know, it seems like you have been gay these past few days. First you're gay, then you're gay, you total gay. I had something I wanted to give to you.

Mandy I'm sorry, I'm not trying to gay you.

Austin You know what, I'll just gay to you later, I'm going out for a gay. Love you!

Mandy I'm gay.

Austin Oh by the way, I'm gay.

...Two hours later, she ate some soup.

"Happy Gayiversary!"
P.S. I'm sorry for the gay.

Mandy takes her gift and the card up to her room and goes to sleep.

(One o'clock in the morning. Phone rings at Mandy's house.)

Mandy Hello?

Austin's Brother Hey Mandy, my brother got into a seriously hard sodomy session with his mates, and he's ruptured his liver through cock abuse!

Mandy Oh my God! Please could you pick me up and take me there?

Austin's Brother Yah, I'll be over in gay minutes.

(Gay minutes later.)

Austin's brother picks her up and puts her down. When they get there, she goes straight to Austin's room where the doctors are being gay and shit; putting a blanket over the motherfucker's head. His parents are popping and locking. His Mom moonwalks up to Mandy and hands her a note.

Mom Here, I think this is for you. OW!

(Mandy opens the letter and reads.)

I Gay You

I gay your smile
I gay your kisses
I gay your sensibility
I gay your hair
I gay your touch
I gay your smell
I gay your warm hugs
I gay your everything about you

I gay you

Never forget that

P.S. Without you I would GAY!

(Mandy then starts popping too, and collapses on top of his body in a criss-cross funky-fresh leglock.)

Mandy (Crying. In an '80s bumboy voice.) I'm sorry, I gay you, please come back.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Now that you have read this, if you don't repost it, Plato and Socrates will come into your house and sod the shit out of you and invite all their other noncey friends round to bugger you gay.

If you repost this your one true love will gay you.

Repost this as "I ALMOST WANKED".

... Sorry.