In which a fond adieu is bidden...

Those of you who have been bored enough this summer to keep up to date with my assorted webular presences will be aware that I spent the first half of the holidays in Edinburgh, in my dingy flat, in the foetal position. You will be equally aware that I have spent the second half in Crieff, spending money I don't have on pints of Belhaven Best, smoking in my summer-shed, stealing Andrew's wine, and looking consistently bemused. 

As enjoyable as all this has been, I confess myself relieved to be resuming my studies in September. Ask me if this remains the case in a month and I will probably be unable to answer, because my brain will have devolved to the level of a marmot as a result of the stress and the polluted urban air.

In the meantime, I'm actually quite looking forward to the small mountain of reading I have to get through. Being as I am a bumbling, absent-minded and nonsensical human being, I made the mistake of having all my books delivered to the home I'm not currently living in, so I am considerably behind schedule.

So, to all my chums in Crieff and the surrounding townships, I say farewell.

To all those in Edinburgh whose presence I can vaguely tolerate, I will see you very soon.

Jamie

In which you are made to feel uncomfortable on several occasions...

Hello, and an arousingly pleasant day to you all! Hot on the heels of Thursday’s ‘The Best of Facebook: A Copy & Paste Retrospective of the Friendly Fun Times...’ I have written a small piece on what has turned out to be several subjects, some of which I’ve spoken a great deal about in the past, both in this Blog and in actual social interaction with other human beings. As you all know, I believe with a violent and temperamental passion that language is a democracy. What many of you won’t know is that this is simply my unnecessarily posh way of saying that I don’t care if you can’t spell. Nor do I really give a flying dog’s bollocks if you think prepositions are lovely things to end sentences with. If you want to throw the word ‘literally’ immediately before a metaphor, then all power to you; do it until you no longer know or care who or where you are. HOWEVER. I read something today which, despite exhibiting overwhelming contempt for linguistic carelessness, was very enjoyable, and filled with so much good sense and dry humour that I very nearly collapsed in my chair in the throes of a quivering orgasm...
 
Now, I doubt any of you are Daily Telegraph readers, and that is perfectly understandable. Robert Webb writes a very enjoyable weekly column, but apart from that it’s exactly as you would expect: liberty-loathing, Imperialism-loving anachronisms who still masturbate over photographs of Queen Victoria with sufficient intensity to make igniting their dried out carcasses a tangible risk. However, a chap by the name of Simon Heffer (a hilarious name, to be sure) used to write a little column called ‘Simon Heffer’s Style Notes’. As you saw if you had the decency to follow the link I went through the trouble of providing, this column took the form of an email (or more likely a letter on extravagant personalised stationery, written in ink extracted from the body of an extremely rare octopus) to all staff at The Daily Telegraph, warning of the dangers of unprofessionalism. The use of the word ‘unprofessionalism’ is probably a sterling example of unprofessionalism, as, despite reassurance from Microsoft Word, I am not convinced it is a real word. After all, Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that the last but one comma is supposed to be a semicolon! To think, some people worry that machines will one day usurp humanity in a bloody coup. If my undisciplined human brain, a soggy mass of greyness suffering from border-line senility, can grasp the concept of a semicolon, then why can’t a piece of software that thinks thousands of times faster?
 
Anyway... Simon Heffer is everything you are currently imagining. He loathes Americanisms with the white-hot intensity most people reserve for rival sports teams or Piers Morgan. He seems to think The Daily Telegraph is read solely by illustrious military men with moustaches and astounding grammatical awareness. You get the impression that, if he ever met one of the journalists guilty of making the mistakes he takes so much pleasure in recounting, he might well take his cane to them. I don’t actually know how old he is; I just assume he is an old bastard with a big bastarding cane...
 
I’ve just Googled him and...well... why don’t you Google him as well and then I needn’t burst several blood vessels attempting to censor myself. Just do a quick image search and look at the first two. In fact, here they are... one... and... two. I think they encapsulate everything about him as a human being. There is literally nothing you could say to me about this man that could possibly change my impression of him as based upon those two photos.
 
Anyway... Why must I always drag you along on my uncontrollable tangents? I’m surprised you don’t get lost in here for days on end...
 
Anyway... Despite my new-found loathing for the man, I must admit he knows his grammar, unlike a great many people who see fit to pick faults with that of others. It isn’t just grammar though. One part I found rather good was the following extract:
 
If you find yourself using a word of whose meaning you are unsure, do look it up in the dictionary. When we get a word wrong it is embarrassing. It demeans us as professional writers and shakes our readers’ confidence in us. In recent weeks we have confused endocrinology – the study of the body’s endocrine system – with dendrochronology, which is the study of dating trees. More embarrassing still, we accused the eminent broadcaster Sir David Attenborough of being a naturist – someone who chooses not to wear clothes – when in fact he is a naturalist.
 
Despite his being a pompous, conservative cunt, I find him really very funny. Another gem reads as follows:
 
Homophones remain abundant and show up the writer and the newspaper or website. We are quality media, and quality media do not make mistakes such as these: “the luck of the drawer”, “through the kitchen sink”, “through up” “dragging their heals” and “slammed on the breaks”, all of which are clichés that might not be worthy of a piece of elegant writing even if spelt correctly. We have also confused Briton and Britain, hanger and hangar, hordes and hoards, peeled and pealed, lightening and lightning, stationery and stationary, principal and principle, peninsula and peninsular, licence and license and, in something of a pile-up, born, borne and bourn. If you are unsure of the meanings of any of these words, look them up before proceeding further.
 
One can almost see the man’s self-importance seeping through the monitor and oozing down the screen. Yet, on first reading, I found this laugh-out-loud funny. I audibly chuckled. His farewell, though, merits the accolade of ‘priceless’ if anything I have read in a newspaper ever has... 

Finally, may I mention some factual matters? Ottawa is the capital of Canada. Air Chief Marshal is   spelt thus; and Mark Antony thus.
 
With best wishes
 

Simon Heffer
Associate Editor
 

The Daily Telegraph

That, gentle reader, is delicious. If I could ingest honey through my eyes, and was of sufficient mental instability to enjoy it, I imagine reading that would be a similar sensation. If I had not discovered in writing this post that Simon Heffer is, indeed, an extraordinarily conservative turd (support for Section 28 instantly puts you in line for what I call an ‘atomic frowning’) then I might think this was a clever fictional alter-ego à la Robin Cooper or Donald Trefusis. The reality is, of course, less pleasant. But that doesn’t mean he is a man entirely without merit or morals...
 
Sometimes we do not properly think of the sense of what we are writing. .  . We wrote that “too many bomb disposal experts” had died in Afghanistan, which prompted an angry reader to ask what an acceptable number of dead experts would have been. We wrote of “an extraordinary killing spree” and were asked, in similar fashion, what would have constituted an ordinary one.
 
Valid points both, I’m sure you agree.
 
But now, my friends, I fear I have detained you too long. I hope you have enjoyed this return to what vaguely constitutes normality. I realise it has been many months since a conventional Blog post graced this hallowed webular abode, and I would love to assure you that September will play out in a similar fashion... but I must disappoint you. I must pump your anxious hearts full of lukewarm uncertainty, and justify this violation of trust only by saying that I am not sure how busy I will be in the coming weeks. I am an Honours student now, and I do not really know what that means...

But it sounds fairly serious.
 
So, I bestow upon you my best wishes, and kisses to be placed on whatever part of your body you deem most worthy.
 

Jamie




P.S. I hope to see you all at the Games tomorrow! 

P.P.S. If you are reading this later than Sunday 22nd August, and I already saw you at the Games, then I am so, so sorry...

In which we reminisce...

Ahoy-hoy! For my second August Blog entry I bring you something mighty special. By means of introduction I must alert you to one of my late-night hobbies. Don't worry, it isn't pornography. Not this time, anyway... No, what I often do is delve rather deeply into the misty mists of time by clicking on the 'Older Posts' button on Facebook. Somehow, re-reading the various comments and statuses fills me with potentially toxic levels of nostalgia, which we all know is one of my many drugs of choice. So, having found myself chuckling at numerous titbits, I provide for your pleasure:


The Best of Facebook: A Copy & Paste Retrospective of the Friendly Fun Times...
 (Kindly note that any spelling/grammatical errors are entirely the fault of the original author...but it's mostly my stuff anyway, so y'know, WHATEVER...)



In which lunch foreshadows terrible deeds... 

Michael > Me: I thought i'd inform you that i'm having Ryvita and Huomous for lunch.
just to make you angry

Me > Michael: Do you know what happens to people who classify ryveta and humous as a meal? They grow up to become rapists :(



In which high-jinks oft turn to hate crime...
Me > Michael: Michael I have been playing Master of Olympus for SIX HOURS STRAIGHT, my buttocks have FUSED WITH MY CHAIR, and I blame you, because of all your spiel about The Odyssey. Anyway, just half an hour ago, in a rather dark twist, I ACCIDENTALLY genocided the Centaurs.

Genocide is a verb now.
 
In which I initially misread the number of 'L's... 
Abby > Andrew: Happy birthday, hope you have a fabby day!!x
 
In which Andrew proves his masculinity...

Andrew: *Joe hands me a pint of wine to down*
"C'mon Andrew, its all or nothing"
*I chin it*
"ITS ALL!!!"
*Promptly throw up*
..."Its nothing..."

 

In which everyone seemed to enjoy what I said...

Me: There were inexplicable crumbs in my bed this morning... AM I A WERE-BISCUIT ???

 

*          *          * 


So, I hope you enjoyed that. Since it's a bit short (because it's also a bit late) I shall return to this entry and add things as I unearth them. In the mean time, the Highland Games are almost upon us, and there is only one question the townsfolk of Crieff are asking: "Is Jamie Lamb going to get as drunk as he did last year?"

Watch this space...





Actually, watch whatever space I'm standing in... If you sit at home all day staring at that space you will MISS EVERYTHING.

Peace out, honkies!


Jamie

In which sanity is relative...

It would be courteous of me to warn you, gentle reader, that this particular entry lives farther from the citadel of human sanity than we have thus far ventured. Some of you may refer me back to the bizarre, nightmarish poetry I forced upon you earlier in the year, but personally, I think this is ever so slightly worse. It's another of my short fictional "monologues" (if you will) but, unlike last month's, it wouldn't require vast reserves of mental prowess to imagine this one actually being a monologue... Repeated over and over... Accompanied by the gentle rocking of hunched shoulders...

We’re conditioned to believe, from a very young age, that nightmares are a harmless consequence of possessing a multi-faceted brain. For reasons unfathomable, we have attached to the spectral phantoms of waking sleep the insignia of the villain, whilst denying their capacity for villainy. Those claws that grope blindly from the dark, we are told they are not to be feared. Those eyes that gleam moistly out of oblivion, we are informed they are the enemies of reason, and that reason alone can keep them at bay. I lack that faith in the power of human reason, my friends...

I remember the way it danced. I remember the movements of its body, and how its head remained quite still, and its face seemed suspended in deranged glee. I remember something suggestive in the curl of the lips that flaked like charred wood, and in the wetness of the eyes that leered out from cavernous sockets. Its limbs were like liquid, and this made it difficult to discern their number, as did the hypnotically eclectic pattern they drew through the thick air. The worst part though, was not the paralysed face, nor the decaying lips, nor the moist eyes, nor the incomprehensible limbs. 

It was that the thing danced in silence, to the mute melody of human reason dying.


*          *          * 

I hope you enjoyed that. I seem incapable of writing anything more than three paragraphs long these days. Anyroad, I'm still trying to write a normal entry, but I'm getting nowhere fast. Consequently, you can look forward to another fictional titbit some time in the near future. It's half finished, and in a (borderline) similar vein as this 'ere literary "bad trip". I wrote it at a time some people know as 5am! Can you BELIEVE it?

Cheerio!

Jamie

In which old age is nothing new...


While I think of something proper to write about this month, I've posted one of the little, half-finished, fictional things I toss out when there is nothing of worth for me to do. This one is from the memoirs of a pensioner who confronts his rapidly increasing seniority with what you might call gusto.

The advent of old age, I found, was rather like puberty. I woke up one morning and realised my body was in the midst of changes it had been undergoing for years, but which I had failed to notice as they happened. It was just as confusing and distressing as puberty and I found all over again that it was all very embarrassing. Suddenly my body was capable of secreting fluids I was unaware it even produced. Mood swings once again integrated themselves into the fabric of everyday life and, most notably, hair started to sprout from the most unlikely of nooks and surprising of crannies. On second thought, what was most notable was that I began pissing myself at least twice a week.

Loss of bladder control in the old runs parallel to masturbation in the young. One day you discover that your genitals are capable of something extraordinary, and from that point on the frequency with which they exercise their new-found ability increases exponentially. The difference is that one is the process by which we create life from nothing, while the other is the biological mechanism which shifts bodily waste from one place to another.

Normally from my bladder to my trousers.

*          *          *

For those of you in Crieff, I shall be staging my triumphant return in about a week. I shall be sorely disappointed if a monument is not erected to honour the occasion. A carpet of palm leaves would be appreciated, but is not strictly necessary.


Jamie.

In which I respectfully disagree...

For those of you who have already perused my last few entries (quite possibly none of you) the rapid addition of a further piece will come as little surprise. Given the profound lack of stimuli in my day to day life, a brief outline of which can be found elsewhere, I have taken to writing as a shield against what Churchill called ‘the black dog’. Right now it is half past eight in the morning, and I have been awake since three yesterday afternoon. This nocturnalism, a malady from which I have suffered on and off for a year, has recently been kept at bay by what I call ‘strategic binge-drinking’. In lieu of this my medicine of choice has been a mug of hot milk and a few paracetamol, the combination of which does to consciousness what Israeli soldiers do to humanitarian protesters.The upside of spending such extended periods of time alone is that it gives me time to think. Many of you will know first-hand the perils posed by the relentless rotating of my neurological cogs, and it will not be necessary for you to stifle gasps of astonishment to know that some of the resultant thoughts are less than cheery. I have already decided upon the conditions in which I wish to die, a decision which has provided significant peace of mind. I have come to terms with the harsh reality that none of my bizarre poetry shall ever be published without a drastic compromise of my artistic sensibilities. Over and above these contemplative gems one can find the usual tirades against the Catholic Church, some quite enlightened opinions on masturbation and, by extension (so to speak), the abysmal quality of our country’s curriculum of sex education. The product of this morning’s labours represents a thorough slating of what people call ‘respect’...
      
I remember watching some programme or other a little while ago. It dealt with the age old question of what it means to be ‘cool’. In search of an answer to the riddle, the intrepid presenter set out to an extremely fashionable nightclub, and asked some of the guests what it meant to them to be cool. One man equated coolness with respect, and I remember giving this some thought. Respect is one of those things in life in which a huge number of people place a huge amount of importance. Having the respect of one’s friends, one’s colleagues, one’s parents, and anyone else with whom one makes contact in life, is ludicrously important to people. I am forthwith cancelling my subscription to this way of thinking. And about time too...
     
After all, what the bollocks do I want with respect? Respect is basically just the approval of others. Working for approval is a perfectly acceptable preoccupation for a child. Children naturally desire the approval of others because they are too young to have anything substantial upon which to build a positive self-image, and it is therefore the only option available. But for a grown man or woman to do the same is, frankly, pathetic.
     
How small a cock must one have to need the respect of others to justify their existence? How deserving of pity is he or she who requires validation from others to feel important? I find this a bit saddening really; imagine having so little sense of worth that the passing approval of another is the only thing preventing you from slipping into a mire of depression and worthlessness. That’s the sort of mentality that causes women to become sluttish. It’s the mentality that drives men to buy bitchin’ rims and infeasible sound systems. It’s the bread and butter of sycophants the world over. It’s the impetus for social climbers. It has been the catalyst for countless betrayals and heartaches throughout history. It’s an addiction that takes a scalpel to the testes of society and transforms it into a snivelling eunuch.
     
While my contempt for the concept remains white hot, I urge you, gentle reader, to grow a pair. That’s it, grow a pair. Then grab them and say: “Actually, they’re fine the way they are. To Hell with everyone else’s respect. Respect these!”

Then whip out that pair you’ve just grown and gesticulate obscenely.

Jamie

In which mankind breathes its last sentient breath...

I saw a little bit of this evening's Big Brother and, as you might expect, was on the verge of microwaving my own hand whilst holding a spoon. Unfortunately, this is impossible. Looks like I have been FOILED AGAIN by DOORS. Having said this, I did very much like the massive, swivelling eyeball, that spent the entire show surveying the hideous cavalcade of freaks and societal dregs like the merciless Eye of Sauron overseeing his legions of orc minions.

Or perhaps it was more like the maniacal Dalek Caan, cackling in mute glee as his master-plan, eons in the making, enters its final stage, ready to destroy once and for all one of the greatest evils in human history. At the end of the thirteen weeks, or however long the blasted thing lasts, he will dramatically reveal, in barely comprehensible giggles, that each and every Big Brother contestant, applicant, and viewer has, through some arcane technology, been implanted with a deadly biological, nerve shattering explosive. Having travelled through the irreality of time itself, he has discovered the grim state of earth's future, going insane in the process. In the throes of this incrementing madness, he has designed these devices in preparation for a mass cull, geared towards the prevention of mankind's degeneration into a race of drones, subservient to Davina McCall.

Pure speculation, of course...

P.S. If you've read this, don't forget about this month's OTHER entry (Oh my!).

In which dreams may prove profitable...

As this month marks a very momentous occasion, I thought I’d compose something a little special. My more astute readers (which given your pitifully small number is saying very little) will have noticed that this month, June 2010, marks two whole years of “In Lamb We Trust”. That’s right, twenty-four months of more or less continuous monthly updates. Those few months which have remained lamentably bereft of entries are, I feel, more than avenged by those boasting two, or even three sterling examples of what a Blog can be at its very best. All conceited self-reference aside, I have thrown together a few tales of the weird which will bring you fully up-to-date with my life. We begin with the bizarre dream I experienced last night...

My Dream...

I find myself wandering up a grimly Dickensian alleyway, on my way to a summer party in a pleasant Victorian suburb. When I arrive, all and sundry are sprawled on the verdant grass lawn, stretching down from the front porch, to a pool of jolly flowers near the garden wall. There we all sit, sipping our drinks and revelling in idle chatter, when who should run in but Will bloody Smith, claiming that a terrorist attack perpetrated by Nationalist extremists has just taken place down the road. They have, Will Smith informs us, used poison gas on the home of a large family of successful immigrants, shooting dead the six poor buggers who made it out of the building alive. The extremists, clearly inexperienced in the field of gaseous terrorism, have lost control of the gas, and it is enveloping the entire suburb in its toxic embrace, like some monstrous creature from a low budget ‘Blob-horror’ movie. Terrified, the lot of us make a run for it, darting around the house and bounding over the fence in the back garden. Eventually, and inexplicably, we reach a gaping chasm, a vast and uncrossable canyon. To our dismay, in the time it has take us to run this far, the country has declared war with someone or other, and troops are positioned atop our side of the canyon, panzerschreking (why on earth panzerschreks?) the living daylights out of the opposite cliff-face, which boasts a network of tunnels in which are entrenched our, as yet unnamed, enemies.

The troops on our side of the canyon are powerless. They cannot, even with outdated Nazi anti-tank weaponry, breach the solid rock walls of the enemy’s geological fortress. An untimely barrage from the enemy destroys the section of cliff on which we are all standing, and we plummet with the rubble into the abyss below.

We wake up on Mars. After much exploration to confirm this, one of our number claims to have discovered a very odd fossil. We inspect it and it proves to be a peculiar looking creature, vaguely cylindrical in form, with a ridge of short tendrils stretching the circumference of its body. Some sort of brutal thorn protrudes from one of the flattish surfaces. At this point we notice the tendrils are moving. One of us suggests that it is simply the wind (we have somehow not succumbed to the carbon dioxide atmosphere yet), but another of our number, checking the wind direction with a moistened finger, declares that the wind is actually blowing in the opposite direction. We experience that numbing sense of horror and realisation that is the trademark of such stories, and Will Smith unnecessarily confirms our suspicions that the creature is alive. It turns out that this thing is the larval stage of an enormous, millipede-like creature. As it happens, many of them fuse together (with the thorny bits) to create a huge, sentient killing-machine, operating under the control of a collective consciousness (like that apparently found with swarms of ants, bees, termites etc.). One such monstrosity, an absolute behemoth, consisting of thousands of the little devils, bursts from the Martian soil, intent on devouring us. At that moment however, rescue arrives in the form of  NASA, who very hospitably take us home.

Will Smith and I become hugely worried about these creatures. For some reason, knowing nothing about them, we fear an imminent invasion. You may think us silly to make such an assumption, but we do at least make a pitch to NASA for a research grant, so that we might learn more about them. I am put in charge of the team responsible for making the pitch, and we fail dismally. No one believes that Mars is populated by a species of arthropods whose physical size is limited only by how many of the little larvae are willing to latch on. We despair for our species, until one of the boffins on the grant committee sidles over to me, as I stare blindly into space, and confesses to believe us. Furthermore, he is a friggin’ billionaire and agrees to fund the mission, which is somehow ready to be put into effect within hours. Sadly, I woke up just as I was putting on my spacesuit (which was little more than a padded onesie). Lord knows what feats of heroism I might have dreamt up thereafter... Regardless, if I ever meet Will Smith, I will pitch this story to him in the form of a movie script. As long as it comes out in 3-D and is something like Avatar, I will be rolling in it after opening night.

Miscellaneous Woes and Realizations...

I have recently discovered that a surprising number of my books are more bloodstained than books are wont to be. This is largely because of my frequent nosebleeds. You see, when your face boasts as impressive a proboscis as mine does, a large volume of stuff gets blown into it, necessitating an unseemly amount of picking and rubbing and itching, all of which irritate the sensitive lining of my nostrils. I shall, however, maintain the much more interesting story that I am a vicious serial killer, whose weapons of choice are Henry James novels and Bernard Shaw biographies. I think you will agree that this is preferable to the altogether more unpleasant, probing reality.

In other news, I have found myself in a position in life where I am unflinchingly happy. Admittedly, I am unemployed, single, and as physically, fashionably and socially handicapped as ever. I fear I may have failed my European History examination (the one I had to leave prior to its start in order to dry-heave over a toilet bowl) and if I do not get a job soon I will have to move back to Crieff and work in the Hydro (both of which I am loath to do). I entertain myself during the day by shuffling about the flat in threadbare slippers, sipping tea and grumbling to myself (that and my constant sniffling is how Michael and Robbie can tell it's me who has just come in the front door), and the long summer evenings find me either watching pornography, or drinking irresponsibly, and often both. Nonetheless, I am altogether quite content with my lot in life. The financial strictures under which I currently operate will not last long if I can wrangle employment somewhere or other, and I choose to utilise my poor coping skills to quash any doubts regarding examinations by means of that time-tested and trusty mechanism which I adore: pretending problems aren’t there and buggering on like a mad man.

Romantic troubles have failed to engender tears for some weeks, and my twenty year yearning for a blissful relationship seems to have been, in chronological order: disappointed, poisoned, crippled with gangrene and blown away by the rancid, boozy farts I have become adept at producing. I have lost my long-held desire to impress women, and actually seem to be doing all the better for it (or so I like to think). Indeed, two memorable conversations with girls, both occurring on the same night, in the same pub, with the two sitting four feet from one another, saw me labelling one a “soulless monster”. I somehow inadvertently called the other (whom I actually quite fancied) a “prostitute or a porn star” on account of the thigh-high socks she, unbeknownst to me, happened to own for non-ironic purposes. I don’t remember how I managed to reverse such a slip, but I am told I did, and I think it had something to do with the socks she was actually wearing at the time. The other girl, poor thing, is, I believe, slightly frightened of me. I don’t know why Michael and Peter insist on introducing me to people. I should, by all accounts, be kept in my room, insulated from the rest of society.

Also, I realised only a few minutes ago that all the job applications I have sent using my University email account have been horrendous duds. Apparently, despite being a clever man, I am unable to use the attachment function of said email account. It is somehow a boost to my ego to believe that this is the only reason none of them have contacted me thus far, although the more I consider this, the less sense it makes...
 
Having updated you on my life as it stands, and provided you with the details of every vaguely interesting thing that has happened to me since last month, I must bid you farewell. It is eight o’clock and I have a rather promising dinner lined up. A microwavable steak and Guinness casserole which I may enliven (as if it is necessary, pah!) with boiled potatoes and carrots. 

Jamie

In which opinions are revised...

Ahoy-hoy, chaps! We’re getting nearer the end of May, all of my exams have been sat (with mixed success) and, thanks to strategic binge-drinking, I am not completely nocturnal! Good things all, to be sure. So, since all that has happened since my last entry (that riveting little number on pretension and hypocrisy) is ill-planned revision, beer, and shouting at Michael’s house-guests (all related), I shall simply plunge right into this month’s with all the merciless abandon of Old Testament God, to whom I am becoming more and more prone to likening myself. So, hide your first-born, construct an arc, or just get the hell out of Sodom, because here I fucking come...

In the past I have tackled subjects which, at some time, have been at the centre of baying crowds of oft ill-informed and always uncompromising individuals, most of whom rally to the banner of one or the other of the extremist poles of opinion. In writing these entries I daringly consulted a variety of online forums. I can assure you that nothing in this age of the world is as certain to cultivate blind rage as reading the ramblings of these morons, not least because their definition of articulate debate does not seem to extend beyond mashing the keyboard with their stupid fists and instructing each other to commit suicide, or paradoxically requesting sexual favours from those they profess to hate. That being said, there are those with intriguing, often persuasive, opinions, who seem capable of presenting them in complete sentences. Still, the overwhelming majority are cretinous imbeciles who clog the veins of the internet like clueless lumps of cholesterol, and blow their hot-gas into the consciousness of humanity. Atop the great shit-heap of human folly (moral, intellectual and other) that I perceive, these pseudo-intellectuals are poised, at any moment, to place the final banana skin which will cause the whole sorry mess to collapse, driving me to mentally implode, becoming a dribbling vegetable, capable only of rasping the words “so... stupid” over and over again.

Having just reduced these people to the level of cholesterol, I urge you to remember, lest you forget, that they are living, breathing human beings just like ourselves (albeit with Turkish delight for brain cells), and this point brings me to the subject I wish to discuss. My fury (a mere glimpse of which I have furnished you with) was ignited by the reading of a forum, for the use of students, on the morality of animal charities. It is a subject in which I am quite interested, and I was simply curious as to whether there were any out there whose thoughts on the matter ran parallel to my own. I was not disappointed in this regard. In every other regard, however, I was not so much disappointed, as forced to take a time-out, make a cup of tea and smoke a cigarette, before taking my place back at my desk. I am afraid, nay terrified, that this is a symptom of me being drawn into the realm of the internet-arguer, that intellectual cum-sock we all love to ridicule. I dare you to approach the brink of sanity and read some of the millions of threads out there. I suspect you will find that the position from which we launch our mockery is less a luxurious VIP box and more a perilously narrow arête, from which we are all in grave danger of plummeting. However, if you have done so in the past, or intend to, and found (or fear you will find) yourself slashing at the tendrils which lash themselves around your legs and, with terrible vehemence, threaten to drag you screaming into the abyss, then fear not! It is only natural that you should be outraged by what you read, but what sets you and me  apart from these people, is that you and I scoff, and retreat (more you than me though, given the medium through which I am communicating with you). We take the time to calm down, and have a good, self-important chuckle about how stupid these people are, or sit for a few hours and compose an equally self-important Blog entry.

But, as usual, I have just spent a good six-hundred words digressing outrageously. What I intended to write about (which I have so far only mentioned once) is the subject of animal charities: whether or not it is moral to give money towards maintaining cat and dog sanctuaries or continuing the work of environmental activists when human beings the world over are suffering. It’s a hotly contested issue, as you will see if you read this forum.

My own views on the subject were fairly concrete until I started considering exactly how I was going to justify them. As much as I love animals (they’re like friggin’ Pokemon!), I always thought it was somewhat ridiculous to donate however many pounds a month to helping pandas while millions of human beings are starving to death in Africa, while corrupt governments orchestrate contemptible violations of human rights and while children grow up without parents due to AIDS and extreme poverty. How can people in our wealthy, enlightened, western world give their money to tigers when, statistically, at least one of their loved ones is likely to contract cancer, or some other awful, incurable illness? How many human lives could be saved if funds were diverted from cat and dog sanctuaries and invested in cancer research, or sustainable agriculture schemes in the Sahel?

Such was the pattern of my logic. Now, I am not so sure.

We in the western world have become desensitised to the suffering of our fellow man. Ignorance, it seems, is secondary to apathy. Oxfam adverts play while we are watching ‘Friends’, and we, numbed by helplessness, choose to carry on with our lives as best we can. This is human nature, I think. There is some part of us, slumbering beneath a superficial veil of western concerns, which wilts in mourning for those we see dying and suffering. But what can we do? What can you or I do, witnessing these horrors? Individually, we can do nothing. We can act, but we cannot do anything. We cannot realistically make a blind bit of difference. We, normal people, people who are just trying to live in relative comfort and happiness, are powerless. We can pop our change into a charity tub while purchasing our organic muesli in Sainsbury’s. We can fill out a form and maintain a direct debit, contributing some paltry sum to any of a thousand great causes, but really, this is just the impotent spasms of a drowning man who knows he is drowning and, confronted with the magnitude, the immensity, of the sea’s power, surrenders with a choked curse. “We can raise awareness”, I hear you cry. “If we cannot help as individuals, then we must band together, as a group!” A valiant effort, no doubt, but a futile one. In order to transcend the all too obvious limitations of the individual, one must penetrate the shroud of apathy surrounding one’s fellow man. History teaches us that such a feat is almost always hopeless.

We can implore those few among us with the means to make a difference, but the same difficulties present themselves, only magnified. Even the rich and powerful, faced with the enormity of the task of improving the world, find themselves assaulted on two fronts. Before them stands the plight of millions, whose lives teeter on the knife-edge between death and something we call ‘life’. Behind them lurks the shadowy spectre of their own insignificance, a carnivorous creature of doubt whose whispered rhetoric erodes any semblance of optimism. These people, wealthy businessmen, politicians, monarchs and all their like (at least those for whom greed and self-interest have not yet devoured their humanity) face the same reality we do: that these problems are so vast, so deep, so opportunistic and enterprising in their spread and development, that even they, with their funds and influence, stand like helpless children, while the horrors of the world swirl around them.

We are all, the best of us at least, terrified by this. The malevolence of these realities, the mercilessness of them, frightens us, not least because much of them are, if not made by human hands and minds, reared by them. What can we do in such a dire situation? What action can we take? We feel we can do nothing, and so our psychological instinct is to deal with it by other means, as we do with any painful reality we cannot control. We suppress it, and imprison it within walls of indifference. In turn, the awfulness from which we hide ourselves, feeds on our disinterest, and becomes all the more immense and unassailable.

A few of us though, have managed to release that within us which we have hidden. Some of us, and it is with enormous shame that I am scarcely able to count myself among them, stand up to the twin threats of suffering and helplessness, and in that way that is curiously and fascinatingly human, refuse to yield. If someone has managed such a feat, then who am I to say they are going about it the wrong way? If the most powerful men and women in the world cannot bring themselves to implement a solution to the world’s problems (and they have displayed this inability in the public forum many times) what right do I have to criticise how an ordinary man or woman rises above this weakness?

As humans, we constantly strive to give significance to our existence, and be damned with the fact that we are all specks of dust in the universe. These people do the same, they exhibit a localised version of what we all try to do: to make a difference in any small way we can, regardless of how poor we are, how clever we aren’t, how small and weak we may be. For us to sit back on ivory thrones and condemn some poor woman for giving money to orang-utans, or some well-meaning man for helping preserve the Great Barrier Reef, instead of aiding humans, when we ourselves may not even be doing anything, is madness. It is arrogance. To assume such a position as an arbiter of morality is something none of us has the right to do. It would be like criticising a person who, in an attempt to comfort someone in the wake of a loved one’s death, offers them a cup of tea. A cup of tea isn’t going to solve that poor soul’s problems, but we aren’t all gifted empathisers, and at least they’re having a bloody go at helping. We are too quick to attack those whom we perceive to have acted wrongly, when we should be directing this contempt at those who have not acted at all, and I assure you, they are in far greater abundance.

To return more tangibly to the subject of animal charities, I admit, I am still somewhat inclined to think that donating to human causes is preferable to others, though I admit to feeling ashamed even as I write this. As much as I am certain that this is what I believe, and that had I regular income, it would be to a human charity my £2 a month would be directed, I feel a pang of guilt for drawing such a distinction, for making the decision not only that humans are more important than animals, but that those humans helped by Amnesty International are more important to me than those helped by Cancer Research.

To make this a little clearer, if I arrogantly decree that human charities are superior to animal charities, where do I stop? There are charities out there dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals, and as you can imagine, many people loathe them. Am I to say that these organisations are inferior to those for cancer research, but superior to those for sea turtles? In doing so, I am saying that the living things these charities seek to help, occupy a scale of ‘worthiness’, and that we should all be helping those who have their place at the top of that scale. But, as we reach the top, we have those at 100, and those at 99. Are we to say that the 99s are inferior to the 100s and are consequently not worth our money? And how do we allocate places on this scale: are victims of cancer, who otherwise live comfortably and securely, inferior to those in Africa who are impoverished, but otherwise healthy? Surely it cannot be done. All these problems, poverty disease, starvation, impending extinction: which are the most severe? Which deserve priority? You simply cannot make these distinctions. It is not because no man is clever enough, or wise enough to do so, but because it is simply an impossible decision- absolutely impossible.

And there we are.

There is that malevolent presence of doubt, powerlessness and guilt I described earlier. You and I cannot help everyone. Nobody can. Not even those powerful individuals I made reference to earlier can help everyone. It is from this realisation that apathy emerges, ready to sink its claws into anyone who succumbs to their own helplessness.

In light of this, I feel that, if you have the courage (for surely that is what is required) to contribute to a cause about which you are passionate, in the full knowledge that you are effectively denying another cause the money you are donating, then I have no right to declare your contributions anything other than commendable.

Jamie

In which you owe someone an apology...

An uncomfortably warm welcome to April 2010, my first normal entry for two long, painful months! As is horribly often the case, I must begin with a grovelling apology. Having, in both February and March, subjected you to bizarre and barely poetic musings, whilst simultaneously promising additional conventional entries, I appear to have disappointed you on all counts. To compensate for the unorthodox nature of the past few months, I shall furnish you with a soul-numbingly mundane discussion on one of my many personal gripes, as I feel this facilitates the quickest return to normality. But before we begin, AND BEGIN WE SHALL, I shall provide you with a few unnecessarily inane updates on my life and the world as we know it. It’s halfway through April, and exams are looming like icebergs through the twilit gloom of academic comprehension. Fortunately, what with temperatures rising like inconvenient erections, these glacial behemoths will soon be a thing of the past, and summer can commence with trademark heavy-handed prejudice (I burn easily). I have just ordered no fewer than three Elvis Costello albums (I really like Elvis Costello), am on my way to challenge the Sinnoh region’s Elite Four in Pokemon Diamond (my Golduck knows ‘Shadow Claw’), and I am as big a hit with the ladies as ever (a DIRECT HIT, you guys)! On top of all this intense drama, apparently scientists are working on a way to lessen the number of mothers passing on genetic diseases to their children, by transplanting healthy Mitochondrial DNA into eggs at risk. Stevie Wonder is supposedly playing at Glastonbury, and that crass, sanitary-towel of a man, Tarcisio Bertone, has come under fire for his crazy claims about the evils of homosexuality within the church, and for being, to quote myself, “a cunt”. So it’s the good times all round! But, to return to the subject of this month’s discussion, I present you with a rambling tirade against the evils of IMPROPER WORD USE, and THE INJUSTICES WHICH RESULT FROM IGNORANCE OF THE MOTHER-TONGUE.

Pedantry.

Many of us dislike it, and with good reason. Linguistic pedantry, in particular, we all find unutterably tedious. The distinction between “less” and “fewer” is quite literally irrelevant in modern, English-speaking society, as is being trigger-happy with the word “literally”. Improper use of apostrophe’s (!) rarely causes anyone any bother, nor does the grammatical incorrectness of the phrase “None of them are...”
 
To illustrate the pointlessness of such technicalities more effectively, I’ll quickly show you (or more likely reiterate for you) the distinction between “less” and “fewer”. “Less” is used when referring to something which cannot be given a definite numerical quantity, and corresponds with the adjective “much” (e.g. less chocolate, less blood, less confusion). “Fewer” is used when referring to something which can be given a definite numerical quantity, and corresponds with the adjective “many” (e.g. fewer people, fewer chairs, fewer sexual assaults). As I’m sure you’ll agree, this is neither here nor there. It does not hinder our understanding of what someone is saying to us one iota. It is a silly, arbitrary feature of our language which complicates it needlessly. But some people get very riled up about it. The “none of them are...” kerfuffle is even worse. As we know, “none” is a contraction of “not one”, but it long ago lost the apostrophe which denotes this. “Not one of them are...” is incorrect. “Not one of them is...” is correct. BUT, the omission of the apostrophe, I would argue, nullifies this technicality, as “none” has essentially integrated itself into our language as a standalone word. But I undress... I mean, digress.
 
My point is one which I often bore people with at parties: language is a democracy. If this is a given truth then such pedantry must surely qualify as tyranny. However, there are times when linguistic pedantry is in the right. Admittedly, very rarely when it sees fit to concern itself with grammar, but sometimes when it concerns itself with definition, or denotation. The above example, “literally”, is not one of these occasions. People use “literally” to emphasise the truth of a statement. Sometimes they apply it to metaphors, similes or hyperbole, and are condemned by pedantic, friendless cretins for doing so. “I literally do nothing all day.” That’s impossible, of course, but we understand what it means. The speaker is putting distinct emphasis on how little he or she does. Nobody is in any confusion whatsoever.
 
Hopefully.
 
But what of words which are incorrectly used, and which consequently do confuse people? What of words we apply to one another which (we finally broach this month’s subject) are unfair because they are used incorrectly? I refer you to the two I dislike the most: “pretentious” and “hypocrite”.

“Pretentious” is the adjective form of the noun “pretence”, which in turn is the noun form of the verb “to pretend”. Correctly used, it denotes someone who is pretending, as seems obvious. Why then, do we use this word, in the most negative of tones, to describe someone who has the collected works of Shakespeare on their bookshelf, who enjoys classical music, who discusses philosophy, or who frequents the theatre? If these people are in possession of Shakespeare’s canon, the operatic works of Mendelssohn, if they ruminate on Plato or Hume, or revel in the dry wit of Pinter, what is it that makes them pretentious? If they sincerely enjoy these things then they are, by definition, unpretentious. They are true and sincere. If they own these things or do these things in order to appear cultured, and lack genuine passion, then they are pretentious, but colloquially, many people fail to draw this glaringly evident distinction. In jibing these people, whether pretentious or not, the jiber (Jibe-machine? Jibe-talker?) is him or herself, being extremely pretentious. Placing themselves in a position of self-assumed superiority to scorn someone for being more cultured and (often) just more interesting is adopting a false facade in itself. The difference is that, rather than drawing from the well of cultural elitism, this has its roots in reverse-snobbery.

As a friend recently said to me, as I gallantly defended Oscar Wilde from accusations of pretension: “Oscar Wilde isn’t pretentious; he’s an intelligent writer!” This, I fear, is the problem...

The unjustly widespread application of “pretentious” stems less from a lack of understanding of language, and more from a broader, and far more problematic source. It stems from a general lack of understanding, and the resultant feelings of intimidation and suspicion. It is simply an abstract parallel to a feature inherent in us all, but mercifully suppressed (in what I hope to be most of us) by centuries of civilisation: a hostile reaction to anything alien. Intelligence and culture, bizarre though it may sound, are alien to some people. In fact, it is alien to all of us to some degree. There is always someone more intelligent and cultured than we are. Are we not all tempted to label them as pretentious? Do we not all, by means of ridicule, seek to bring those better than us crashing down to our level, to render their superiorities insignificant by making them laughable or conceited? In doing so, we render our own deficits less severe, and therefore less painful.

Finding a solution to this is, as I have mentioned, problematic. I daresay that clever people, and people who actively try to better themselves intellectually and culturally (however successfully) will always attract the criticism of those too base, crude and bitter to take the leap to self-improvement themselves. Until then I urge you, before flinging such a slanderous term at someone, to ask yourself if it is they or you, who are pretentious.

“Hypocrisy” was a word which gave Samuel Johnson a hard time. It was one of his many pet peeves regarding the application of language, and the unjust use of the word riled him up something awful. “Hypocrisy” means the declaring of views, opinions, morals or beliefs that are inconsistent with one’s own. It’s basically lying. However, we have come to accept “hypocrisy” as meaning incongruence between statement and action, which is very different. Someone who complains about people around them smoking, but frequently smokes in public, is a hypocrite. Someone who discourages people from smoking, but smokes themselves, is not necessarily a hypocrite. As with “pretentious” the problem with this misuse is one of sincerity.

Our man who smokes in public, but complains whenever anyone else does the same, clearly lacks sincerity. In contrast, our man who discourages people from smoking, but does so himself, provided he genuinely believes in the benefits of not smoking, is far from a hypocrite. It would be unfair and insulting to accuse the latter of hypocrisy without first ascertaining the authenticity of his conviction.

Politicians are often accused of hypocrisy because they tell us what they think we want to hear, which is often at odds with their own beliefs. This is hypocrisy. The Catholic Church promotes the teachings of a poor carpenter, but have their headquarters in a building of incredible opulence. This is (horrendous) hypocrisy. Criminals sometimes go to schools to encourage children to avoid trouble, work hard, and respect others.  This is NOT hypocrisy (if they actually believe it).

That’s essentially the difference. It might seem a bit confusing, and it certainly took me a little while to sift through the numerous available definitions in order to prove my point, but fundamentally it’s really very simple. The difference between a valid accusation of hypocrisy and unjust slander is the difference between someone telling the truth and someone telling a lie. It’s the difference between someone who believes what they say and someone who doesn’t. Lacking the facilities to act on what you believe, but encouraging others to act upon it, is not hypocrisy. It's just being human!

Yet even once we have come to grips with this, hypocrisy remains troublesome. It can be used, as with politicians, to conceal motives or to endear yourself to someone under false pretences. But, as I am sure you can imagine, hypocrisy can be used morally, if not misguidedly, to conceal that which is painful, to avoid confronting that which is frightening. So, just as with “pretentious”, think carefully before you label someone a hypocrite.

There you go then. Those two words have been playing on my mind for a few days now, and now they can play on yours while I get down to the very serious business of revision. I’ve got to grapple with Jude the Obscure (again), endure Hard Times in the library (again), and scour the university, North and South, to find textbooks (again). I’ll be staring at the unimaginable, corrupt horror of The Picture of Dorian Gray
(squirming with the excitement of a schoolgirl - for the THIRD TIME!) and wandering the frightening, existentialist streets of The City of Dreadful Night (again - what’s the point?). Anyroad, philosophical puns aside, I shall endeavour to have another entry up in the second week of May, once these exams are good and sat. Meanwhile, if any of you are experts on the architecture of post-war Berlin, medieval witch hunting, or the Spanish Civil War, send me your brains.

Jamie.

In which artistic insecurities are cast aside...

I shall make it clear from the outset that I am very much in the process of writing a nice, normal entry for you this month, and that you need not fear. However, the pace with which I write is... well, 'tis a snail's pace. Strangely, academic essays flow from me like ignorance from the Daily Mail; it is only these confounded Blog entries which demand such time, effort, and love be lavished upon them. So, as my March entry is spoiled rotten with ongoing additions, revisions and sexual favours, I provide for your enjoyment, and my own gratuitous self-indulgence, yet more of my bizarre poetry... 


The Painter Girl 

As I was led through caves that twist
Beneath the profane holy grounds,
Through pagan tunnels that resound,
With the howls
Of morals aging.
There I saw the craven mute
Whose words could woo the sculptures,
And as I wandered slovenly
Through the haunts of lustful vultures,
Upon a whim I fell in love
With the girl whose paintings weep,
Within the sulphurous parlours.

Wrapped in fumes of throbbing dark,
Peering through an emerald lens,
At creatures in the skins of men,
Locked in lips
Of meek oblivion.
The painter girl, with moonlit eyes,
Feels gazes fall about her,
As oily tongues, they promise worlds,
Her senses come to doubt her.
She sees seduction in a glass,
Which grasps with marble fingers,
And with eyes aflame,
Invites her.

Conceptions blaze upon the roof,
And on hot coals across the floor,
Through the packs of clowns and whores,
Where the painter girl
Lies crying.
As the nightmare hosts, they joust with horns,
To the parlour’s bloodless rumbling beat,
The twitching painter girl, denied,
Beholds the coils around her feet,
Which bleed upon baptised regrets,
As courtiers reap their earthly debts,
And one and all
Stand nearly naked.

*          *          * 

 Perhaps a more controlled effort than last month's hellish jig through the nuances of mortal sanity... Those who know me well, or at all, will have noticed the emergence of one of my most acute personal gripes, but it really is poor form for me to influence your own interpretation. So I shall henceforth surrender this to the public domain and say no more about it...

...other than the fact that I will invariably return to it, dissect it, reassemble it, and generally render it unrecognisable. After all, to quote the great Robert Allen Zimmerman, "He not busy being born, is busy dying."

'Til next time, comrades!

Jamie

In which a man's very mind is laid bare...

The less said about the circumstances in which what you are about to read was conceived the better. Suffice it to say that I was accommodating some extremely unorthodox thoughts, and Ali provided me with pen and paper to record them for posterity. Whether or not posterity would be better off without the surreal ravings of a mad-man is scarcely debatable, and I concede that I am inflicting a great ill upon our species by exposing these ravings to the unwary public. Nonetheless, as Andrew requested, here is the avant-garde, stream of consciousness, prose-poem I composed while trying to come to terms with the nature of raw, unalloyed reality itself...

I ain't no fool. Tumbling through time like an olive on a pizza with no other olives. Lampshade rhymes rumbling amidst the abyss of perpetual ecstasy. Spotted zebras drowning in vodka, as bits and pieces, floating, to the detriment of young drinkers. Lipstick brogues at a press-conference, devouring watermelons like heroin. I ain't no fool. Black rappers with caps in their asses, lurking in an urban masterpiece, in a shroud of Turin. Newspapers dancing in a public toilet, like eastern whores, dolled-up in make-up. Cigarette ashes masturbating to the ceaseless rhythm of carnal drumming. Become one with nature! In a concrete prison complete with designer headgear. Bitchin'. Then jump on a train to Neverland, where you can die in pieces, like an ivory-robbed flying elephant. Frank Sinatra in a Velvet Underground, jiving to Judas Priest like a deadpan shaman. Nike trainers engaged to a boogie-woogie mad-man, composing a symphony of bi-polar disorder. It's nothing personal, chaps, I just hate you. But seriously, Paul Simon attacked me while Bruce Springsteen slashed a nationalist poster, in mud-caked boots. A nine-sided cube with leering faces, warning a young Thai man (?) not to point his gun at things he can't swallow. It's dangerous. Basketball energy, hovering in a haze of misplaced lust, distinct from reality, yet integrated into some midget variation of it. A football team with prehistoric bones, humbling to the soul, but uncertain. I'm experiencing an existential crisis, like some cannibalistic spelling mistake. A young man, nineteen years old, immersed in Eels, caring too much about someone that he's never gonna get to touch. His lollipop brain fails at simple tasks, but he finds solace in jealousy. It makes the headaches easier to deal with, he thinks. I ain't no fool. I dig his failure, like a gravedigger digs a grave for a vessel of God's consciousness. It's futile, like a Rolls Royce. But the Superbowl espouses his self-doubt, shadowed by a spectrum of white light which isn't really that white. Are you reading this? Why? This far? It makes no sense? Well, boys, that's the grand delusion, the epic circus where gypsies risk their lives for something I don't, or won't, comprehend. Art Garfunkle's over there, feeling left out. It's no surprise really. After all, the peppers on aforementioned pizza make no space for extras, least of all extras with '80s perms in the '60s, like it was natural. I'm whistling like a steam locomotive, surfing on Planet Waves. Surprised by an oblivious beauty perched between your legs (my legs?) in a Platonic diorama, but then again, perhaps she's less oblivious than she appears. Wishful thinking, my friend. Nonetheless, a bone-idle beatnik finds himself the Joker in the pack while the Aces are asleep in some predicted orgy. I'm sorry.

Plumbing the depths of reality, drenched in what men call love and women label lustful harassment. A Microsoft Word spell-check lies in wait to discover some hidden flaw in your logic, and in the logic of conscious reality, which, in itself, is less worthy of attention than a game of organised sport! Or, even better, one of organised religion! It's all that same delusion, from fashionable decadence to decadent fashion, via Catholicism and enlightened intellectualism, where theories clash like armies, engrossed in something larger than life, yet smaller. Mice and shrews in a sewer, really. Scavenging. 

Love itself, with a grin, laughs at you, its nature, its gender, its existence a puzzle, like a Rubik's Cube that's been solved incorrectly too many times. Immerse yourself in a personal view of reality where raisins turn to plums and prunes to bananas! A farce! A travesty! A pantomime of wailing children, and whaling children, where something is given meaning only in the process of its creation. Inhospitable and barren, like a desert or a city, if imagination reaches the lofty heights to which its denotation aspires. Humanity, well, it's a nice concept, like cake. But it often collapses in the oven like a "punished" Jew. Lashing out against prejudice is like love, because I say it is, and who's going to argue with me? Not you. Deliciously true are your impressions of reality, which is what you make of it, like Lego. But infinitely less fun. Once more, things gain significance in the process of creation. It's the crude poetry of conception to birth. An orgy of wails and hot towels. Are they necessary? Maybe? I've never done it before. Not exactly. I was literally just there one day.

Anyway, what do I know. I'm just trying to be a poet, don't I know it. It's difficult to do when you're part of a generation too accustomed to perfection to appreciate beauty. Beauty eludes us like creation, it's too important to reveal itself. Its dimpled smile penetrates the murky gloom of life, like the beautiful woman I was obviously going to personify it as. Awkwardness, or something thereabouts, mocks me (and you for that matter) from a library of incongruent notions, where love, life, death and beauty are analysed beyond recognition. So near, yet so far, like creation (not THAT again). Let's celebrate it with flowers, anyway. And CHOCOLATES! Everyone likes chocolate, except those with allergies. I don't know... The lines blur, mirage-like, in the desert of comprehension. Words frolic like gay performers, exhibiting nothing but their own shape, their own form, their own sound. And their own impotence. She is, of course, as always, like a ray of sun, a vision from the skies (to quote a better man than I). She's a bastardisation of clichés, but she's YOUR bastardisation of clichés. She's something. Something beyond beauty, the glossy conventions of which limit her existence as much as the words I mash together in animalistic contemplation. What is she? What am I? The mediocrity of existence lurches forward like a predator. It's ripe with possibility, but stranded in an ineffective limbo. The limbo of a pensioner. 

But what's the deal, chaps? If people tell us life is like a flower. It's painfully natural, bestial (in its way), but it is beautiful. Beauty, that pointless addition to Darwinian existence - a paltry, yet wondrous concept, devoid of reason, which enlightens the otherwise melancholic mendacity of thought, yet simultaneously smothers it in the sort of blind, stumbling, longing, yearning searching we experience throughout our peculiar lives.

*          *          *

Oh dear.

What a morbid few minutes you must have just lived through. Having just dragged you by your brain lobes through a nightmarish dream world, I shall attempt to soothe you by promising that this isn't my February entry, and normal service will resume, hopefully by the end of the week. 

Yup...

As you were, then...

Jamie