Saturday, December 31, 2011

2011: Pissing On The Ashes

December 31, 2011 11:02pm

Salut, kids.

As I begin this post, there's more or less one hour left to go before the New Year officially begins in the UK. Obviously, much of the world has already crossed over into the future - millions of bleary, weary, teary fuckers in city centres, backstreet bars, apartment kitchens and A&E units. All waving hello to a shiny new 2012...

Actually, you know what? Fuck 'em. I'm off to bed. I'll finish this tomorrow.

January 1, 2012 12:43pm

Morning (yes, I know, pedantic twat - I'm already gearing myself up for a bad mood here, don't make it worse, k?). I think it's fair to say that the year just ended was far and away the biggest, most monumental, most grotesque pastiche of discord and depression ever in our lifetime. In 2011, the world seemed to be on a twelve month Stella and Meow bender, running round with its shirt off screaming COME OOOON!!! WHO FUCKING WANTS SOME!!!??? and using its self destruct button as a fucking trampoline. Betrayal, brutality, almost global dissent and panic. That's  what I got from 2011. Those were the not so subtle 'notes' that were coming through in case you're reading this, Heston Blumenthal. Put your spatula down and do something fucking useful for a change.

2011. The preview warm-up show for the Apocalypse. The support act for....who knows what the fuck is coming, but it would seem those cheeky little Mayans were bang on the fucking money about something. This year marks an end, alright. But of what?

My fucking patience, for starters.

And not just mine, it would seem. It appears quite a few of you lot are gearing up for some justifiable direct action against the bastards that tried AND FAILED to get us to forget we're humans. See - it doesn't matter if 9 out of every 10 are brand slaves, or fashion victims, or TV junkies, or Second Lifers, or whatever - as long as there are a few that can still see, can still think, can engage in the composite materials of modern life and still hold onto their intelligence and critical reasoning - as long as that's the case, there's still hope.

2011 is dead. Spit on the corpse, piss on the ashes.

We've got work to do. And I'll leave you with a little ditty that helps explain why.


Sunday, December 11, 2011

It's A Private Matter.

I'm back. Miss me? I missed you. Well, okay, I didn't. But in fairness I didn't have time to miss you. I've also not had the time or access to the necessary tech to write a blog post for the last few weeks. Of course, I could have written it on my mid-range Android smartphone any time, but I know I'd have bounced it off of the back of someone's head in rage three lines in.

So. What the cocking fuck HAVE I been doing? I've been immersed in the crazy rollercoaster world of DIY and home decorating. Staying in a nice bungalow in a nice part of Sin City with a very nice couple and a HUGE fucking German Shepherd that's decided he's my best mate. Which is lucky, cos he's a definite three-darter on the tranq scale, that one. And as we speak, I'm recovering from quite a difficult erection. The shed I just put up for my lovely friend back in New Hades was...fairly straightforward, except failing light and rain and electrical tools aren't a holy trilogy of fun in anyone's book. And now I'm snatching a rare hour to sit here and write - and I want to examine something that really got my back up over the last month. It might be old news to you, but I'm still nursing a pisser about it and I want to vent. 

Strikes me that sleeping in other people's homes on a regular basis is kinda like starting a job as an undertaker. You're uneasy and on edge at first, but over time that gradually subsides and you're sort of desensitised to seeing people wandering about in short towelling bathrobes or administering semi-naked baby feedings at 3am. The offer of a real actual bed is even declined in favour of a too-short sofa and access to coffee-making facilities. I'm getting to be an old hand at this. Actually, I did turn down the offer of a bed recently. Two, in fact. One that my lovely friend was willing to self-sacrifice so I could rest my head properly, and the other...well. Let's just say if I'd made it to a certain pub by a certain time...ah, but that's greasy, and doesn't paint either party in a particularly good light, does it? Good job I'm not writing this in a fucking blog. Can you imagine?

Anyway. Moral of the story is, I'm a better man than that. Despite what many people may say. And I've still really not worked up to the point of this blog yet, despite the previous paragraph having direct relevance. So no more ignoring the dead elephant with a pineapple up its ass in the middle of the room - I'm gonna start with a picture of one of the most vile, irredeemably fucking nauseating, damnable, wretched lifeforms that's ever walked the Earth.
This is Paul McMullan. Professional 'Level 12 Cunt' and veteran tabloid reporter. The quintessential blueprint for a scumbag. Proud of his illustrious career in spewing trash, conjecture, outright lies and misinformation to generate public hysteria and sales figures for whatever ass-rag he was working for at the time. I should point out for those who've been under a rock that this vile sub-human shitcunt was called to the Leveson Enquiry into tabloid phone hacking and other delightful practices by the British gutter press. And his testimony, even for a world-embittered bastard like me, was nothing short of fucking staggering.

His monumental soundbite "Privacy is for paedos" is quite simply the strapline for the entire British press. The basic human right to privacy doesn't - shouldn't - exist in today's society, according to McMullan. On first glance, his comment might seem to be a blanket statement regarding all criminality - the 'If you've nothing to hide, then you've nothing to worry about.' logic. But it's far more insidious than that. What McMullan is saying - and he's saying it for every tabloid journalist and daytime TV magazine show shitflake - is that there are two categories of criminal. Those that fuck kids, and everybody else. In other words, being a kiddie fiddler is by far and away the worst of the worst, and everything else is understandable to some degree or other. If you don't fuck kids, then you won't have any objection to us going through your bins and watching you take a shit / fuck your partner / dye your hair and so on. If you object to that, you clearly fuck kids when nobody's looking. Cogito Ergo Sum. Or whatever.

Then we have McMullan's definition of 'public interest'. When asked to define the term as a means of justifying the actions of himself and his colleagues in the press, he cheerfully submitted that whatever the public 'was interested in' became 'public interest'. Plainly forgetting that whatever the public was interested in was whatever he and the other bastards like him were putting out there as supposed 'news'. So in other words, the public interest was whatever McMullan and his like decided it was at any given point.

I know other people have gone through this topic with a fine tooth comb. Other more intelligent, more erudite people than I. But I wanted to stick my boot in the throat of stupidity and let the world and the lovely people who read this shit know something. I WILL NOT live in a fucking police state where my every move is scrutinised. I WILL NOT accept that personal privacy is no longer a right, and that trying to protect it implies one has something to hide. I WILL NOT sit back and let cunts like McMullan and his ilk turn this already poisonous reality into an irretrievable Orwellian clusterfuck. 

And if you have any desire to live in a world where the word 'free' doesn't just come after the word 'sugar', you fucking won't either...