Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Soul Brother Number One, Resquiat In Pace

It seems that this season of cheer, goodwill and peace on Earth is always marred by the bad things in life. This year, the bloody great black cloud massing over our tattered little thread of silver lining was the announcement of the passing of one of the towering geniuses of twentieth century art and culture.
Soul Brother Numero Uno, the New, New Minister of Superheavy Funk, the hardest working man in showbusiness has gone to that great gig in the sky.
So have a glass in your hand and a kind thought in your heart ... Charlie Drake is dead.

Nowhere Man

It occured to me, while reading the comments to my post of 20.12.06 that Kek-W and Doppelganger were really on to something ... and just maybe the whole sorry collection of actions and 'policies' the entity known as Tony Blair has visited like a plague of boils on this country and the rest of the world have actually sprung from a cursory listen to the lyrical 'genius' of Paul McCartney.

Take the plea Blair has made to the rozzers currently investigating the cash for honours scandal:
I've been on the run since the Good Lord knows when,
And the day I die,
I'll still be runnin' then,
Runnin' from the days when I would lay me down and cry.

Baby, won't you let me have a little time to hide.
Baby, won't you let me have a little time to hide.

Or the cry of pain Blair has flung in the face of the British electorate (and which, Lord knows, we can only scream right back at him):
I've had enough
I can't put up with any more
No no no no no no no
I've had enough
I can't put up with any more
No no no no no no no

Or who could forget the declaration of passion for Dubya when dear Tony was caught carving 'Tone Heart George' into the antique oak fittings in Downing St?
I can wait another day until I call you
You've only got my heart on a string
And everything a'flutter
But another lonely night might take forever
We've only got each other to blame
It's all the same to me love
'Cause I know what I feel to be right
No more lonely nights
No more lonely nights
You my guiding light
Day or night I'm always there
May I never miss the thrill of being near you
And if it takes a couple of years
To turn your tears to laughter
I will do what I feel to be right
No more lonely nights (never be another)
No more lonely nights
You my guiding light

Then there is the warning Blair has delivered to the inner circle, advisors and sundry other thieves and scoundrels connected to the cash for honours farrago as they decide to save their own skins and sing like canaries:

Win or lose, sink or swim
One thing is certain we'll never give in
Side by side, hand in hand
We all stand together

Well, I think there's only one appropriate response when faced with Master Blair and all his works ... Help!

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Cunts Are Still Running The World



Friday, December 15, 2006

The Big Fight

'The Killer' - fast fists, flashy footwork!

'Slugger' - powerful, puissant, pugnacious!

The Big Fight – a round by round analysis.
The superfight of the year, unquestionably. James ‘The Killer’ Joyce versus Marcel ‘Slugger’ Proust, two undefeated, undisputed heavyweight champions going up against each other for the first time. This bout had to deliver, other recent big fights failing to live up to the hype … Pynchon offering only token resistance to Burroughs and suffering a knock-out due to a vicious right hook in the third round, Hemingway talking up his chances against Celine pre-fight, only to quit on his stool at the end of the fifth, having taking a one-sided drubbing.
Two great champions, two fascinatingly different styles – Joyce renowned for his fast footwork and lightning fists, Proust a byword for stamina and power, both men possessed of a devastating knockout punch.

Both fighters out of their corners fast, Joyce moving around the ring, Proust coming straight forward. No feeling their way into the bout, both men let fly with iconic opening sentences; Proust leading with a vicious -Longtemps, je me suis couche de bonne heure. Undaunted, Joyce comes straight back with -Riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay. Joyce, master of the multilingual, follows up with Eerre-revie, pass’Evant notre Adame, d’erre rive en reviere, catching Proust on the back foot and wobbling him. Proust covers up as Joyce looks for an opening. The ref looks on as Joyce flails away, trying to end it early. The bell finds Proust trapped against the ropes.
Proust out first, straight forward and throwing big lefts, Joyce using the famous ‘Joycean shuffle’ to skip out of the way. Proust, using his superior weight, presses forward, Joyce using his feet to stick and run.
Joyce gets in the first really big shot of the fight, hitting Proust with a sharp -Enigmas, me boyo, who was M’Intosh? Where was Moses when the lights went out?
Proust hits back with –Is Je Marcel? Is Marcel me?
Quick as you like, Joyce returns with -What the bloody bleeding hell is the Wake actually about? Proust hits the canvas and is saved by the bell.
Proust keeps coming forward, it’s the relentless accumulation of minute detail and the extended philosophical digressions that wears his opponents down. Joyce, the protean ringmaster, employing a dazzling variety of styles to bamboozle the other guy, keeps out of trouble and uses his fast fists and tongue to keep Proust off-balance. A shaken Proust is forced to take heavy punishment as Joyce pours it on. Proust’s bulk proves more of a hindrance as Joyce dances around him. The bell finds Proust barely hanging in there.
The tide of the fight turns with Proust using his weight and the steady accumulation of pressure to bully Joyce around the ring. This is how we expected it to pan out, Proust’s one man war of attrition against Joyce’s ring generalship.
It’s Joyce’s turn against the ropes as Proust bores in with heavy shots, throwing a stunning series of uppercuts and hooks, but Joyce is famous for his strong chin. -They told me you were finished. Jim, grunts Proust. –They lied to you, champ, they lied to you, comes back Joyce.
Joyce faces oblivion as Proust catches him with a cracking – Young girls in flower, my flower girls, so fast they move! Only willpower keeps Joyce on his feet and in the fight, but he’s tiring fast.
Never count Joyce out, his stamina and courage are unquestioned. He is out like a shot from his corner, leading with –My seven rainbow girls, every colour of the spectrum! Issy, the face in the mirror! Proust is caught flush and has to retreat under a hail of blows.
The bell finds both men centre ring, toe to toe.
Joyce, the master tactician, moves in. – The most fully realised female characters in literature … Gretta Conroy, Molly Bloom! While you, Mlle Proust, practice a peculiar form of literary transvestitism, Albertine merely a stand-in for the chauffeur whose trousers you want to get into!
Proust is floundering. – No, no, my good Joyce, Mama would never allow! Poor Mama! Proust can only hang on and wait for the bell.
Both men are winded, and circle each other warily. It is here that the corner men prove their worth. Proust’s Swann and Marcel are the best in the business and shout instructions to their man. In Joyce’s corner, Dedalus and Bloom are deep in conversation, discussing tactics. Both fighters score with big lefts.
Proust proves he is a technician of, the highest order. –Time, my dear Joust, du dessin, de l’architecture, de la pensee!
Joyce is a master counterpuncher. – Your genus it’s worldwide, your spacest sublime! But, my dearest Proyce, why can’t you beat time?
Proust gets in an early shot. – The madeleine, a cup of lime blossom tea, Proustian recall! Joyce stands his ground. – A jar of yellow dripping scooped out like a boghole, a Gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of Burgundy. Feel the mustard haunch on y’. The seedcake! Proust is wobbled once more as Joyce steams in. -Joycean wordplay!
The final round. Both men touch gloves centre ring, each acknowledging a worthy opponent. As Proust moves in, looking to end it, Joyce demonstrates some fancy footwork. – Float like a gracehoper, sting like an ondt, Proust m’bucko! Greekjew is Jewgreek! Proust staggers but stands his ground. -The little phrase, my special music. Just a little patch of yellow!
There is nothing to separate the two fighters as the final bell sounds. It’s chaos as both corners invade the ring. Marcel winks at Dedalus, who mutters to Bloom – more Greek than the Greeks, that one. Both fighters circle the ring, each lost in his own thoughts.
Both men are spent and can now only await the counting of the votes and the verdict of the judges.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The Boys Are Back In Town

The conversation centred on underwear and good cigars.

William's Welcome

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

The Fish Needs A Bike

How did they participate in congress?
Initially they urinated on each other, the act colloquially known as golden showers.

Then what happened?
Then, as Aquinas might have it, he introduced the male member into the unnatural female orifice (posterior).

Then what did he do?
He introduced his tongue into the aforementioned orifice.

And then?
He then introduced the male member into the unnatural female orifice (oral) and experienced the ejaculation of semen.

What followed this operation?
He later expressed dissatisfaction, petulantly, peevishly, upon finding a hair in his food.

To what conclusion did he arrive, upon calm reflection?
He reckoned that that Andrea Dworkin may just have been right in her proclamations upon the male gender, to wit: some men need to be shot/castrated/ put in a cage.*

*delete as applicable

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Shadows By The Film Folk - A Meditation On Joyce

Stills from Shadows By The Film Folk, a film by Anthony Osborne.

Saturday, December 02, 2006


Bless Wyndham Lewis for inventing the blast.
Bless St Derek Jarman, patron saint of the cinema of small but significant gestures.
Bless the vulpine.
Bless J.G. Ballard for following his obsessions to the end of the road.
Bless Terence Davies for a cinema that aspires to the condition of music.
Bless the lupine.
Bless English humour, bless Arthur Askey, Tommy Trinder, Reg Varney.
Bless Ted Milton for his sly poetry and abandoned sax.
Bless Peter Greenaway for his deadpan humour and unashamed erudition.
Bless the sceptic.
Bless William Blake for seeing the angels.
Bless Humphrey Jennings - a rare bird of a double feather, English polymath, English Surrealist.
Bless Denton Welch for discovering the world by staring in the mirror.
Bless the porcine.
Bless the truly romantic.
Bless our Albion.
Bless B.S. Johnson, the prole art threat.
Bless my endless stream of bile.

Blast the mugwumps at Channel 4 for stealing my work.
Blast Thatcher and Blair, may they rot in Hell.
Blast all politicians everywhere, from all directions of the political compass.
Blast all priests and gurus.
Blast all censors.
Blast the humourless.
Blast Ken Livingstone, a liar, a dog, a conservative pretending to the status of the radical.
Blast the cynic.
Blast the lumpen bourgeoisie.
Blast Nicholas Serota and the stranglehold his dead hand exerts.
Blast the exploiters of the lowest common denominator.
Blast the purveyors of fake sentimentality.
Blast the merchants of kitsch.