I enjoyed Groover's Lyrical version of Fracas Monday Melee so much last week that I couldn't resist having another pop at it.
So a brief break from my self-indulgent wallow in the past year's posts.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
"Woman is the nigger of the world
Yes she is...think about it
Woman is the nigger of the world
Think about it...do something about it
We make her paint her face and dance
If she won't be a slave, we say that she don't love us
If she's real, we say she's trying to be a man
While putting her down we pretend that she is above us
Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you don't believe me take a look to the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves
Ah yeah...better scream about it
We make her bear and raise our children
And then we leave her flat for being a fat old mother hen
We tell her home is the only place she should be
Then we complain that she's too unworldly to be our friend
Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you don't believe me take a look to the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves Yeah (think about it)
We insult her everyday on TV
And wonder why she has no guts or confidence
When she's young we kill her will to be free
While telling her not to be so smart we put her down for being so dumb
Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you don't believe me take a look to the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves
Yes she is...if you believe me, you better scream about it."
John Lennon: "Woman Is The Nigger Of The World"
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
"Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?'"
Ry Cooder: "Don't Call Me Red."
Yep. I'm happy and proud to be a Marxist. Fuck Mc.Carthy and all who sailed in him.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
"I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink
No, no, no.
I'm so tired I don't know what to do
I'm so tired my mind is set on you
I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do"
The Beatles: "I'm So Tired"
or perhaps:
"My ass is as big as Omaha"
The Handsome Family: "Giant Ant"
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
"And when I go away
I know my heart can stay
With my love
It's understood
It's in the hands of my love
And my love does it good
And when the cupboard's bare
I'll still find something there
With my love
It's understood
It's everywhere with my love
And my love does it good
I love
My love
Only my love holds the other key to me
My love
My love
Only my love does it good to me
Don't ever ask me why
I never say goodbye to my love
It's understood
It's everywhere with my love
And my love does it good"
Wings: "My Love"
For my girl …
And also for the late and rather splendid Henry Mc.Culloch for playing the lovely guitar solo in that song; one of my all time favourites.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
"I'm five. I'm five. I'm a big girl now; I'm five"
Barbra Streisand (Yikes!): "I'm Five"
… er … Hang on; that's not right.
um … How about:
"I don't pretend to know what you want
But I offer love"
Crowded House: "Distant Sun"
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
"You come awake
In a horny morning mood
And have a proper wriggle
In the naughty, naked nude
Roll against my body
Get me where you want me
What happens next is private
It's also very rude"
Ian Dury And The Blockheads: "Wake Up And Make Love With Me"
Happy Monday, folks.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.V
Still trawling through the archives of my first year of blogging.
December, 2006 seemed to consist of depression, parties and Marxism in equal measure.
Here it is in pictures:
Neil and Dive, the two most miserable bastards in Norfolk
The tool of my trade
Partying for 50 years of the Cuban Revolution.
!Hasta La Victoria Siempre!
"If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck!"
Better than sex
Space, £19.99
Next summer's fashion essential
Splendid moustaches
Dodgy
A Happy Christmas to all my readers
Several more people crash landed on the Small Glass Planet during December.
Some bounced off, but two made HUGE impact craters:
Hugs and kisses to the utterly wonderful Kate and Ame! Yaaay!
And at the end of December I made my resolutions for 2007. Let's see how those are doing, shall we?
- Be less of a miserable old bugger; Well considering how depressed I was when I wrote my Christmas Appeal (below), I'm as happy as Tickle-Me Elmo, so that's one down.
- Stop kicking children in supermarkets; I don't use supermarkets any more so that's another one ticked off. I still kick children though.
- Get a girlfriend (Hah!); Quite astonishingly, I have a wonderful girlfriend now and we've been together since since early February. Six months tonight. Happy anniversary, darling. A happy Dive is a scary proposition, is it not?
- Keep blogging; Sorry, but I'm still here.
- Keep getting 100 percent in my Japanese exams; I did! I did!
- Take up a new hobby; maybe macramé, caravanning or puffin-frottage. I've taken up kissing. It's great! Much better than I remembered.
- Eat a dolphin; Dammit! There had to be one I've not yet achieved. But hey, it's only August. And I've eaten whalemeat so that's a start.
So let's start the retrospective festivities with "Dive's Christmas Appeal".
Reading it again I honestly can't believe I was that depressed. What a miserable bastard!
Here it is in all its gory glory, including a singalong Smiths song:
"Around this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas appeals. There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season. I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group.
Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly. I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up …
You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere. Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't. There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass. We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal: Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas. Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away. And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance."
Highlight of the month was "National Drunk Blogging Day", to be resurrected this weekend by Vic (good luck, mate).
My menu consisted:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer.
Fuck!
Other spiffy parts of December included my "year in music", "little Dive" looking almost as cute as Robyn, acres of Christmas misery, Iraqtile Dysfunction and much, much more.
It also saw the launch of the only good meme ever made, which included:
"14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis."
Why has this programme not been made? I can't understand it.
Favourite "Dive" moment from December, 2006:
"Fuck America! Let's Party!"
Best comments:
Robyn:
""Fuck America?" You wound me, Dive. If this quote comes back to haunt me, I swear..."
You certainly did, young Robyn!
"I do love the naked starfish buttocks"
"Those Christians, I hate em."
"Spurty and jelly minded"
"Porn cookbooks"
Rich:
"An Indian guy with a small penis"
Sassy:
"By the way, you are cute."
"Dive is cute, single, and fantastic."
"I think you should take up macramé."
Old Knudsen:
"You lot are so ghey, you should see the knockers I posted"
"I'd swear that ugly wee shite winked at me"
Lynn:
"Darling, they don't have any SMALL ones! Shall I get these instead?"
"Oooh! I badly need one of those contraptions"
"Did I just admit to knitting?"
Ame:
"Orgasmic!!!"
Dear Prudence:
"Seductively smooth, almost creamy"
Utsav:
"One can never have too many guitars."
Ms.Mac:
"Hee hee. Farts!"
The Lovely Betty:
"The last thrupenny bit sized scab fell out of my nose yesterday."
Peahen (ever reliable)
"Spurting, spraying and gushing."
Thank God that year's over.
December, 2006 seemed to consist of depression, parties and Marxism in equal measure.
Here it is in pictures:
Neil and Dive, the two most miserable bastards in Norfolk
The tool of my trade
Partying for 50 years of the Cuban Revolution.!Hasta La Victoria Siempre!
"If it ain't STIFF, it ain't worth a fuck!"
Better than sex
Space, £19.99
Next summer's fashion essential
Splendid moustaches
Dodgy
A Happy Christmas to all my readersSome bounced off, but two made HUGE impact craters:
Hugs and kisses to the utterly wonderful Kate and Ame! Yaaay!
And at the end of December I made my resolutions for 2007. Let's see how those are doing, shall we?
- Be less of a miserable old bugger; Well considering how depressed I was when I wrote my Christmas Appeal (below), I'm as happy as Tickle-Me Elmo, so that's one down.
- Stop kicking children in supermarkets; I don't use supermarkets any more so that's another one ticked off. I still kick children though.
- Get a girlfriend (Hah!); Quite astonishingly, I have a wonderful girlfriend now and we've been together since since early February. Six months tonight. Happy anniversary, darling. A happy Dive is a scary proposition, is it not?
- Keep blogging; Sorry, but I'm still here.
- Keep getting 100 percent in my Japanese exams; I did! I did!
- Take up a new hobby; maybe macramé, caravanning or puffin-frottage. I've taken up kissing. It's great! Much better than I remembered.
- Eat a dolphin; Dammit! There had to be one I've not yet achieved. But hey, it's only August. And I've eaten whalemeat so that's a start.
So let's start the retrospective festivities with "Dive's Christmas Appeal".
Reading it again I honestly can't believe I was that depressed. What a miserable bastard!
Here it is in all its gory glory, including a singalong Smiths song:
"Around this time of year we are bombarded with Christmas appeals. There are so many groups who are in need and it's nice to give something so that someone will have a less shitty time of it at the peak of the suicide season. I like to slip my Big Issue guy a twenty pound note for the Christmas Issue, and my big 'pennies' jar (£170 odd this year) has gone toward Motor Neurone research, which also goes toward making me feel less shitty about myself. And there are lots of others …
This year, when you set aside a moment to consider those less fortunate, I'd like to remind you of a group who get left out year after year; snubbed and ignored, especially around the "party season" when everyone else is so happy.
So Dive's Christmas Appeal for 2006 is:
"Spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas".
I admit to a special interest here as I am a longstanding and fully paid up member of this group.
Take it from one who knows: Christmas is a fucking awful time to be ugly. I mean, I'm not hideous (well not very), but when I walk into a party and people turn to see who it is, I can feel a palpable flinch from all the unattached women in the room.
We ugs are the people who put the "N" in "hello" … We say "Hello" to a woman and her mind forms it automatically into "Hell No".
And even if one of us somehow makes it into a relationship, we get the feeling that we're as sexually attractive as yesterday's washing-up …
You know, you see it all piled up and stinky in the sink and you know somebody's got to do it, but … (shudder). No way! Not even with Marigolds on …
And mistletoe. Fuck all round that.
And stupid drunk office girls in Santa hats snogging everything that moves … everything but an ug, of course.
And stupid "feel good" Christmas crap fucking TV. Where are the ugs? Nowhere. Except for "fake ug", like Ugly Betty … Listen, you TV twats: putting a brace and glasses on a pretty girl does not make her ugly. Ug is Ug. If TV used real ugs, nobody would watch. Just like real life … Bastards!
And "the youth of today", pretty girls binge-drinking 'til they puke, then fucking in their own stink and leaving pools of chlamydia wherever they sit. But even semi-conscious from booze, they won't go near an ug.
And sicky-sicky married couples with their "lovely" kids. Do we ugs get to be attractive married couples? Do we bollocks! So don't invite us over at Christmas; seeing you so happy only makes us more fucking miserable when we get home alone to our dark empty houses.
And girlfriends who are 'friends who happen to be girls'. I've got girlfriends coming out of my fucking ears, but they'd all puke at the thought of dating me. (Ugs make girlfriends as easily as gay guys do; we're "safe" … Hah!).
And Christmas parties? Don't get me started … really … don't. There's no love in our ugly lives and no prospect of any, so Christmas really sucks huge ass. We ugs even have our own anthem. The lovely Mister Mozza wrote it for us; How Soon Is Now (sing along):
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
Of nothing in particular
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home
And you cry
And you want to die
When you say it's gonna happen now,
Well, when exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
So, this is Dive's Christmas Appeal: Embittered, lonely, rejected, heartbroken and self-pityingly miserable as we are, please spare a thought for the ugly this Christmas. Grit your teeth, pucker up and kiss one of us. You can have some chocolate after to take the taste away. And you can enjoy your Christmas knowing you've done your good deed.
Sorry guys; I tried, but the Grinch is back with a vengeance."
Highlight of the month was "National Drunk Blogging Day", to be resurrected this weekend by Vic (good luck, mate).
My menu consisted:
One bottle of chardonnay
One bottle of Rioja
One bottle of malt whisky (Macallan)
One bottle of vodka
Four cans of Adnams Suffolk Stong Beer.
Fuck!
Other spiffy parts of December included my "year in music", "little Dive" looking almost as cute as Robyn, acres of Christmas misery, Iraqtile Dysfunction and much, much more.
It also saw the launch of the only good meme ever made, which included:
"14. You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called and what’s the premise?
It's called "I'm A Celebrity, Beat The Crap Out Of Me" and stars every "celebrity" on the planet. They are brutally beaten and tortured for twenty minutes in front of a live audience, then put to death in amusing ways by cute Japanese girls in bikinis."
Why has this programme not been made? I can't understand it.
Favourite "Dive" moment from December, 2006:
"Fuck America! Let's Party!"
Best comments:
Robyn:
""Fuck America?" You wound me, Dive. If this quote comes back to haunt me, I swear..."
You certainly did, young Robyn!
"I do love the naked starfish buttocks"
"Those Christians, I hate em."
"Spurty and jelly minded"
"Porn cookbooks"
Rich:
"An Indian guy with a small penis"
Sassy:
"By the way, you are cute."
"Dive is cute, single, and fantastic."
"I think you should take up macramé."
Old Knudsen:
"You lot are so ghey, you should see the knockers I posted"
"I'd swear that ugly wee shite winked at me"
Lynn:
"Darling, they don't have any SMALL ones! Shall I get these instead?"
"Oooh! I badly need one of those contraptions"
"Did I just admit to knitting?"
Ame:
"Orgasmic!!!"
Dear Prudence:
"Seductively smooth, almost creamy"
Utsav:
"One can never have too many guitars."
Ms.Mac:
"Hee hee. Farts!"
The Lovely Betty:
"The last thrupenny bit sized scab fell out of my nose yesterday."
Peahen (ever reliable)
"Spurting, spraying and gushing."
Thank God that year's over.
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.IV
Hokay; we're up to November, 2006, and as both Monsieur Benaut and Robyn yesterday posted kitty photos (I know, it's a plague all over the internet, but at least they're not as disgusting as baby photos … ACK!) I thought I'd start my November archive trawl with these photos of the best pussy I ever stroked, the late, great Kate.
Warm, fluffy, nuzzly pussy. All a growing boy needs.
Excuse me for a second while I delve into the smelly old box marked "Used Novembers" and see what comes crawling out …
Ah! The winter storms post. I liked that one:
"In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …"
Who needs drugs to get high?
My favourite Dive quote from November:
"Okay; let's get sweary …"
Runner-up:
"Kerblooey!"
"Blam!"
"Luke, I am your father."
"Pow!"
"Flash Gordon approaching! Open fire ! All weapons!"
"Boom!"
"Mwah hah hah haaa …"
Also revealed that month was my sordid past as a bomb-maker in "Blowing Shit Up".
These days people get a free holiday in Gitmo for knowing how to make bombs, but when I was a kid we ALL knew.
And we made the buggers and blew shit up with 'em.
What is the world coming to?
On the 11th, Lynn crash-landed on the Planet in bizarre fashion.
Having left a nice little comment on my blog I checked hers out only to find a desperate plea from a potential suicide. Yikes!
After some confusion it turned out that this was the first chapter of Lynn's novel "Under A Train", which she quickly amended to make plain it was fiction, not a real blogger about to top herself. Whew!
I'm so glad you joined us, Lynn.
And Lynn was followed swiftly by the more conventional landings of Monsieur Benaut and the lovely Betty. Blogging was getting jollier by the day.
Anyone wanting to see a cute picture of me as a toddler can check out that months "Tom Purdew" tale.
Here's November's extract from my Encyclopædia Profanica:
"I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name)."
I also took another pop at stupid parents for scaring the shit out of me with close-up photos of babies whenever I hit the "next blog" button:
"Religious blogs and those with fucking babies all over them scare me. Stop breeding, you ignorant fuckers. The world cannot possibly feed your snivelling, ugly children.
If I see another fucking baby blog, I'm going Godzilla on this stinking planet."
I sometimes get dizzy thinking how tolerant and easy-going I am.
Nestling in the heart of November's crap-shower is one of my very favourite comment-fests, where Robyn and me get down and dirty about religion. I love that one.
And check this one out for schoolday reminiscences and sex in the art room.
And this one for the truth about Thanksgiving and why I love Christina Ricci.
Best comments from November, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"Natalie Portman makes me feel like a pedo"
"Is this Club Suck? Ok Mr Dive, get to work on me lad."
Sassy:
"Die, Bitch!"
"Nice privy."
"Cute pig, and great Arsehole."
Robyn:
"I excuse myself and go to the old fart mommy store with elastic waists and shoulder pads."
"Gosh, I never thought I'd have a Marxist Pal" … Robyn, I never thought I'd have a Christian, Middle-American Mom as a pal. It's a scary world.
"I missed, and most of it ended up all over the floor smelling quite like whiskey"
"When it comes to playing the horn, I think you can blow and suck at the same time."
Ms.Mac:
" I made an absolutely hilarious comment about George Clooney and my arse earlier but Blogger ate it."
Lynn (eloquent as ever):
"blah di blah di blah"
Rich:
"Rebel Rebel and Bowie never gets old!!"
"How about a date with my ex wife?"
Peahen:
"You barely paused to pull on your "PantsMan" mask, tights and cape"
"I'm Spartacus."
So, November goes back in the box.
Farewell to swearing, pussy, teenage sex, lots of pictures of my 3D work, bomb-making, non-dating, misery, the Devil's Arsehole, US mid-term elections, Marxism, dressing up as Hawai'i 5-0, driving "The Italian Job" style and a bit more swearing for good measure.
November was also National Blog Posting Month where we had to do a post every day.
Never again!
Warm, fluffy, nuzzly pussy. All a growing boy needs.Excuse me for a second while I delve into the smelly old box marked "Used Novembers" and see what comes crawling out …
Ah! The winter storms post. I liked that one:
"In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …"
Who needs drugs to get high?
My favourite Dive quote from November:
"Okay; let's get sweary …"
Runner-up:
"Kerblooey!"
"Blam!"
"Luke, I am your father."
"Pow!"
"Flash Gordon approaching! Open fire ! All weapons!"
"Boom!"
"Mwah hah hah haaa …"
Also revealed that month was my sordid past as a bomb-maker in "Blowing Shit Up".
These days people get a free holiday in Gitmo for knowing how to make bombs, but when I was a kid we ALL knew.
And we made the buggers and blew shit up with 'em.
What is the world coming to?
On the 11th, Lynn crash-landed on the Planet in bizarre fashion.
Having left a nice little comment on my blog I checked hers out only to find a desperate plea from a potential suicide. Yikes!
After some confusion it turned out that this was the first chapter of Lynn's novel "Under A Train", which she quickly amended to make plain it was fiction, not a real blogger about to top herself. Whew!
I'm so glad you joined us, Lynn.
And Lynn was followed swiftly by the more conventional landings of Monsieur Benaut and the lovely Betty. Blogging was getting jollier by the day.
Anyone wanting to see a cute picture of me as a toddler can check out that months "Tom Purdew" tale.
Here's November's extract from my Encyclopædia Profanica:
"I'll quote from the Guardian (I'm sure they won't mind).
"After more than five years of delicate and dangerous excavation on Derbyshire moorland, potholers have confirmed that Britain's biggest cave lies hidden below a fissure known for centuries as the Devil's Arsehole."
Why our dear Mister Knudsen sprang to mind I have no idea, but I'm relieved to discover that the Devil's Arsehole has not yet been bowdlerised by prudish nearby residents. I have great affection for rude historical names since my old mate Babs, up in Shetland, pointed out a standing stone to me, in front of which a small sign read (in a splendid attempt at the local vernacular) "The White Stane Of Willie."
I was disgusted to hear that Slut's Hole Lane, near my brother's house in Attleborough has now been re-named something inoffensive due to residents' complaints. This is a growing problem in crowded little Britain. We need to fight to keep our filthy places filthy.
The most famous example of this is a street I pass along every working day.
For centuries, fragrant ladies have plied their venerable trade there, offering such exotic delights as "penny up the wall" knee-tremblers, as a result of which, the place was officially known by the delightful soubriquet of (cover your eyes, Robyn) "Gropecunte Lane".
Unfortunately, when the Bank of England was located there, they renamed it Threadneedle Street (still a lingering trace of the old profession in the new name)."
I also took another pop at stupid parents for scaring the shit out of me with close-up photos of babies whenever I hit the "next blog" button:
"Religious blogs and those with fucking babies all over them scare me. Stop breeding, you ignorant fuckers. The world cannot possibly feed your snivelling, ugly children.
If I see another fucking baby blog, I'm going Godzilla on this stinking planet."
I sometimes get dizzy thinking how tolerant and easy-going I am.
Nestling in the heart of November's crap-shower is one of my very favourite comment-fests, where Robyn and me get down and dirty about religion. I love that one.
And check this one out for schoolday reminiscences and sex in the art room.
And this one for the truth about Thanksgiving and why I love Christina Ricci.
Best comments from November, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"Natalie Portman makes me feel like a pedo"
"Is this Club Suck? Ok Mr Dive, get to work on me lad."
Sassy:
"Die, Bitch!"
"Nice privy."
"Cute pig, and great Arsehole."
Robyn:
"I excuse myself and go to the old fart mommy store with elastic waists and shoulder pads."
"Gosh, I never thought I'd have a Marxist Pal" … Robyn, I never thought I'd have a Christian, Middle-American Mom as a pal. It's a scary world.
"I missed, and most of it ended up all over the floor smelling quite like whiskey"
"When it comes to playing the horn, I think you can blow and suck at the same time."
Ms.Mac:
" I made an absolutely hilarious comment about George Clooney and my arse earlier but Blogger ate it."
Lynn (eloquent as ever):
"blah di blah di blah"
Rich:
"Rebel Rebel and Bowie never gets old!!"
"How about a date with my ex wife?"
Peahen:
"You barely paused to pull on your "PantsMan" mask, tights and cape"
"I'm Spartacus."
So, November goes back in the box.
Farewell to swearing, pussy, teenage sex, lots of pictures of my 3D work, bomb-making, non-dating, misery, the Devil's Arsehole, US mid-term elections, Marxism, dressing up as Hawai'i 5-0, driving "The Italian Job" style and a bit more swearing for good measure.
November was also National Blog Posting Month where we had to do a post every day.
Never again!
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.III
Woohoo!
Continuing the furtive delve inside the fœtid sack that is my first year of blogging, we reach October, 2006: The birth of Blogville!
The month when other people started landing on the Small Glass Planet.
And we shall hear from them later in this post.
Duck! Here come October's lowlights:
October, '06 was the home of probably the all time classic Dive rant: "Jean-Paul Sartre", from which I lift the following extract regarding the use of mobile phones on trains; and specifically trains that have me on them:
"Now … heads up, mobile phone users. If you don't want to be wearing that thing up your arse, here's a little piece of advice (this is best read slowly and clearly, as if to a small child):
• First up: the concept of the "telephone":
If you speak into your "telephone", the person you're connected to can hear your voice coming out of their "telephone". Just because they may be miles away doesn't mean you have to SHOUT to make them hear you.
Related to this point: If you cannot hear them clearly over the noise of the train, shouting at them is unlikely to resolve the problem. They will, in all likelihood, be holding their phone at arms length because you're so fucking LOUD! It also causes other mobile users around you to stick a finger in their ear and raise their own voices, and is therefore counterproductive.
The urge to talk loudly if you cannot hear somebody else speaking is caused by "Basic Stupidity".
We now move on to "Advanced Stupidity".
• "Hi. It's me. I'm on the train".
Whoever is waiting for you at the end of your journey (and one day it might be me, with a nasty headache and a baseball bat), you need only call them if you MISS the train, or if it breaks down. Should your partner be so insecure and pathetic that they need to be constantly informed of your whereabouts, ditch them NOW and get a life. Grow up, for Chrissakes!
"Postgraduate Stupidity" includes the following:
• The constant, repetitive and loud barking of the word "Yeah" merely informs those around you that you are a moron who would lose a drooling contest with George Bush.
• Using your inane laugh as punctuation when you speak merely highlights the fact that the tedious drivel spewing from your mouth does SO not justify your whinnying cackle at the end of every boring sentence. If you were that funny, we would all be laughing. Look around you. We are not …
• Secretaries: If your boss fucks off early, leaving you slaving late in the office, then phones you from the train to ask about some email or tell you something he should have told you before he left: get a new job. He is a worthless piece of shit who clearly does not deserve you.
• In the thousands of train journeys I have suffered since the dawn of mobile technology, I could count on the fingers of one hand the words I have heard bellowed into phones that actually needed to be said. THINK before letting a carriage full of annoyed people know how utterly worthless your life is and how fucking BORING you are.
• Your ringtone is neither cool nor amusing."
Jean-Paul Sartre was right: "L'enfer, c'est les autres".
Momentous moment! The day I wrote that I also flicked away at the old "Next Blog" button, wading through acres of kittens, babies and talentless wank until I was suddenly confronted with the first intelligent American I had ever come across (I've since built up a surprisingly large collection, all of whom you can find in my sidebar). Hence Sassy's link in my "boffo blogs" and her comments on the above post concerning muffin-tops and sumo girls in stretch pants.
That day, via Sassy, I discovered the lovely Robyn and the piquant Old Knudsen, and via Robyn, the man who proved that men of my age can look good: half-man/half-coffee bean: Rich. Suddenly we had a strange little neighbourhood going and blogging had found a purpose.
A couple of posts later came one about the strange stuff I've put into my mouth over the years that included the line "Egrets: I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention". Sorry, but that still makes me giggle.
Then came some helpful advice for parents:
"One thing that scares me about random searching in the blogsphere (and there are many scary things in here, especially American God-nuts with guns) is the sheer, mind-buggering volume of people who want to show the world photographs of their babies.
Please allow me to draw you good folks gently to one side and whisper a word of advice:
(a) Even your close relatives find your baby pictures teeth-grindingly boring.
(b) The planet doesn't want and cannot feed any more people. Stop breeding, you fuckers!
(c) Your baby is really ugly."
Other nasty things lurking in the bottom of the October bag:
(If you're terminally bored or new to the Planet, click on the links) …
The 'Train Stiffy" post most of you will know … my first porno piece … ahem …
And "Gene Puddle" highlighted the perils of partying in rural Norfolk (Deliverance Country) … Dawn of the Dead with party dresses on. Brrrrr …
October also contains lots of photos of my architectural work and of the little recording studio where I sit and type this crap at the world.
Plus the cartoon that made me who I am and a photograph of Batman's willy (yes, you heard).
And talking of tedium, one of my personal favourite posts, "Lost In Translation" can be glossed over by anyone less of a language fetishist than myself.
At last, we reach "Pretentious Twat"!
Hokay, so the post itself explains an awful lot about Dive, but it's the comment-fest underneath that restores my faith in the essential, potty-mouthed silliness of our wonderful Blogville citizens.
Lastly, there's everbody's favourite, the Culty Church of Fornication, where I'm trapped on a train with terrifying evangelist nutjobs and a sweet little old lady madly pimping her pretty daughter at me.
Best comments from October, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"I want to hang around with you so I can become cool by association." (my personal favourite)
Robyn:
"exactly what does "twat" mean"
"You British people and your fucking Queen's English"
"Where's that British dictionary? Now I have to look up "tossers.""
"Apologies to the Mexicans and Canadians and their stupid languages"
"middle Ohio--Walmart on a Tuesday night, I don't know, around 10:30 or so. If it isn't Amish day, it's inbred day."
Sassy:
"Life is too short to be sensible"
"Probe. Goes better with "anal.""
"So you squeeze his willy, and it comes out of HIS mouth? I don't understand. Hee hee hee hee."
"Oh, oh, and the BUTT PLUG???? Eeeeeewwww."
Peahen:
"Mmm sweet but strangely salty..."
So that was October … Mad pimp old ladies, sex with witches, voyeurism, butt plugs, linguistic pedantry and plenty of swearing.
Welcome to Blogville. Please Drive Carefully.
Continuing the furtive delve inside the fœtid sack that is my first year of blogging, we reach October, 2006: The birth of Blogville!
The month when other people started landing on the Small Glass Planet.
And we shall hear from them later in this post.
Duck! Here come October's lowlights:
October, '06 was the home of probably the all time classic Dive rant: "Jean-Paul Sartre", from which I lift the following extract regarding the use of mobile phones on trains; and specifically trains that have me on them:
"Now … heads up, mobile phone users. If you don't want to be wearing that thing up your arse, here's a little piece of advice (this is best read slowly and clearly, as if to a small child):
• First up: the concept of the "telephone":
If you speak into your "telephone", the person you're connected to can hear your voice coming out of their "telephone". Just because they may be miles away doesn't mean you have to SHOUT to make them hear you.
Related to this point: If you cannot hear them clearly over the noise of the train, shouting at them is unlikely to resolve the problem. They will, in all likelihood, be holding their phone at arms length because you're so fucking LOUD! It also causes other mobile users around you to stick a finger in their ear and raise their own voices, and is therefore counterproductive.
The urge to talk loudly if you cannot hear somebody else speaking is caused by "Basic Stupidity".
We now move on to "Advanced Stupidity".
• "Hi. It's me. I'm on the train".
Whoever is waiting for you at the end of your journey (and one day it might be me, with a nasty headache and a baseball bat), you need only call them if you MISS the train, or if it breaks down. Should your partner be so insecure and pathetic that they need to be constantly informed of your whereabouts, ditch them NOW and get a life. Grow up, for Chrissakes!
"Postgraduate Stupidity" includes the following:
• The constant, repetitive and loud barking of the word "Yeah" merely informs those around you that you are a moron who would lose a drooling contest with George Bush.
• Using your inane laugh as punctuation when you speak merely highlights the fact that the tedious drivel spewing from your mouth does SO not justify your whinnying cackle at the end of every boring sentence. If you were that funny, we would all be laughing. Look around you. We are not …
• Secretaries: If your boss fucks off early, leaving you slaving late in the office, then phones you from the train to ask about some email or tell you something he should have told you before he left: get a new job. He is a worthless piece of shit who clearly does not deserve you.
• In the thousands of train journeys I have suffered since the dawn of mobile technology, I could count on the fingers of one hand the words I have heard bellowed into phones that actually needed to be said. THINK before letting a carriage full of annoyed people know how utterly worthless your life is and how fucking BORING you are.
• Your ringtone is neither cool nor amusing."
Jean-Paul Sartre was right: "L'enfer, c'est les autres".
Momentous moment! The day I wrote that I also flicked away at the old "Next Blog" button, wading through acres of kittens, babies and talentless wank until I was suddenly confronted with the first intelligent American I had ever come across (I've since built up a surprisingly large collection, all of whom you can find in my sidebar). Hence Sassy's link in my "boffo blogs" and her comments on the above post concerning muffin-tops and sumo girls in stretch pants.
That day, via Sassy, I discovered the lovely Robyn and the piquant Old Knudsen, and via Robyn, the man who proved that men of my age can look good: half-man/half-coffee bean: Rich. Suddenly we had a strange little neighbourhood going and blogging had found a purpose.
A couple of posts later came one about the strange stuff I've put into my mouth over the years that included the line "Egrets: I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention". Sorry, but that still makes me giggle.
Then came some helpful advice for parents:
"One thing that scares me about random searching in the blogsphere (and there are many scary things in here, especially American God-nuts with guns) is the sheer, mind-buggering volume of people who want to show the world photographs of their babies.
Please allow me to draw you good folks gently to one side and whisper a word of advice:
(a) Even your close relatives find your baby pictures teeth-grindingly boring.
(b) The planet doesn't want and cannot feed any more people. Stop breeding, you fuckers!
(c) Your baby is really ugly."
Other nasty things lurking in the bottom of the October bag:
(If you're terminally bored or new to the Planet, click on the links) …
The 'Train Stiffy" post most of you will know … my first porno piece … ahem …
And "Gene Puddle" highlighted the perils of partying in rural Norfolk (Deliverance Country) … Dawn of the Dead with party dresses on. Brrrrr …
October also contains lots of photos of my architectural work and of the little recording studio where I sit and type this crap at the world.
Plus the cartoon that made me who I am and a photograph of Batman's willy (yes, you heard).
And talking of tedium, one of my personal favourite posts, "Lost In Translation" can be glossed over by anyone less of a language fetishist than myself.
At last, we reach "Pretentious Twat"!
Hokay, so the post itself explains an awful lot about Dive, but it's the comment-fest underneath that restores my faith in the essential, potty-mouthed silliness of our wonderful Blogville citizens.
Lastly, there's everbody's favourite, the Culty Church of Fornication, where I'm trapped on a train with terrifying evangelist nutjobs and a sweet little old lady madly pimping her pretty daughter at me.
Best comments from October, 2006:
Old Knudsen:
"I want to hang around with you so I can become cool by association." (my personal favourite)
Robyn:
"exactly what does "twat" mean"
"You British people and your fucking Queen's English"
"Where's that British dictionary? Now I have to look up "tossers.""
"Apologies to the Mexicans and Canadians and their stupid languages"
"middle Ohio--Walmart on a Tuesday night, I don't know, around 10:30 or so. If it isn't Amish day, it's inbred day."
Sassy:
"Life is too short to be sensible"
"Probe. Goes better with "anal.""
"So you squeeze his willy, and it comes out of HIS mouth? I don't understand. Hee hee hee hee."
"Oh, oh, and the BUTT PLUG???? Eeeeeewwww."
Peahen:
"Mmm sweet but strangely salty..."
So that was October … Mad pimp old ladies, sex with witches, voyeurism, butt plugs, linguistic pedantry and plenty of swearing.
Welcome to Blogville. Please Drive Carefully.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.II
So, continuing the crap-fest that is my trawl through the first year's effluent from Small Glass Planet, we reach September, 2006.
September was a bit of a quiet month. I was still developing my ranty Dive persona and he wouldn't come into full sweary action until the following month.
I was also still writing for my audience of one (Hi, Pea) and it would be a couple more weeks before I moved to Blogville proper and shared my neighbourhood with Robyn, Sassy, Rich and a certain Scottish curmudgeon.
So: September …
This was the month that - as a retired rock musician still desperately clinging to the tattered shreds of my reputation - I was ignominiously slapped across the face with a dose of reality upon discovering that the world had moved on.
I was now officially a has-been and just to rub my nose in it, my elderly Mother and her gang (The Mad Bints) were somewhat cooler than me.
September also saw the launch of my "non-Dive" reminiscences series "Tom Purdew" (from À la recherche du temps perdu), the second installment of which described the true story of our nuclear war evacuation drill, where we were "evacuated" into the heart of a target zone.
As bugger-all else happened in September, I'll reproduce most of it here:
"1964 …
Hey! That's me! Down there on the left. Little brother Phil on the right. And doesn't Mum look way cool in her hornrims and home-made coat? Dig our cute shoes and cheesy identical costumes.
And those strange little labels … What's that about?
Well, kids; here's some history: this is what happens in a nuclear war. Really! Her Majesty's Government has decreed that we are to take part in a nuclear war evacuation exercise! Woohoo!
It's early morning. Several streets of our sleepy little town are abuzz with unusual activity. Mums are laying out the Sunday best. Dads are dusting off the Box Brownies. Hyperactive kids are flying round the house, making airplane noises and bumping into things. Our Mum is making sure we all look our best, because the TELEVISION PEOPLE will be there! Note the rag she carries (in Phil's hand) for emergency spit-washes.
By mid-morning we are all out on the pavement, the Mums checking out one another's clothes. Everyone is decked out in their finery, ready to get nuked. The whole street! This is so weird.
Nobody talks above a whisper. We might miss the siren. Tension mounts as the clock ticks toward the hour …
There it is! The unearthly rising tone wailing out from the church tower, telling us we have FOUR MINUTES until the bombs hit us.
Four minutes …
The same siren sounds every Sunday morning, telling grown-ups everywhere to send the kids out to play while they furtively fumble for four minutes; the added thrill of pretending it's the real thing.
But this day is different …
This day the bombs are coming …
We might even be on television!
As the siren wails on, wardens tell us to walk slowly to the top of the street, keeping in order like it's a school trip. Then we file along the main road to the coach station where we spend around twenty minutes being loaded up, street by street, into lovely old fifties charabancs, gleaming with strips of chrome. They judder into life and we're off, excitedly staring out of the windows at the spooky streets of our partially depopulated town, wondering the same thing we wonder every day: if we will actually get to see a mushroom cloud or if it will all be over in an instant, just a big flash like lightning …
And where do the government plan to send us when the bombs rain down?
We are headed, rather curiously, to Reydon School, a forty minute drive away.
From the coach windows, we can see across Sole Bay to the Sizewell Nuclear Reactor. There are American airbases dotted around the region. Some Dads point out that at least it will be quick, being evacuated into a target area.
Too young to understand that this is the way our government intends to protect us during the imminent nuclear armageddon, we troop into the assembly hall and tuck in to lukewarm banana custard, served by school dinnerladies with lots of make-up and new hair-dos. The banana custard will obviously have some miraculous anti-radiation effect. The school dinnerladies, like the coach drivers, will no doubt be there at work during the apocalypse … After our curious meal, anticlimactically, we file back onto the coaches for the long drive home.
We do get on the telly that night. Crowded round the little wooden cabinet, doors open to reveal the flickering, almost spherical nine-inch screen … Look! There's Mum shoving us back on the coach! Not her most dignified moment, but at least it was us and not somebody from the next street …
Back in the real world, that morning, our four minutes are up before we even reach the top of the road.
KERBLOOEY!
The big light comes on, then all the lights go out, including yours and mine.
This is living every day with the very real terror of MAD. Mutually Assured Destruction (it's okay that all our people get killed, because all of theirs will be dead, too) …
I kinda miss the old Cold War. That Dr. Strangelove frisson … Hearing the rumble of the Soviet Bears, their long bodies full of bombs, flying down our coast every day, shadowed by our fighter planes. The thrill of wondering if you actually need to do your homework when you could well be dead by morning …"
The Bears no longer fly and I do kinda miss the old Cold War; the new one is crap.
So … Coming up next is October, 2006, and it's a doozy!
Swear-fests, rants, confessions, comments, Robyn typing the "F" word, Old Knudsen being … well … Old Knudsen.
Don't miss it!
Ciao.
September was a bit of a quiet month. I was still developing my ranty Dive persona and he wouldn't come into full sweary action until the following month.
I was also still writing for my audience of one (Hi, Pea) and it would be a couple more weeks before I moved to Blogville proper and shared my neighbourhood with Robyn, Sassy, Rich and a certain Scottish curmudgeon.
So: September …
This was the month that - as a retired rock musician still desperately clinging to the tattered shreds of my reputation - I was ignominiously slapped across the face with a dose of reality upon discovering that the world had moved on.
I was now officially a has-been and just to rub my nose in it, my elderly Mother and her gang (The Mad Bints) were somewhat cooler than me.
September also saw the launch of my "non-Dive" reminiscences series "Tom Purdew" (from À la recherche du temps perdu), the second installment of which described the true story of our nuclear war evacuation drill, where we were "evacuated" into the heart of a target zone.
As bugger-all else happened in September, I'll reproduce most of it here:
"1964 …
Hey! That's me! Down there on the left. Little brother Phil on the right. And doesn't Mum look way cool in her hornrims and home-made coat? Dig our cute shoes and cheesy identical costumes.
And those strange little labels … What's that about?
Well, kids; here's some history: this is what happens in a nuclear war. Really! Her Majesty's Government has decreed that we are to take part in a nuclear war evacuation exercise! Woohoo!
It's early morning. Several streets of our sleepy little town are abuzz with unusual activity. Mums are laying out the Sunday best. Dads are dusting off the Box Brownies. Hyperactive kids are flying round the house, making airplane noises and bumping into things. Our Mum is making sure we all look our best, because the TELEVISION PEOPLE will be there! Note the rag she carries (in Phil's hand) for emergency spit-washes.
By mid-morning we are all out on the pavement, the Mums checking out one another's clothes. Everyone is decked out in their finery, ready to get nuked. The whole street! This is so weird.
Nobody talks above a whisper. We might miss the siren. Tension mounts as the clock ticks toward the hour …
There it is! The unearthly rising tone wailing out from the church tower, telling us we have FOUR MINUTES until the bombs hit us.
Four minutes …
The same siren sounds every Sunday morning, telling grown-ups everywhere to send the kids out to play while they furtively fumble for four minutes; the added thrill of pretending it's the real thing.
But this day is different …
This day the bombs are coming …
We might even be on television!
As the siren wails on, wardens tell us to walk slowly to the top of the street, keeping in order like it's a school trip. Then we file along the main road to the coach station where we spend around twenty minutes being loaded up, street by street, into lovely old fifties charabancs, gleaming with strips of chrome. They judder into life and we're off, excitedly staring out of the windows at the spooky streets of our partially depopulated town, wondering the same thing we wonder every day: if we will actually get to see a mushroom cloud or if it will all be over in an instant, just a big flash like lightning …
And where do the government plan to send us when the bombs rain down?
We are headed, rather curiously, to Reydon School, a forty minute drive away.
From the coach windows, we can see across Sole Bay to the Sizewell Nuclear Reactor. There are American airbases dotted around the region. Some Dads point out that at least it will be quick, being evacuated into a target area.
Too young to understand that this is the way our government intends to protect us during the imminent nuclear armageddon, we troop into the assembly hall and tuck in to lukewarm banana custard, served by school dinnerladies with lots of make-up and new hair-dos. The banana custard will obviously have some miraculous anti-radiation effect. The school dinnerladies, like the coach drivers, will no doubt be there at work during the apocalypse … After our curious meal, anticlimactically, we file back onto the coaches for the long drive home.
We do get on the telly that night. Crowded round the little wooden cabinet, doors open to reveal the flickering, almost spherical nine-inch screen … Look! There's Mum shoving us back on the coach! Not her most dignified moment, but at least it was us and not somebody from the next street …
Back in the real world, that morning, our four minutes are up before we even reach the top of the road.
KERBLOOEY!
The big light comes on, then all the lights go out, including yours and mine.
This is living every day with the very real terror of MAD. Mutually Assured Destruction (it's okay that all our people get killed, because all of theirs will be dead, too) …
I kinda miss the old Cold War. That Dr. Strangelove frisson … Hearing the rumble of the Soviet Bears, their long bodies full of bombs, flying down our coast every day, shadowed by our fighter planes. The thrill of wondering if you actually need to do your homework when you could well be dead by morning …"
The Bears no longer fly and I do kinda miss the old Cold War; the new one is crap.
So … Coming up next is October, 2006, and it's a doozy!
Swear-fests, rants, confessions, comments, Robyn typing the "F" word, Old Knudsen being … well … Old Knudsen.
Don't miss it!
Ciao.
Happy Blog-Birthday, Robyn! Yaaaay!
Happy blog-birthday to the cutest girl whose bottom I have never touched (honestly! We were just standing beside one another!); my lovely Blogville neighbour, the incomparably splendid Robyn.
XOX
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
The Year Of Living Rantily Pt.I
Fuck me!
It's a year to the day since my first post.
Happy birthday, Dive, you crotchety old fucker.
And what a long, strange trip it's been.
A year which has seen old Dive transformed from an, ugly, balding, ranty, middle-aged Marxist with a death wish into an ugly, balding, ranty, middle-aged Marxist with a girlfriend.
Woo, and indeed, hoo.
I just wasted two days of my life spending the weekend reading my archive.
Man, what a total bunch of old wank!
A veritable bukake party of splattery toss.
Into which we shall now dip our sticky fingers …
I was going to do a really long post about my first year in Blogville but to be honest I just can't be arsed.
Instead, I shall inflict industrial levels of boredom on you by spending the next twelve days re-living the past year one month at a time.
So … August 7, 2006: A Small Glass Planet Is Born.
My blog skills don't run to doing that swirly effect where you go back in time so you'll have to make your own.
I won't bore you with my early posts, though for historical purposes here is the first one. Sufficient to say it took a while to discover that it wasn't me writing the blog but some grumpy old bastard called "Dive".
Best bits from August, 2006:
I discovered what children are for, in "Finally, A Use For Children".
And in "The Game Of Scunthorpe", I revealed my astonishing superpower to the world.
Bollocks to "Heroes"; this is the real deal!
And I quote:
"Hey! Superpowers! Yaay!
It has slowly dawned upon me over the decades that I have never once lost a sock in the wash. NEVER! That realisation got me wondering and I've come up with a theory:
Everybody has a superpower.
That's my theory …
I mean, some lucky buggers like Superman and Spidey have fabulous powers; others, like Buffy or The Shoveller, have lesser, but still rather super powers.
I now believe - after much observation and several drinks - that we ALL have a superpower, but it's up to us to discover just what that superpower is.
It turns out that mine is the power to NEVER lose a sock in the wash.
So maybe it won't save the world, but in its own small way, I have found it both useful and comforting.
If you have discovered your superpower, please let me know (comments box again). Perhaps we could form a group of very minor superheroes who could pack up some sandwiches and a nice thermos of tea, take a bus somewhere and help someone in a trivial but comforting way.
"Here are your socks, ma'am."
And we could dress up and wear capes!"
In "Dinosaurs", I let slip why I had been celibate since middle-age crept up and mugged me:
"It's probably too late to enjoy the rest of this life anyway. I mean, I'm an ugly, balding guy in my late forties, yet I can't even date ugly, balding, women …
Well I probably could. What usually stops me is a grimly hilarious but un-erotic vision of two middle-aged people entwined in the throes of passion, bellowing and thrashing like a couple of dinosaurs drowning in a swamp …
How the fuck do middle-aged people … er, fuck?
Answers on a postcard, but please, not to me …"
And with "The Truth About Everything" I finally came up with a post I was happy with. So you can blame that one for all that has assailed you since.
So …
That was August, 2006.
A whole year of typing complete arse into a computer.
Back then of course, my readership consisted solely of the wonderful Peahen.
But as the months crawled by Blogville gradually emerged, so over the coming days I will be including the "best of the comments" for each month, too.
Tomorrow: September, 2006; a post you can't fail to miss.
er …
It's a year to the day since my first post.
Happy birthday, Dive, you crotchety old fucker.
And what a long, strange trip it's been.
A year which has seen old Dive transformed from an, ugly, balding, ranty, middle-aged Marxist with a death wish into an ugly, balding, ranty, middle-aged Marxist with a girlfriend.
Woo, and indeed, hoo.
I just wasted two days of my life spending the weekend reading my archive.
Man, what a total bunch of old wank!
A veritable bukake party of splattery toss.
Into which we shall now dip our sticky fingers …
I was going to do a really long post about my first year in Blogville but to be honest I just can't be arsed.
Instead, I shall inflict industrial levels of boredom on you by spending the next twelve days re-living the past year one month at a time.
So … August 7, 2006: A Small Glass Planet Is Born.
My blog skills don't run to doing that swirly effect where you go back in time so you'll have to make your own.
I won't bore you with my early posts, though for historical purposes here is the first one. Sufficient to say it took a while to discover that it wasn't me writing the blog but some grumpy old bastard called "Dive".
Best bits from August, 2006:
I discovered what children are for, in "Finally, A Use For Children".
And in "The Game Of Scunthorpe", I revealed my astonishing superpower to the world.
Bollocks to "Heroes"; this is the real deal!
And I quote:
"Hey! Superpowers! Yaay!
It has slowly dawned upon me over the decades that I have never once lost a sock in the wash. NEVER! That realisation got me wondering and I've come up with a theory:
Everybody has a superpower.
That's my theory …
I mean, some lucky buggers like Superman and Spidey have fabulous powers; others, like Buffy or The Shoveller, have lesser, but still rather super powers.
I now believe - after much observation and several drinks - that we ALL have a superpower, but it's up to us to discover just what that superpower is.
It turns out that mine is the power to NEVER lose a sock in the wash.
So maybe it won't save the world, but in its own small way, I have found it both useful and comforting.
If you have discovered your superpower, please let me know (comments box again). Perhaps we could form a group of very minor superheroes who could pack up some sandwiches and a nice thermos of tea, take a bus somewhere and help someone in a trivial but comforting way.
"Here are your socks, ma'am."
And we could dress up and wear capes!"
In "Dinosaurs", I let slip why I had been celibate since middle-age crept up and mugged me:
"It's probably too late to enjoy the rest of this life anyway. I mean, I'm an ugly, balding guy in my late forties, yet I can't even date ugly, balding, women …
Well I probably could. What usually stops me is a grimly hilarious but un-erotic vision of two middle-aged people entwined in the throes of passion, bellowing and thrashing like a couple of dinosaurs drowning in a swamp …
How the fuck do middle-aged people … er, fuck?
Answers on a postcard, but please, not to me …"
And with "The Truth About Everything" I finally came up with a post I was happy with. So you can blame that one for all that has assailed you since.
So …
That was August, 2006.
A whole year of typing complete arse into a computer.
Back then of course, my readership consisted solely of the wonderful Peahen.
But as the months crawled by Blogville gradually emerged, so over the coming days I will be including the "best of the comments" for each month, too.
Tomorrow: September, 2006; a post you can't fail to miss.
er …
Monday, August 06, 2007
Gabba Gabba Hey!
First off, I've got to say a huge thank you to Vic for posting a photograph of Gayman wrapped around the shaft of a giant cock.
Click on the link.
You know you want to.
Cheers, Groover; that one's gonna keep me smiling all day.
And now comes yet another of her brilliant variations on Fracas Monday Melee.
First came "Groover's Photo Melee".
Now we have "Say It With Lyrics"!
Hey ho, here we go:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
"I’m sick and tired of hearing things
From uptight, short-sighted, narrow-minded hypocritics
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
I’ve had enough of reading things
By neurotic, psychotic, pig-headed politicians
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth
No short-haired, yellow-bellied, son of Tricky Dicky's
Gonna Mother Hubbard soft soap me
With just a pocketful of hope
Money for dope
Money for rope
I’m sick to death of seeing things
From tight-lipped, condescending, mama’s little chauvinists
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth now
I’ve had enough of watching scenes
Of schizophrenic, ego-centric, paranoiac, prima-donnas
All I want is the truth now
Just gimme some truth"
John Lennon: "Gimme Some Truth"
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
"She said 'Listen, John; I love you,
But there's this bloke I fancy'"
Jilted John: "Jilted John"
Weemen! Huh!
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
"Why do I keep fucking up?"
Neil Young: "Fucking Up"
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
"See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
See the ghosts of slav'ry ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
Hear the undertaker's bell
Yeah, nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell"
Bob Dylan: "Blind Willie Mc.Tell"
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
"I am woman, hear me roar …"
Helen Reddy: "I am Woman"
… er … Hang on; that's not right.
um … How about:
"When I think about you I touch myself."
The Divinyls: "I Touch Myself"
or even:
"I've got two legs
From my hips to the ground
And when I move' em they walk around
And when I lift 'em they climb the stairs
And when I shave 'em they ain't got hairs."
Monty Python: "I've Got Two Legs"
That's better.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
"I wanna nasty little Jewish Princess
With a couple of sisters who can raise a few blisters …
She can even be poor
As long as she does it with four on the floor"
Frank Zappa: "Jewish Princess"
er … That's not right, either … Sorry.
Let's get sappy instead.
"Get wiser, not just older
Draw her near and hold her"
Silje Nergaard: "Borrowing Moons"
Vic, you so totally rule with this idea. Let's make it a regular thing.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Oh, You Pretty Things
Wow!
Kate's Blogville Challenge has certainly produced some amazing results
(including some half-nekkid Groover shots that may well go up on the wall of my recording studio … er … to inspire my playing).
I must admit to some degree of amazement that after almost a year of posting photos of her left wrist, Sassy has finally looked into a camera for us.
Jeepers, creepers! Where'd ya get those peepers, Sass?
I've noticed something about Blogville that is nothing at all like real life:
In real life, you have to look at a whole LOT of ugs before you see a pretty face.
But you lot are all either beautiful or handsome (Rich and Knudsen especially).
Any stragglers (c'mon, Rich) who've not yet posted a recent mugshot, get snapping.
I can't wait for Kate's finished Photoshop composite.
Kate's Blogville Challenge has certainly produced some amazing results
(including some half-nekkid Groover shots that may well go up on the wall of my recording studio … er … to inspire my playing).
I must admit to some degree of amazement that after almost a year of posting photos of her left wrist, Sassy has finally looked into a camera for us.
Jeepers, creepers! Where'd ya get those peepers, Sass?
I've noticed something about Blogville that is nothing at all like real life:
In real life, you have to look at a whole LOT of ugs before you see a pretty face.
But you lot are all either beautiful or handsome (Rich and Knudsen especially).
Any stragglers (c'mon, Rich) who've not yet posted a recent mugshot, get snapping.
I can't wait for Kate's finished Photoshop composite.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Kate's Blogville Challenge
The deeply wonderful Kate has very kindly (madly?) suggested she dig through our archives and Photoshop a fake group photo of the inhabitants of Blogville.
Robyn and myself provided a good starter last week, whilst touching one another's bums (in fact I'm vain enough to have posted photos of me all over my archives), and Knudsen won't be a problem.
There are lots of lovely photos of Kate and Vic (though probably best not to include the soapy boob shot, Kate … hee hee).
Ame can be found under Baps and Peepees.
Lynn has a very glam shot from a "few" years back and Sassy a cute little girl photo, but we're looking for something more recent here.
I know there are some of you folk out there who are resolutely photo-shy (Sassy, I'm not just looking at you).
So to make Kate's project a reality, get your cameras out and show us all how beautiful you are.
Post 'em up under "Kate's Blogville Challenge".
Or - if you have a photo hidden in your archives - let us know where to find it.
Soapy boob shots are welcome (all sexes and proclivities)
You know you want to really.
Robyn and myself provided a good starter last week, whilst touching one another's bums (in fact I'm vain enough to have posted photos of me all over my archives), and Knudsen won't be a problem.
There are lots of lovely photos of Kate and Vic (though probably best not to include the soapy boob shot, Kate … hee hee).
Ame can be found under Baps and Peepees.
Lynn has a very glam shot from a "few" years back and Sassy a cute little girl photo, but we're looking for something more recent here.
I know there are some of you folk out there who are resolutely photo-shy (Sassy, I'm not just looking at you).
So to make Kate's project a reality, get your cameras out and show us all how beautiful you are.
Post 'em up under "Kate's Blogville Challenge".
Or - if you have a photo hidden in your archives - let us know where to find it.
Soapy boob shots are welcome (all sexes and proclivities)
You know you want to really.
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