Another of my theories (see Superheroes in the Scunthorpe posting below).
This one came about by spending so many hours of every day stuck on a train. After the crossword, there's only so much you can do before you give in and start masturbating furiously to relieve the boredom (I refuse to stoop to Sudoku).
So I found myself doing anagrams.
As I walk past the Houses of Parliament every day I started with them and, lo and behold, a veil was lifted from before mine eyes and the TRUTH revealed in all its glory!
The Houses of Parliament IS (are?) The House of Rampant Lies!
Holy shit!
A couple more anagrams confirmed my suspicion and my new theory was born:
The Truth About Everything is hidden in its name!
The first proof of my theory came a few minutes later, when it revealed that Monica Seles makes Camel Noises.
I then discovered that Roast Beef produces an Obese Fart, and that Cauliflower gives you Awful Recoil, and I knew that I had stumbled upon the basic truth behind the universe.
What parent could deny that Christmas Day is Mad Scary Shit?
Of course there are billions of anagrams (and some very rude and amusing ones - I am forever indebted to whoever discovered that footballer David Ginola becomes Dildo Vagina); some of them may not seem to reveal much, but keep searching and the TRUTH will be revealed … no matter how surreal …
For instance, any teenage boy would be delighted to learn that Baked Beans give him Naked Babes (though his choice of crisps may (or may not) be influenced by the knowledge that Prawn Cocktail flavouring derives from Pliant Raw Cock).
Who could look at Jimmy Saville and not think of Evil Slimy Jam? Or see Michael Portillo and not realise that he's a Limp Tool Charlie?
Will The United States Of America's foreign policy result in it becoming The Emaciated Ruins Of State? Only time will tell, but The Truth Is In There.
You'll also find there (among many others) The Tedium Of A Racist Senate; and with Bush still in power, The Destitute Maniac Of Arse, and The Taint Of A Rectum Disease.
Having said that; whatever deranged holocaust the Halliburton Gang have unleashed on the people of Iraq, at least wretched twat dictator Saddam Hussein is reduced to Sad Hand Misuse in his cell.
On a lighter note, anyone who - like me - has a thing for Anna Friel will be cheered by the news that she gives Finer Anal, while poor old Patsy Kensit produces only Stinky Paste.
Of course, those of you with dyslexia may not enjoy anagrams so much until you realise that Dyslexia gives you Daily Sex.
As with any theory, there is an exception that proves the rule. In this case it turns out to be Rolf Harris. He has no anagrams whatsoever.
After much head-scratching, Mike and I deduced that this must mean he is The Perfect Being; which, when you think of Rolf is fairly self-evident anyway.
The fact that we've since found several others with no anagrams doesn't diminish Rolf's status one jot. The Small Glass Planet is Our World and We make the rules! So Rolf remains The Perfect Being and the others are his disciples.
There are hundreds more examples (including the ruder and more defamatory ones) of the Truth on my website (or at least there will be when the builders have finished drinking all my tea and let me have it back).
I'll leave you today with a real creepy one: surreal childrens' TV favourite The Magic Roundabout is actually a Dream About Touching …
Oh, and this weekend is August Bank Holiday, which is where we get Yak-Labia Doughnuts. I just thought you ought to know that in case you get hungry.
Right. Homework:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: Tachyon particles.
Today's track to track down: Golf Girl by Caravan. Whimsical British Psychedelia at its most daft.
Today's reading assignment: Tarantula by Bob Dylan. The fact that my treasured 1971 copy is wrecked and tattered from being carried about all through my teenage years probably explains a lot about more about me than I'd like to admit.
Today's fact: Shoes are an invention of the Devil.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Dinosaurs
My daily trip home usually takes something over three hours, from the idyllic peace and quiet of my office in Westminster to the chaotic cacophony of my little house in the Norfolk Broads.
That's when everything goes like clockwork: the walk, the tube, the intercity train and the drive home from Norwich.
This week's been shit (thanks, Notwork Rail): five hours to get home on tuesday, almost six last night …
Which is why seeing this on the way home tonight really cheered me up:
When you've been commuting for as long as I have, this is fucking funny!
If you're wondering why anyone would spend around seven hours a day just getting to work and back, so am I. I love my job and I love my home, but why the fuck are they so far apart?
Our rail franchise is run by the people who made George Bush's brain. Every time the shitty old train judders to a halt in the middle of nowhere, all I can think of is 'roll on death' (which is a bit like roll on deodorant, only a lot bigger and heavier).
I figure that by voluntarily submitting myself to the intolerable suffering of long distance commuting in this life, the next life must surely be a real doozy! … please?
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 …
When you've stopped throwing up at that thought, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Frottage.
Today's track to track down: Hana by Asa Chang and JunRay. Bonkers and beautiful (sounds like my ideal woman).
Today's reading assignment: The Curious Sofa: A Pornographic Work by Ogdred Weary. One of Edward Gorey's finest; and only as pornographic as your mind makes it.
Today's fact: Every biscuit has an immortal soul.
That's when everything goes like clockwork: the walk, the tube, the intercity train and the drive home from Norwich.
This week's been shit (thanks, Notwork Rail): five hours to get home on tuesday, almost six last night …
Which is why seeing this on the way home tonight really cheered me up:
When you've been commuting for as long as I have, this is fucking funny!If you're wondering why anyone would spend around seven hours a day just getting to work and back, so am I. I love my job and I love my home, but why the fuck are they so far apart?
Our rail franchise is run by the people who made George Bush's brain. Every time the shitty old train judders to a halt in the middle of nowhere, all I can think of is 'roll on death' (which is a bit like roll on deodorant, only a lot bigger and heavier).
I figure that by voluntarily submitting myself to the intolerable suffering of long distance commuting in this life, the next life must surely be a real doozy! … please?
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 …
When you've stopped throwing up at that thought, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Frottage.
Today's track to track down: Hana by Asa Chang and JunRay. Bonkers and beautiful (sounds like my ideal woman).
Today's reading assignment: The Curious Sofa: A Pornographic Work by Ogdred Weary. One of Edward Gorey's finest; and only as pornographic as your mind makes it.
Today's fact: Every biscuit has an immortal soul.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Game Of Scunthorpe
Hey, kids! Here's a game you can play anywhere, even by yourself - though like most things, it's more fun with more than one … and funnier when you're drunk.
I call it Scunthorpe after that old chestnut about Scunthorpe being excluded by search engine filters (don't pretend you don't know why). It's basically finding words within other words, like "Who put the turd in Saturday?"
Easy as that.
There are millions of 'em. Most aren't funny, but some are smeared with giggle cream. Here's a few to get you started:
- Is that Stan in the distance?
- Who put semen in the basement?
- Ugh! It's their daughter!
- Who put that twat in the hot water tank? (thanks, Michael for that one).
- Ow! I've got gin in my vagina!
- Who sent NATO into Chinatown?
- Who put ours in yours?
- Who let her in here?
- What the fuck are we doing in Wensleydale?
And my personal favourite: Who put the lie in believe?
If you've found any really funny ones, please stick 'em in the comments box.
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!
Look out, it's homework time again:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: Well hung.
Today's track to track down: Mountain Trip To Japan, 1959, by The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players.
This one's easy: you just click on their link in my Lovely Links section.
Hey, I "blogwhacked" with the Trachtenburgs! I put them in my "favourite music" on my profile page, and it came up with only ONE other person in the whole blogsphere who linked to them, too. Hopefully that will change now, because the Trachtenburgs are a not unmighty force, but a big howdy to giseladabomb for her impeccable musical taste.
Today's reading assignment: The Catcher In The Rye. Best book ever. Nuff said.
Today's fact: Up until 1919, every fifth American President was left-handed.
I call it Scunthorpe after that old chestnut about Scunthorpe being excluded by search engine filters (don't pretend you don't know why). It's basically finding words within other words, like "Who put the turd in Saturday?"
Easy as that.
There are millions of 'em. Most aren't funny, but some are smeared with giggle cream. Here's a few to get you started:
- Is that Stan in the distance?
- Who put semen in the basement?
- Ugh! It's their daughter!
- Who put that twat in the hot water tank? (thanks, Michael for that one).
- Ow! I've got gin in my vagina!
- Who sent NATO into Chinatown?
- Who put ours in yours?
- Who let her in here?
- What the fuck are we doing in Wensleydale?
And my personal favourite: Who put the lie in believe?
If you've found any really funny ones, please stick 'em in the comments box.
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!
Look out, it's homework time again:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: Well hung.
Today's track to track down: Mountain Trip To Japan, 1959, by The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players.
This one's easy: you just click on their link in my Lovely Links section.
Hey, I "blogwhacked" with the Trachtenburgs! I put them in my "favourite music" on my profile page, and it came up with only ONE other person in the whole blogsphere who linked to them, too. Hopefully that will change now, because the Trachtenburgs are a not unmighty force, but a big howdy to giseladabomb for her impeccable musical taste.
Today's reading assignment: The Catcher In The Rye. Best book ever. Nuff said.
Today's fact: Up until 1919, every fifth American President was left-handed.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Finally, A Use For Children
… at least for those of us who dwell in the Venn set for "curmudgeon" and "childless" …
Apologies to any parents out there whose screaming, puking, randomly defecating, destructive little monsters are their precious darlings, but I've made a marvellous discovery.
The other day, one of these wee urchins ran full tilt into me in the supermarket, resulting in a kneecap/temple interface situation and a screaming child laying on the floor at my feet.
I did what any self respecting childless curmudgeon would do; rubbed my knee and glared accusingly at the mother.
To my utter delight, she yelled at the kid, yanked it to its feet and made it apologise to the "nice man" (sorry about the "it"; I was trying so hard not to grin that I didn't notice if "it" was a girl or a boy).
Was it wrong of me to find this hilarious?
Now I'm not a complete ogre; I don't go around encouraging folk to knee children in the temple, because THAT WOULD BE WRONG (or so I'm reliably informed).
Yet the thought occured to me that perhaps if I stopped leaping out of their way when they hurtled toward me, an experiment might present itself.
The results so far have been inconclusive. Two genuine accidents (HONEST) have occured since; in one, a small girl clipped my shopping trolley with her head (hee-hee), and in the other, I kind of trod on a toddler (sorry). Mother number one gave me a look something akin to a lungfish with acute constipation, but number two scolded her bawling toddler and apologised profusely to me. A mixture of guilt and glee ensued. The experiment continues …
Apropos of nothing, I was listening to Radio 4's Farming Today programme last monday (Hey, I'm from Norfolk. It's compulsory. They ask us questions later), and they interviewed a guy from The Association Of Master Bakers.
Now that might look okay written down, but it's not something you expect to hear on the radio at 5.45 in the morning. It made my monday a whole lot better.
Now, are you ready for your homework?
(Sorry about those kids, I really am. They were genuine accidents, but I found their mothers' reactions so funny) …
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: "my favourite brown cardigan".
Today's track to track down: Puddin' Fingers by The Handsome Family. This is a really early Handsome's track and one that doesn't include any of Rennie's sublime poetry. I just love it because it's such a chaotic shambles. Stick it on your iPod and try dancing to it in a public place. It's great if you like falling over.
Today's reading assignment: Get really drunk and read sections of Roget's Thesaurus out loud, slowly. Start with "dead" (361 - adj.) and you'll see where I'm coming from.
Today's fact: Walking backwards actually reverses time. Try it!
Apologies to any parents out there whose screaming, puking, randomly defecating, destructive little monsters are their precious darlings, but I've made a marvellous discovery.
The other day, one of these wee urchins ran full tilt into me in the supermarket, resulting in a kneecap/temple interface situation and a screaming child laying on the floor at my feet.
I did what any self respecting childless curmudgeon would do; rubbed my knee and glared accusingly at the mother.
To my utter delight, she yelled at the kid, yanked it to its feet and made it apologise to the "nice man" (sorry about the "it"; I was trying so hard not to grin that I didn't notice if "it" was a girl or a boy).
Was it wrong of me to find this hilarious?
Now I'm not a complete ogre; I don't go around encouraging folk to knee children in the temple, because THAT WOULD BE WRONG (or so I'm reliably informed).
Yet the thought occured to me that perhaps if I stopped leaping out of their way when they hurtled toward me, an experiment might present itself.
The results so far have been inconclusive. Two genuine accidents (HONEST) have occured since; in one, a small girl clipped my shopping trolley with her head (hee-hee), and in the other, I kind of trod on a toddler (sorry). Mother number one gave me a look something akin to a lungfish with acute constipation, but number two scolded her bawling toddler and apologised profusely to me. A mixture of guilt and glee ensued. The experiment continues …
Apropos of nothing, I was listening to Radio 4's Farming Today programme last monday (Hey, I'm from Norfolk. It's compulsory. They ask us questions later), and they interviewed a guy from The Association Of Master Bakers.
Now that might look okay written down, but it's not something you expect to hear on the radio at 5.45 in the morning. It made my monday a whole lot better.
Now, are you ready for your homework?
(Sorry about those kids, I really am. They were genuine accidents, but I found their mothers' reactions so funny) …
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: "my favourite brown cardigan".
Today's track to track down: Puddin' Fingers by The Handsome Family. This is a really early Handsome's track and one that doesn't include any of Rennie's sublime poetry. I just love it because it's such a chaotic shambles. Stick it on your iPod and try dancing to it in a public place. It's great if you like falling over.
Today's reading assignment: Get really drunk and read sections of Roget's Thesaurus out loud, slowly. Start with "dead" (361 - adj.) and you'll see where I'm coming from.
Today's fact: Walking backwards actually reverses time. Try it!
Monday, August 14, 2006
I Waant One!
I don't know what the fuck this is, but I want one!It's so CUTE! Don't make me throw a paddy. I want one and I want it NOW! I don't care if it grows up into something with sixteen legs and has claws the size of meat cleavers; I'll still love it and take it for walks. I promise! I waaant one!
While I'm waiting for whatever the fuck that thing is, here's tonight's homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Pantyhose.
Today's track to track down: Little White Bull by Tommy Steele. Because I woke up with it on my mind on sunday and IT'S STILL THERE! Why should I be the only one to suffer? Go on. Sing it! Feel the pain!
Reading Assignment: O ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis by Jose Saramago. You can read it in English if you wanna wimp out; there's a wonderful translation by the late, great Giovanni Pontiero (translators are generally underrated - Pontiero was a genius).
Today's fact: Krakatoa is, in fact, quite a long way WEST of Java …
Look at the map, Hollywood!
Some Stuff About Gravel
Yaaaay! Car racing in the rain!
More fun than a busload of monkeys in a nunnery.
It was even fun when it stopped raining and the sun came out and burnt us all the colour of a mandrill's arse.
Meet Mike.
Mike, his long suffering 'care attendants' Sharon and Bethany, together with Mattboy, Josh and Dive, beamed down to Snetterton motor racing circuit in Norfolk for some boffo juvenile fun at the British Touring Car Championships weekender. Here's some pics:
Should you not have a child to hand, they can occasionally be borrowed, but are more easily lured away from a parent or guardian with cigarettes, nylons or pornography.
Mike's the closest thing to a sane person I know … but only if he's standing really close to a sane person.
He's the inventor of the game Travel Gravel, which consists of a small box of gravel you carry in your pocket and can take out and play with whenever you want. Keep a box in the car for when the kids get bored. Hours of fun!
Mike is a long term inmate of the Small Glass Planet. An ace comic book artist and 3D CAD monkey, he is rightly obsessed with trash culture, Carry-On movies and Gojira. One day I'll persuade him to start his own blog. Be warned …
Now sit up and listen. Here's your homework:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: You are to wait for a lull, then say quickly and quietly, "I am being held against my will", before carrying on as if nothing had happened.
Today's track to track down: Prayer to God by Shellac. The best song about breaking up ever. PARENTAL ADVISORY: Hey, kids! If your parents are ignorant, intolerant fuckwits, I'd advise that you listen to this one on headphones.
Today's reading assignment: Love and Rockets. All of 'em. It'll cost you a few hundred pounds to buy them but you'll thank me for it.
Today's fact: Before crossing the road in Norway, you must rub yourself against the nearest building.
More fun than a busload of monkeys in a nunnery.
It was even fun when it stopped raining and the sun came out and burnt us all the colour of a mandrill's arse.
Meet Mike.
Mike, his long suffering 'care attendants' Sharon and Bethany, together with Mattboy, Josh and Dive, beamed down to Snetterton motor racing circuit in Norfolk for some boffo juvenile fun at the British Touring Car Championships weekender. Here's some pics:
… and here's another one …
All hail Josh, King of Blag.
If there are goodies to be had (today it was hats), it's always best to procure a child to grab them for you. A Dickensian "cheeky scamp" such as Josh, ensures a maximum blag-bag.Should you not have a child to hand, they can occasionally be borrowed, but are more easily lured away from a parent or guardian with cigarettes, nylons or pornography.
Mike's the closest thing to a sane person I know … but only if he's standing really close to a sane person.
He's the inventor of the game Travel Gravel, which consists of a small box of gravel you carry in your pocket and can take out and play with whenever you want. Keep a box in the car for when the kids get bored. Hours of fun!
Mike is a long term inmate of the Small Glass Planet. An ace comic book artist and 3D CAD monkey, he is rightly obsessed with trash culture, Carry-On movies and Gojira. One day I'll persuade him to start his own blog. Be warned …
Now sit up and listen. Here's your homework:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: You are to wait for a lull, then say quickly and quietly, "I am being held against my will", before carrying on as if nothing had happened.
Today's track to track down: Prayer to God by Shellac. The best song about breaking up ever. PARENTAL ADVISORY: Hey, kids! If your parents are ignorant, intolerant fuckwits, I'd advise that you listen to this one on headphones.
Today's reading assignment: Love and Rockets. All of 'em. It'll cost you a few hundred pounds to buy them but you'll thank me for it.
Today's fact: Before crossing the road in Norway, you must rub yourself against the nearest building.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Fear of Flying
I know I said I'd keep my rants safely tucked away on my website, but it's time to get boring …
Today's banner headline: Foiled: Terror Plot To Kill Thousands.
Let's take a look at that, shall we?
It may well be that our lovely boys in blue have pulled off a real coup and saved thousands of "units of collateral damage" from a nasty fall (30,000 feet- Ouch).
That would be great news, and if it turns out to be true, well done lads!
And they didn't shoot anyone this time. Yay!
Now … Hold up your hand, anyone who remembers Blair rolling the tanks into Heathrow and buggering up everyone's holidays the last time he wanted to distract attention from his and Bush's Idiot's Guide to Foreign Policy.
SAM missiles all around our airports? Yeah, right.
There he was on the telly, smirking like he thought we'd believe him; Bush's arse-print still smeared across his face.
"WMD, anyone? We're only forty-five minutes from nuclear armageddon! Yikes!" … Oops. False alarm.
Western leaders have always liked the old "Popularity slipping? Let's have a war!" idea. In the US, this has been refined into "Fear = Control"; terrorise your own people into dependence.
Here we are, with support for George and Tony at its lowest ever, world opinion aghast at their policy in the Middle East, Tony's cabinet in open revolt; the perfect time to creep up behind your disgruntled people in a Bin Laden mask and go "Boo!"
It may well be that the "intelligence services" have foiled a real terror plot (I do remember last July's bombings; I was on the circle line just ahead of the Aldgate bomb), but Tony has now cried wolf so many times that we are not afraid anymore.
And we just don't believe him.
"Round up the usual suspects. Some of those brown-skinned chappies we've been watching for over a year. Tell the press the threat is IMMINENT. That should keep Lebanon out of the headlines for a week at least. All those pictures of dead children … Ugh. So bad for my ratings."
And now our great leader refuses to come back off holiday. Maybe he's scared he'd giggle in front of the cameras and give the game away.
His chum George was on form yesterday: "Islamic Fascists". If he wasn't so tragic and dangerously insane, you'd have to laugh. His powers of articulate speech were never much higher than those of a vegetable, but now he no longer knows the meaning of the words he mangles. Blair's been stuck up his arse for so long, his shit's got all backed up and now comes out of his mouth.
Anyway. Apologies for the ranty downer, but some things just have to be ranted about.
More cheerful stuff to come, I promise: The Small Glass Planet will be decamping to our local racetrack at Snetterton this weekend to watch touring car mayhem in the rain.
Homework time:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Revolution (sorry; still ranty).
Today's track to track down: Bonebomb by Brian Eno. An utterly devastating smack in the face with the truth, from the musical revolutionary, big-brained bald bloke from Ipswich.
Today's fact: Scientists have discovered that humans share almost six percent of our genetic make-up with incumbent US pres. George Walker Bush (an evolutionary dead end, kicked out of the chimpanzee family for incompetence). Say, isn't that 'L' in his name a couple of letters short of where it should be, alphabetically?
Today's reading assignment: Read BETWEEN THE LINES! I cannot stress this strongly enough.
For weekend browsing - if you can't get hold of a copy of the Anarchist's Cookbook - try Che's Guerilla Warfare, or chomp on a load of Chomsky.
Have a spiffy weekend and don't let the press frighten you.
Today's banner headline: Foiled: Terror Plot To Kill Thousands.
Let's take a look at that, shall we?
It may well be that our lovely boys in blue have pulled off a real coup and saved thousands of "units of collateral damage" from a nasty fall (30,000 feet- Ouch).
That would be great news, and if it turns out to be true, well done lads!
And they didn't shoot anyone this time. Yay!
Now … Hold up your hand, anyone who remembers Blair rolling the tanks into Heathrow and buggering up everyone's holidays the last time he wanted to distract attention from his and Bush's Idiot's Guide to Foreign Policy.
SAM missiles all around our airports? Yeah, right.
There he was on the telly, smirking like he thought we'd believe him; Bush's arse-print still smeared across his face.
"WMD, anyone? We're only forty-five minutes from nuclear armageddon! Yikes!" … Oops. False alarm.
Western leaders have always liked the old "Popularity slipping? Let's have a war!" idea. In the US, this has been refined into "Fear = Control"; terrorise your own people into dependence.
Here we are, with support for George and Tony at its lowest ever, world opinion aghast at their policy in the Middle East, Tony's cabinet in open revolt; the perfect time to creep up behind your disgruntled people in a Bin Laden mask and go "Boo!"
It may well be that the "intelligence services" have foiled a real terror plot (I do remember last July's bombings; I was on the circle line just ahead of the Aldgate bomb), but Tony has now cried wolf so many times that we are not afraid anymore.
And we just don't believe him.
"Round up the usual suspects. Some of those brown-skinned chappies we've been watching for over a year. Tell the press the threat is IMMINENT. That should keep Lebanon out of the headlines for a week at least. All those pictures of dead children … Ugh. So bad for my ratings."
And now our great leader refuses to come back off holiday. Maybe he's scared he'd giggle in front of the cameras and give the game away.
His chum George was on form yesterday: "Islamic Fascists". If he wasn't so tragic and dangerously insane, you'd have to laugh. His powers of articulate speech were never much higher than those of a vegetable, but now he no longer knows the meaning of the words he mangles. Blair's been stuck up his arse for so long, his shit's got all backed up and now comes out of his mouth.
Anyway. Apologies for the ranty downer, but some things just have to be ranted about.
More cheerful stuff to come, I promise: The Small Glass Planet will be decamping to our local racetrack at Snetterton this weekend to watch touring car mayhem in the rain.
Homework time:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Revolution (sorry; still ranty).
Today's track to track down: Bonebomb by Brian Eno. An utterly devastating smack in the face with the truth, from the musical revolutionary, big-brained bald bloke from Ipswich.
Today's fact: Scientists have discovered that humans share almost six percent of our genetic make-up with incumbent US pres. George Walker Bush (an evolutionary dead end, kicked out of the chimpanzee family for incompetence). Say, isn't that 'L' in his name a couple of letters short of where it should be, alphabetically?
Today's reading assignment: Read BETWEEN THE LINES! I cannot stress this strongly enough.
For weekend browsing - if you can't get hold of a copy of the Anarchist's Cookbook - try Che's Guerilla Warfare, or chomp on a load of Chomsky.
Have a spiffy weekend and don't let the press frighten you.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Mediæval Masonry Mischief
So there we were at Blythburgh Church in Suffolk; Helen, Shiela and me, hunting down gargoyles and green men (you'll meet the girls in later posts).
Helen's a sculptor who specialises in green men, Shiela's a stained glass artist who also runs an evil software empire, and me? I tagged along and made the sandwiches.
Armed with binoculars and my sad-boy's 600mm penis compensating lens, we scoured the upper reaches of the church, and what did we find, way up high, out of sight of the naked eye?
Why, this cute little fella with his marvellous appendage.
I've not Photoshopped it, go there and check (take binoculars … and sandwiches).
For hundreds of years, generations of God-fearing folk have worshipped under him, singing hymns, kneeling in pious prayer, blissfully unaware of the rather splendid boner and impressively chubby set of balls dangling over their heads.
His rock hard stiffy has blessed weddings, flashed funerals and appeared erect on BBC 1's Songs Of Praise. Drop to your knees and worship him. I didn't mean like that! Well alright … if you must …
Finished now? Sitting comfortably? Right, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Akimbo.
Today's track to track down: Chicken Pussy by Bongwater. It's by Bongwater. It's called Chicken Pussy. What other excuse do you need?
Today's fact: Wood only floats when people are looking.
Additional reading assignment: Dive has been re-reading Robert Fisk's classic, Pity The Nation: Lebanon At War. Buy it, read it and weep … really.
In the meantime, skip on over to Reading While Falling (http://readingwhilefalling.blogspot.com/) to see what it's like there right now.
Helen's a sculptor who specialises in green men, Shiela's a stained glass artist who also runs an evil software empire, and me? I tagged along and made the sandwiches.
Armed with binoculars and my sad-boy's 600mm penis compensating lens, we scoured the upper reaches of the church, and what did we find, way up high, out of sight of the naked eye?
Why, this cute little fella with his marvellous appendage.
I've not Photoshopped it, go there and check (take binoculars … and sandwiches).For hundreds of years, generations of God-fearing folk have worshipped under him, singing hymns, kneeling in pious prayer, blissfully unaware of the rather splendid boner and impressively chubby set of balls dangling over their heads.
His rock hard stiffy has blessed weddings, flashed funerals and appeared erect on BBC 1's Songs Of Praise. Drop to your knees and worship him. I didn't mean like that! Well alright … if you must …
Finished now? Sitting comfortably? Right, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Akimbo.
Today's track to track down: Chicken Pussy by Bongwater. It's by Bongwater. It's called Chicken Pussy. What other excuse do you need?
Today's fact: Wood only floats when people are looking.
Additional reading assignment: Dive has been re-reading Robert Fisk's classic, Pity The Nation: Lebanon At War. Buy it, read it and weep … really.
In the meantime, skip on over to Reading While Falling (http://readingwhilefalling.blogspot.com/) to see what it's like there right now.
Monday, August 07, 2006
A Big Hello From The Small Glass Planet
This was going to be a big, sweary, ranty blog, railing against a world headed full tilt down the shitter, with no driver and no brakes.
But while ranting's great fun to do, it's REALLY, mind-numbingly tedious to read (I've just read a few, and trust me on this: you guys are so fucking boring)! So let's put Planet Earth safely away in the toybox and start again …
Hi, I'm Dive. I'm a fat, ugly, balding, middle-aged man, so picture me as Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt and we'll get along just fine. I work in Westminster, designing schools, but commute in from the Norfolk Broads, which is insane, but there you go.
My website, smallglassplanet.com, has the builders in at the moment, so I've brought my cup of tea over here, where it's a bit quieter and I don't have to look at bumcracks.
Over the next few posts, I'll be introducing some of the inhabitants of the Small Glass one, and revealing The Truth Behind Everything, some stuff about gravel, The Blind Willies, the game of Scunthorpe, and my epic battle with the Japanese language. Oh, and a knitted monkey will no doubt make an appearance.
In the meantime, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Brouhaha (let's start you off with an easy one).
Today's track to track down: The Hobbit Song by Leonard Nimoy (yes, THAT Leonard Nimoy). Not currently available anywhere, as far as I know, but well worth maiming a friend for. Mad as a chocolate hat. Nimoy, what the fuck were you thinking? This is JUST PLAIN WRONG!
There's a video to go with it, too. I caught it once on late night tv and laughed so hard my dinner came out my nose.
Today's fact: All goldfish are called Bob … Just ask 'em.
But while ranting's great fun to do, it's REALLY, mind-numbingly tedious to read (I've just read a few, and trust me on this: you guys are so fucking boring)! So let's put Planet Earth safely away in the toybox and start again …
Hi, I'm Dive. I'm a fat, ugly, balding, middle-aged man, so picture me as Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt and we'll get along just fine. I work in Westminster, designing schools, but commute in from the Norfolk Broads, which is insane, but there you go.
My website, smallglassplanet.com, has the builders in at the moment, so I've brought my cup of tea over here, where it's a bit quieter and I don't have to look at bumcracks.
Over the next few posts, I'll be introducing some of the inhabitants of the Small Glass one, and revealing The Truth Behind Everything, some stuff about gravel, The Blind Willies, the game of Scunthorpe, and my epic battle with the Japanese language. Oh, and a knitted monkey will no doubt make an appearance.
In the meantime, here's your homework:
Today's word you must use in your next telephone conversation: Brouhaha (let's start you off with an easy one).
Today's track to track down: The Hobbit Song by Leonard Nimoy (yes, THAT Leonard Nimoy). Not currently available anywhere, as far as I know, but well worth maiming a friend for. Mad as a chocolate hat. Nimoy, what the fuck were you thinking? This is JUST PLAIN WRONG!
There's a video to go with it, too. I caught it once on late night tv and laughed so hard my dinner came out my nose.
Today's fact: All goldfish are called Bob … Just ask 'em.
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