He's waiting for the cider

Hello. After just over twenty years of smoking cigarettes I have given up; about three weeks now. I was having panic attacks with the attendant shortness of breath symptoms and when you recover you really feel disinclined to physically fuck with your breathing. There's nothing like mortal fear to bring some perspective I tells ya. I am however of an afternoon still chonking on that stuff that's really relaxing and good to chonk on. Yes. All very interesting I'm sure.

On to more pressing matters: Reading Kazuo Ishiguro's novel 'The Unconsoled' is like having a spiky acid trip. I do not recommend it.

Furthermore, flying in the face of Establishment astrophysics I must adhere to those proponents of the Electric Universe. When I hear the horses' hooves and see the burning torches I will say my prayers.

I started working for money at eleven years of age. On market stalls, farms and gardens. As a teenager, if at all possible when one is left alone in the field or garden, one gets down and has a wank. Not once was I discovered by bored wife or brazen hussy, not once. Ah well now, noone can say I didn't try.

A relief is it not to ingest and accept the fact that this post is bereft of point, of posit? Donkeys are fucking great. Give an apple to a donkey and you feel like celebrating. If I get settled somewhere I'm going to take care of a donkey and I'll get him roaring drunk on cider and we'll run mad round the field in the moonlight, me yelping like the savage that I am and the donkey snorting and shaking his head in delight, neither of us at that moment beasts of burden. The donkey will be called Raoul, and each of us, as well as everybody we know, will live long and fruitful lives.


The Florida State Department of Employment was a pleasant place. It wasn't as crowded as the Los Angeles office which was always full. It was my turn for a little good luck, not much, but a little. It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6.30am, by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

Charles Bukowski 'Factotum'.


Sometimes I like to read 'Fern Hill' by Dylan Thomas. Linger over each line and you'll be having it large. Laters.

Every day takes finding out how to live again

Hello. I tell you what, I've watched a fuckload of movies recently. I'm kind of holed up in my tiny flat like a shivering young pullet sensing a fox for the first time. Anyway I recommend 'Wassup Rockers' by Larry Clark, an Argentinian documentary 'The Dignity of the Nobodies', and 'The Darjeeling Limited'. All very worthy of fucking merit.


Wanky word of the moment is 'vicissitude'. Noone ever says it, it is snaky and a waste of time.


Here's another thing I'll tell you what about; the movies and their misrepresentations. Maybe just the physical as a starter. The real sound of a fist smashing into a face perhaps - a muted smack with a tint of crack and a light treble of squelch. Our modern culture has evolved a theatre that is more lewd and slap-happy than any Elizabethan bawdy house ever was.
It is fucking fun to see a representation of the physical in the movies that you yourself have experienced. Getting knocked the fuck out would be one in my case. Apparently if you're in a movie you get a good smack to the noggin and you are fucking down pal. Instant oblivion whether it be a pistol-whip or a good old headlong run into a massive piece of timber. My first time was the latter. The second was the same but into a wall. The third was skating alone, misjudged my weight on the board and catapulted backward with the back of my head leading the way.
On all three occasions there's been several moments (or eternities if you're in it) where I've been 'aware' before blackout. The first time (I was running full fucking pelt) I fell to the ground and got up, said "Jesus Christ help me", and then fell. The second I was in and out talking gibberish the whole time. The third was scary. Winter on my own in a deserted car park. As soon as my head hit that concrete I knew. Keeping the head still my body squirmed and scratched a bit before I passed out. Fuck knows how long I was out. The reason why people find 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' disturbing is it's realism.
Anyway my point is this, as anyone has taken a knock will tell you - it's the ringing sound in your head, all those brain cells dying. It's fucking awful. I have to turn down the volume for a large part of the beginning of 'Children of Men' because it replicates the sound in the antagonists' ears after a bomb blast. A character in it talks about it. They did the same thing in another movie I watched yesterday and it fucking freaked me out. My remote's fucked so I had to leap at the TV to turn it down. No mean feat when moments before I was recumbent with half-smoked spliff and regarding with wonderment the immense and inhospitable distance between my location on the couch and the on-the-horizon dining table, upon which a bottle of red stood waiting for me to attack. How the fuck was I going to get this gargantuan body of mine over there to imbibe of it's ruby-warm splendidness?


Don't fear dear reader; massive with wisdom and supine as I was, I eventually made it, and taught that bottle a lesson. 'Taught' doesn't look right. Is that shit even a word?


Tie down the chickens you motherfuckers; the Japanese are building a computer with all sorts of petraflops and teraflops and shit. A quadrillion calculations per second. When I start to think about that stuff I wish I was a nobleman condemned to death in the Revolution. On the day of my execution the guillotine is fucked so the axeman with his bad tendon in the shoulder has to get it done. He raises the huge axe to have it fall weakly on my neck. Two, three times. I am eventually finished off by a strong member of the baying crowd and the executioner is subsequently stoned to death for his gross incompetence.


I may have over-stated things there but it's Springtime and noone gives a fuck! How's the sap rising you bunch of little bitches? Laters.

Now Blogger saves your drafts automatically!

Hello. The concentration of wealth that has accelerated ten-fold in the last years discombobulates me. It is like the Ancien Regime, Louis XVI and that slag Antoinette, risen from the ashes in it's new corporate finery. The Oscars struck me as this grotesque spectacle where obscenely over-paid fuckwits preen and fatuously pose for the epilitic fit-instigating legions of cameramen, whose job it is to relay their images and quotes to the enthralled masses. Look how they live! How beautiful they are! Who's at the door? The repo man? Fuck!

I tell you want though, what really brings it home is fucking Sarkozy. The little bug-headed peacock strutting around pissing on any sense of grace that was left in his schizophrenic country. What a fucking tool. The epitome, the klaxon, of elitism at the expense of the 'ordinary' man or woman. See him at a country fair insulting a farmer who refused his handshake. The President of France telling a farmer to piss off. Let them eat cake in-fucking-deed.

Yeah so anyway I lied to you. I believe in my first post I listed shit I might look at. Well fuck that. I need to stay away from that stuff for awhile. The last six or seven years all I've done is my own private investigation into the world, and it's fucking done my head in. Friends became fearful, when I did make it out, that I would have a few and start railing against the world, which was often the case. There's times in a motherfucker's life when a motherfucker needs to come back to a motherfucker. Cocksucker?

One time back in the day in Holland I got fucking lamped by a huge bouncer outside a club. I'm only 5'8", and this cunt was all of 6'3" at least. It was like he was bowling in a game of cricket, a real over-arm haymaker, with his hard fist cracking into my upper lip with enthusiastic enthusiasm. I woke up in the morning in my bed at home in a village fifteen miles away. (The club was in Haarlem). To this day I have no recollection of how the fuck I got there. Anyway, there's nothing like waking up fucking fully clothed, absolutely drenched in blood. What really adds a delight though is moving one's mouth, to yawn perhaps. You ever tried screaming without opening your gob too much? It's a throat thing, and you sound like a mule who is suffering very, very much. It was the dried blood and scab tissue that had formed overnight in the deep little cleft of blunt-forced lip. It really hurt. And it didn't scar either thank fuck. I've got enough of those cunts.

Since I've become quite reclusive and I'm not in a sexual relationship, I've been wondering if while masturbating, giving it the quick five-knuckle shuffle, having a Sherman, talking to the hand, polishing the rod, spanking the monkey (ooh you cheeky monkey you), playing pocket pool, choking the chicken (If you are of the female persuasion then of course buffing the muffin while polishing the peanut should suffice), maybe I should stick something up my arse. I've known men who like their women to digitize that so-personal tightness. I don't think I'm one of them to be honest. I was horny in bed the other night and I was just getting into it and I thought, what if? My hand moved from my mammoth pole to my upper thigh, and suddenly I froze. After a minute or so I turned to face the wall and gently fell asleep. I tell you what life is a mad laugh.

I bet in the olden days the word 'turnpike' was derogatory.

Laters.

Oh Dear

Hello, it's me again. I've got two spiders living in my bathroom, Len and Barry. They're those sort of house spiders with a tiny body relative to their spindly legs. They never seem to eat anything the weirdos, they just hang around in various corners. Every morning I say, "Mornin' lads". One time Barry lunged at my hand as I was trying to shoo him away from the sink, the cheeky fucker. Len is a bit more timid.

I swear the above is all true. Fucking edge of the seat stuff or what!

Alright you bastards let's 'av at it. My life changed forever in 2000. Before they stole the election, the neo-cons in US political circles were known as 'the Crazies'. The Project for a New American Century blah dee blah. (I can't provide links by the way because I tend to start talking backwards, frothing at the mouth, and brandishing crucifixes if I have to do anything other than type on a computer. Wanker. I like these parantheses. Gives me a chance to swear like a motherfucking cocksucker). Anyway, when I look back now for me that year was like waking up into a nightmare. I had always had a very broad understanding of the world's machinations but never, to my chagrin, really intellectually engaged myself with the meat of things.

I think in the run-up to that election I was so naive that I thought that Gore would surely win. Who in the name of Christ could not discern the patently obvious consequences of letting those psychotic cunts get their oar in? Even I was aware back then that the modern neo-con vision was birthed in the Reagan years, and I just vaguely assumed that their detractors would have their shit sorted with some backbone. When the Big Theft occured I was shocked and saddened. And then the towers imploded. And building seven. I had been distracted in the period before then by travelling to an exotic land to live for awhile. So I watched that horror live in a bar in the tropics. I think it was after about ten hours before the MSM was fingering Osama/Hussein. Anyone with any perception knew what was going to transpire, though not in detail. My last lights of hope dimmed with the 'flip-flopping' and swift-boating and outright theft of the next election.

I was still in the tropics when that farce went down. I can only describe it now as stepping into the abyss. I'm sure most of us felt it. I couldn't have described it to you at the time, but I knew this was something that would explicitly inform my life's path. I became a hermit and when I wasn't teaching I was reading. Sand-blasting away half a lifetime of omissions, misdirections and fucking pure lies. I'm properly pissed off about it by the way.


I'm cognizant of the fact that this is as shallow as the half inch of water in the dog bowl that unfortunate drunk Russian men sometimes fall into and drown, but it does my head in. I know asking for pertinent comments would be like praying every night for everybody to just sit down together and get right mashed - can you imagine Rice, Olmert, Karzai, whatever murderous tribal leader has the favour of all sorts of cunts in Iraq, Sarkozy, Brown - fuck it - let's get the Bilderburgers and the Trilateral Commission and the World Bank and the IMF - all together. They're in a huge plush room with a free bar. They've been chonking on a really nice Kush for an hour or two. The massive sound-system pumps out 'Are You Feeling Irie' by Steel Pulse. That's the answer right there my friend.


Reading back there a few lines, something which I generally try to avoid doing, I notice I may have given issue to an entirely new verb; 'to chonk' - to engage lustily in the hallowed tradition of getting right mashed with huge lungfuls of ganja, and then with lidded-eyes to bear witness on the wonder of the world. I tell you what, I really like Buzz Aldrin. I wish that cunt was my Dad.

I just checked around and to celebrate I'm going to chonk a nice big joint - we've got a new verb here people, stay frosty.

"Do not be a tourist in your own life, your own body, your own landscape, your own world. Remember, this is where you live. This is your life. Live it wisely. Live it in service to those you love, not in service to the machine. Let glittering trinkets go........can't remember the rest. You're guaranteed it was very wise though. I tell you what, I'm mashed.

Laters.

Breaking the Fucking Ice

Hello, I am Gaius. I am a foul-mouthed fucknut with a love for all animals and a couple of humans. Half the time, hang on - most of the time - I post here I will be fucking trashed on red wine and spliffs. I'm just making things clear, you understand. I've a great interest in international politics, history and current affairs (like the current cabals of cunts that run the UK's and USA's corporate robber baron fuckwit 'governments'). I am a borderline wackjob as a result of the foreign policy of the West since 2000, stimulated by that slimy little spiteful simian gwb getting 'elected'. Can't bring myself to capitalize his name anymore.
Anyway you cocksuckers you've probably gathered that they'll be a certain amount of bile here, but also I hope a few chuckles. For me, I mean. It's a great crack to get up in the morning, forget what you wrote on your blog because you were arseholed, then refresh the memory by reading whatever inane shite I managed to squintily type. Is 'squintily' even a word? It is now you cunts!
(I pause here because I am fucking sober, which as we all know is a total waste of time. Hang on a sec while I pour myself a glass of the creature) ..............Ah fuck! the sweetspot! There's a southeastern Australian company called Hardy's that knock out a lovely Shiraz by the way. I'm sure they'll appreciate a namecheck in this odious, amoral and obscene creation. I was going to add 'Not' at the end there but I hate cunts who do that. I'm quite capable of spotting irony without some fucktard shouting 'NOT!' in my face. Christ.
Just as a heads-up, here's what I'll be contemplating:

Both of my thumbs. Oh yes. Both of them.
The money trail and 9/11.
Prescott Bush (gwb's grandfather) and the Bush's funding and business dealings with the Nazi regime.
The massive fiction that is 'The War on Terror'. You fucking what?
The illegal Federal Reserve. The Bank of England.
The wholesale ownership by the CIA of the MSM in America.
The false flag operations of the UK/USA goverments, Operation Northwoods, Gulf of Tonkin, Pearl Harbour, 9/11.
My long, clean cock.
Our dehumanised and atomized lives in modern globalised times. Fucking shithouse, what?

Bear in mind that the above solemnities will be more often than not interspersed with completely random posts about life in general. I had a blog a long time ago and people seemed to find it funny. I just put that qualification in there to assure you that if you don't find this amusing than you are obviously some sort of humourless dullard who possesses a modicum of intellectual decorum. And therefore is in entirely the wrong place. Hey, Humourless. You can take that decorum and stick it up your arse, and you can fuck off while you're about it.
God, it's happening again. It's OK. You'll get used to it.

So scientists recently told us there's a vacuum 250,000 light years across in a part of the universe. 250,000 light years? Try and get your fucking head round that pal. Christ I need a spliff.

Laters.