That fraught Arab, that atrophied Clerk

FOXOSD

Poking down the chimney goes little Tom. A man of funky, implausible genetics, of touching optimism and of multitudes of spiteful carcinogens. We might ask: Can carcinogens be anything like that? They can for instance be God’s trip wire, sending any blundering walker tumbling down, through many indefinable layers of grey gas and grey cloud into the catchment flask. Into the alembic Tomb World. Is this spite though? No, this what you would call fate. The spiteful particles are those fuzzy HIV pollens which make death from sex.

The Tomb world and cancer are topical right now. Not up here on the roof tops of endless townhouses but down a touch, and a couple of miles away. A giant stream of pink dressed women and pink dressed homosexual men and pink dressed ‘new men’ are walking to find a cure for Cancer. Are they walking to the clinic? Ha Ha, I am being funny.They are making a pinky thread, though the haze. The evening is so beautiful with all that haze. That sort of evening when you are happy to be earning national minimum wage scraping out fucking chimneys in Didsbury.

Pink is the colour, which in my cynical days, seems now to be associated to the death thrashes (and inevitable defecation upon tae the corpse) of Altruism. Human kindness from 2010 onwards will nearly always be uniformed. Sometimes though, it might be out of uniform and in a crazy chicken suit in the train station. Pink is also the colour of tits.

So.. in the meantime, Toms got his Hookstick down that flue and fished out a dead Fox!

“DAS STINKT!” Says German Petey, from behind his boiler suit sleeve. Oh! But this is too much fun for the little maligner to resist.

“Can I have a fucking Gin and Tonic?” Asks the now re-animated sweaty corpse, with sausage fingers prying open and shut those ceased up rotted jaws. The fox is talking in squeaky Cockney and is now approaching Petey, who (wisely) shoots off down the scaffold tower to smoke. Now, the fox Bipeds its way to the roof edge to see if it can’t get any action with any late starters to the walk.

“hey you two”

“Hey YOU TWO”

“HEY CANCER LADIES”. Ah, a response now. 

“Want to come up and get some action (pausing here) With A FOX!?”

What is this? All these girls can see is a little piece of something flapping around,  annihilated in the brightness of the background. They are generic nice girls who are bright but not intelligent, educated and naturally intimidated by any shouting, but know that this mustn’t be made obvious. Anyway, what can you or anyone do when a silhouette flaps around a rooftop and asks you for it? Well, the bolder one, the freckled one, she declines with amazing manners.

“That’s just fine, ‘cause you don’t have a pair of tits between you!”

The freckled one, the bolder one breaks into a run up the street. Petey shoves the fox back down the flue and packs it down like, maybe his ancestor did with a cannon ball once.

Richard Dawkins has replaced the brass statue of Fred Dibnah in Bolton town centre as my Nemesis.

Dibnah is made from Brass and lives in the town center of a place called Bull Town. He was responsible for my mental breakdown of ‘09. His paraphilla are numerous and fraught. A nice young man destroyed his glasses, bashed them in with something metric (I hope).

(Interesting side note, here is a ‘Jihadi’ style anonymous message from a Dibnahist http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IySrVzfwhzo Be sure to read the comments)

Richard Dawkins is my new nemesis. He is some sort of academic in London, has books out and is on the telly. He is operating the strings behind ALL OF MY ANTAGONISTS. His paraphilla are oblique and often ursine. Also he is a smug and righteous bastard, with what his no Gods and all his books out about no Gods.

I think he is going to destroy me.

OH ITS JIM S AGAIN

The journey is frequently made by a train. It’s a ride of of Silver Birch, fly tipping, Millstone, high visibility, old and rusting plant, new plant, plants and a whole load ‘o’ standard British Rail L-section. There are pieces of graffiti saying things like “Leo is 100% fit”, “Wu Tang Clan” and “Stalin”. Chemical analysis will reveal that Stalin died previous to the discovery of compounds that make up the paint but the Wu Tang Clan autograph is conceiveable. You travel all this way to a lump of towns and villages and here is where it all ends until Yorkshire. 

This is where I am, in a pub called the OAK. I am there to work the sound for some bluegrass music event in aid of tiny children in undemocratic nations, who in inconceiveable tragedy are addicted to things such as Methodrone. Burma, Korea (guess which one), Iran, China and somewhat harshly, Thailand. In these places, new and oblique Alkaloids are to put to use to solidify the minds of tomorrows scholars and mechanics. At least I am told this. 

Bopeo is the promoter and he is trying to haggle my rate down. Bopeo is always nervous and likes Dub Reggae very much. He is also a fatso and has spectacles. “How do you like 30?” He asks.

“I like 30, but I prefer 50 more.” Is this really haggling?

“Can you accept any less?”

“50 is cheap considering what equipment I bring.”

“I know.”

Two irreconcilable truths are mashing themselves up in his fat head but I win. I go to the bar and get told I can have free drinks. Praise Stalin. 

I drink for a while and start the work. The Bluegrass musicians come on and do all that music. Then later, An old man comes over to talk to me. This is bad because I can’t imagine that there is anything he might say that wouldn’t be tedious or hassle. He speaks down my ear in damp and sad words “don’t you know that arrogance is only the clangs we make as we fall down the lift shaft?”

“what’s at the bottom of the shaft?” I asked.

“A filthy fucking sump of oily water and twisted steel”

“what’s at the top?”

“My brother and he is looking down and he is telling me what I just told you”.

I knew that it’s bad to tease such an old man. I knew that mostly because he started talking a load of shit after that. He really went for it. “If you turned James Stuart Inside out and if you turned out his brother from “It’s a Wonderfull Life” and turned inside out all that altruism … turned inside out George Bailey rescuing his brother, even if it lost him his hearing in an ear it might be like this. It might like one brother seeing another’s tract, bobbling around in filthy water, from six stories up.”

Well I scorned him too. I lost my job there. 50 was too much, especially when a music recording student will have the job for 00.

ARP

• YEAH AND I WAS ON THE SECRET MILLIONAIRE AND I WENT TO THIS IMPOVERISHED TOWN AND WHAT I DID WAS GO AND VISIT THIS COMMUNITY CENTER THAT WAS FALLING DOWN AND THE FUCKING WALL PAPER WAS HORRIBLE AND I LOOKED ROUND TO SEE WHAT OR WHO MIGHT NEED MY MONEY.
• BUT THEN I REALISED THAT I ALL THE PEOPLE AT THE CENTER WERE A BUNCH OF PRICKS SO WHAT I DID WAS TO GIVE MONEY TO HITMEN TO KILL ABOUT SIX OR SEVEN PEOPLE WHO I HATED MOST THERE.
• IT WAS A REALLY EMOTIONAL TIME AT THE END WHERE WE ALL SAT IN A ROOM AND THEY KNEW SOMETHING WAS UP AND THE CAMERAS CAME IN AND THEY MUST HAVE BEEN WANDERING WHAT WAS HAPPENING AND I GOT UP AND SAID:
• THIS IS THE SECRET MILLIONAIRE PROGRAM AND IM REALLY RICH. I AM GOING TO GIVE £100,000 POUNDS BUT WHAT IM GOING TO DO IS GIVE IT ALL TO THE FIRST PERSON WHO KILLS YOU LOT BECAUSE I THINK YOU ARE A BUNCH OF TWATS.
• SO THEN I LEFT AND GOT IN MY ASTON MARTIN AND THESE ORGANISED CRIME PEOPLE TURNED UP AND SHOT THEM ALL. THAT WILL TEACH THEM TO NOT LET ME USE THE DISABLED AUDIO VISUAL ROOM.

(picture coming shortly)

OOH! ISN’T LIFE CYCLICAL?

I was very drunk. I had stayed in the spare bed above the pub. There was some sort of turtle swimming towards me against the tank wall. Scraping feet, a banging shell and all night long regard by those turtle eyes. I got really fucking drunk because of my medicine. I was throwing up steaming beer.

Next afternoon, I walked through Cheapside, a poor place in a poor town and bought a pie from a shop. Halfway through, I wiped my lip and it was covered in blood. The torn pie tray had cut it. My pie was covered in blood and I had been scoffing it. Once again, out came that steaming beer, now with gristle and pastry, out and into the bin in Cheapside.

Lots of elderly Bolton peasants were looking at me. Their eyes were not like the turtle’s but drab and like milky paint. They had a high tripe content. “You’re eyes are like a turtle’s looking mindlessly out from its tank!” I said inaccurately. Nobody understood. I didn’t win anything and more people were looking now. 12 hours of varied regard and one net gain for global fucking irresolve.