Apathy UK

Good Fucking God, I am in a total bastard of a mood. I have no idea where it came from, why it's sitting in my head making me snap at my nearest and dearest, but the fucker is certainly here. I have had a peach of a day, doing my thing, and now pretty soon I am going to make movements toward the kitchen and start boiling up a pot of live, wild mussels from Plymouth. I have two good friends coming round to munch. Willem, the chippy who keeps avoiding getting invited around and Jack, the dentist, who invites himself around. But what is on with this mood? I can tell it is a really good bad mood because I am enjoying it. It is as if one of my personalities has taken control and shut me out and smiles and eggs me onward as the other me makes contorted faces of general and all round disapproval whilst banging fists against bulletproof glass. I have the answer to it, of course. Alcohol. I have lager in front of me, wine in the fridge and more wine for the moules. Instead of being i...

There's not much to be said when someone's sitting on your head. Plenty to be mumbled. As long as I have a face you'll always have somewhere to sit! Read that on a T-shirt in the back of a biker magazine I flipped through when of tender years. My mind boggled and imagination blew cylinders trying to create for me exactly what that might be like. To want to have your face sat upon. That bit I pretty much dealt with by comparing it to my constant craving for sucrose. To have your face sat upon. This bit was more tricky as I really had no idea how it might work. As the years passed, things became clearer until that wonderful day when some athletic young gal leapt, did a back-flip and landed on my face. There was grinding of her crotch on my jack-hammering tongue and lips. I felt like a man, like a badass, hairy, smelly and moist, manly biker chap, man, in that special way that you only can when your face has been used for a saddle. In the morning I wen...

I awoke on Sunday morning a broken man. As I rolled over to grab for the pint glass of water I yelped like a small puppy might, having had its little paw accidentally crushed in a ten-ton industrial vice. My brain rushed to present my mind with some reason for this excruciating pain emanating from the small of my back. It ‘ummed’ for awhile but then had other matters to contend with. My congealed eyes focused on my outstretched right hand and then on the plethora of Kenji written upon it in bright red. I held my hands in front of my disbelieving eyeballs, rotating them to fully appreciate the intricacy of the writing upon them. No, not writing, but scratches. As I fearfully exposed the rest of my body to the light it became apparent that I must have, at some point last night, forced myself on some mountain cat who had returned the favour with the five sharp ends of its arsenal of six. I was at a loss and feared for my sanity. As my mind careened off in dark directions of supposition as...

I suspect it is only a matter of time before the Mosques are put to the sword. Before that the British National Party will come to power, a rise to prominence facilitated by our fear and an increasingly insular perspective towards Arabs and Muslims. We have yet to suffer from a global terrorist attack, at the hands of Al Quaeda or some other battling brigade of believers, but the first one cannot be too far off. We may be bracing ourselves for impact but when it does happen it will change much. Being an island we have always a sense of separation from even our closest neighbours and from that comes a sense of security. When the Docklands in London suffered bomb attacks thanks to the IRA, it did not come as a great surprise nor did it shake the foundations of society as the perpetrators were well known to us. When the London Eye is blown off its spindle and rolls ponderously into the Thames where it falls to one side, crashing into an office building several seconds before two men dress...

Had to go shopping yesterday, So skipping along the road, I watched the cars go past, And then a big red bus passed, And remembering my sweet slumber, I accidentally slipped, Tumbled And fell, Beneath the erasing rubber wheels, Straight to hell.

Two men walking along a beach in long coats and hats. Like that Vettriano painting…… There is not much point in arguing the corner for freedom of choice if you are not going to use it. Well, that’s the whole point isn’t it? As long as I have it I am free to do what I want with it, even if that means not using it at all. That is my choice. Your choice for apathy. Perhaps. You see Desmond, I believe that we do have the ability to change our futures with choices that we make. I believe that we can cause our individual paths through life to alter. Right. For a minute there I thought you were suggesting that any actions that we make are futile maybe because everything is already pre-destined. No, not exactly. I mean, I am lazy by nature but it is more than that. I believe that through free choice we do have the chance to affect our destinies. Then why do you take no action? Because, although our actions affect us, they never affect us in the way we might have inten...

Once again he was made eye-wateringly aware of the dichotomy that exists in the brain of the female. He had gone out on a date on Saturday night. The first proper date in about two years. His was a small town and prearranged times and locations for meeting the possible woman of his dreams were not necessary as you could always ‘run into’ whomever you might like to enjoy. Last Saturday was different though. He had run into this dark-haired, dark skinned beauty one night several weekends ago in the local club, one dark and sweaty night. There had been drunken snogging and dancing and, as per normal, a drunken exchange of numbers. Her number had been stuck into the bottom spring of his anglepoise lamp and he had picked it up and put it back several times throughout the next week, never really with any intention of calling her. The fact he couldn’t remember her name was part of the reason. “Hey, babe..”, or maybe “Alright girl?…” were not great starts to any phone conversation which was al...

How to stop Waxing Lyrical and start Talking Dirty: “Gosh, as I view your perfect form all I can consider is becoming one with you in a perfectly fitting physical union. The light covers you in shadows from whence arise the twin golden globes of your derriere, mounds I am intent on grasping firmly whilst I pleasure you from the aft until you deluge. I mean to run my fingers over your every inch and into every crevice, exploring the wonderland that is your perfect body, mine to behold. My throbbing member is awoken to charge forth within. I am going to plough your furrow with great might indeed. I desire to service your salivating pit of desire with great abandon, causing your breast necks to stand proud, your exclamations become wanton and your cerebellum to reach such mighty heights of excruciating pleasure. Have at you!” So, let us try changing; Perfect Form............................................................Sexy Bitch Becoming one with you..........................

How are you? O, you know, knee deep in something or other. And how is the wife? What wife? I think she’s dead. Glad to hear it. And the kids? Buried. How wonderful. Do come in. I’ll sit down shall I? Actually, no. I’d much prefer it if you didn’t. Right ho - umbrella stand it is then. You’re obesely overweight. You do understand? Of course. My weight is legendary. Stuff of myths. So I hear. You are entirely large. Port? No, I flew in. How about a drink then? Alright. Sherry? Sherry is fine. No. Sherry is my maid. Sherry, the port please. I liked your piece in the Times by the way. Slightly below the belt I’d like to think. I should say. I was pelted with jam when I left the House on Monday. Truly you are a miscreant. An utter bastard but then again…. ….I’m worse. O, entirely. But I never actively attempt to publicise the fact. Of course not. You don’t have to. Yes. You do it very well for me.

He took it for granted That once she was planted Her bush would grow. She wove her hands Across his foreign lands And felt his storm blow. Fnarrrrh. Praise be to the bubbly verbal laxative That I know as champagne And let’s salute the soother of the beast That I watch you dance to So much more together than apart And with them I plan tonight To steal away your heart. (If that’s okay?) Just one more ditty and I shall be away To smoke a cigarette amongst the hay And forgetfully drop the match there And return shortly with far less hair. Met this man in a bar Said he’d arrived from afar And the reason he was blind Was far too much moonshine. He wore a peaked cowboy’s hat And it was on the pooltable that he sat And told the world his name was Jack While his left buttock potted the black. After the second jug of flat beer He sang to all those who could hear Quite truly the saddest ever song Composed about the game of Mahjong. As we all wiped a...

So, minding one's own beeswax, I was affronted in the town by a goat herder from the Eastern steppes of Mongolia. On closer inspection, she was a very attractive goat herder and she was gesturing at some papers she carried in her hand. She smiled. As I waited for the cars to pass between us I supposed she was lost and needed directions on her map. I smiled back and darted across the road. She was mostly wearing red wool. She had a sherper hat pulled down over the top of her noggin with two thick plaits of black hair either side of her dark skinned visage. Gosh, she was awfully yummy and she smiled and I smiled and I already knew she was no lost goat herder but some well intentioned lass who would now attempt to eke out of me my bank details. It was for Greenpeace. Her: Would you like to help to save the planet? Me: Not really. I'm not that concerned for it. I think that Gaia will prevail. Really? Who's Gaia? O, you know, the Earth Spirit as coined by Loveloc...

Listen up you maggot fuckers! I came here to clean house and by motherfucking Jimminy that is what I will do! In case you were wondering, ladies, my accent is from the deep south of Texas. You got that, you ass sniffers, I am a Texan and accordingly, as is my god given fuck you all right, I am a one tough old mean sonuvabitch! Can I get a hell yeah?! Oh, most certainly my dear chap. Hello there and how the devil are you? No, you pig nipple fuck bucket! I said, can I get a Hell Yeah!? Oh, I do apologise most profusely. I think it is you deep and thick southern drawl, which incidentally reminds me of the noise a heifer makes when overly constipated, that threw me rather alarmingly off track. So sorry, old bean. What did you say, you puddle of rat spunk?! Are you making to irritate me some, boy? I would not recommend that as a very motherfucking wise plan of action. You got that! My gosh! Why certainly, my little red-neck periwinkle blossom. I am reading you quite clearly. ...

Simple statements of no more than eight words. Clear concise and elegant descriptions that engage you. Statements that tell you much but don't last... fuck it ...long. Okay then, we shall have to use nine words. Eight just did not give us enough room at.... oh fuck it ...all. So, ten words it is going to have to be. Ten is a nice stable number that accommodates us perfectly.

I have the distinct feeling that things are not as they appear. O rather, that things are not as they appear to us. Things are just things after all, and would exist quite happily whether or not we were there to perceive them. I have never bought into the whole ,"If a tree falls in a forest with noone to hear it, does it make a noise?" speculation. The answer to that is utterly obvious. Of course it makes a noise. Matter has contacted matter at a impetuous rate and the accordant energy that is released is partially dispersed as sound waves. The very fact that some of us ask that question with a straight face and an honestly quizzical furrowing of the brow is clearly an example of how we, us and our perception can often do we, us and ourselves a dis-service. If you ever catch yourself thinking "That cannot happen because it just is not possible" then I suggest you check yourself immediately. Just because it appears impossible to us because our limited knowledge de...

The rain falls onto my head. My hair is all wet. My jacket sticks to my shoulders. My trousers cling to my ankles. My cigarettes are damp and stained. My lighter will not spark. My socks have slipped over my ankles. My shoe has water in it. My keys are lost. My car is stolen and my glasses smashed. My watch has gone. My ring slipped off. My throat is sore. My cough does not help. My wallet is gone. My mobile is flat. My lip is bleeding and I am lost. I ask myself why. I already know. Bloody Women. I am miles from home. What was my home. I cannot go back even if I could get there. The door would not be opened. Nobody knows where I am. Nobody cares where I am. I do not know what to do. I ask myself why I am smiling. I already know. Bloody Women.

He found himself standing there staring out of the wide window onto the panorama which lay across the valley and into woods on the opposite side. The altar obstructed a little of the view but he was taller than most and so he could easily see the damp grass, the wet wood and grey sky. He watched the arrowhead collective of Canadian geese that chose that moment to take off from in front of the woods, from the damp crotch of the valley, off on their lengthy flight to somewhere eminently warmer. “Wise fuckers.” he thought. He could feel the wool of the suit on his wrists. The smart shirt he was wearing was one of his father’s old ones. It was short in the arm, short in the length and strangulating on the neck. In the silence of the room his movement to loosen the constriction around his neck with a hooked finger seemed almost rude. “It would be better and more in keeping with the moment to stand here and suffer,” he thought. It was very tight though. “Fuck it, best to loosen this butt...

I was told this a story once, quite a long time ago, back in the days when blood ran in the rivers and the last that anyone had seen of sense was on the chopping block. Each for their own back then. Survival of the strongest and all that. That sort of existence is hard to imagine now, I know, but it was real. All of us were composed of soft and vulnerable flesh, a shivering shell around what, now we know to be, is all important. Our consciousness. To think we were once confined to slow bipedal ambulation, at risk to shifting ground or tree roots. Now we float. I know you find it hard to believe but it is true. I was there. Anyway, I lose my point in setting the scene. It was one or two centuries after the collapse of civilization as it was then know. Having rebuilt itself after the Third Onslaught, mankind thought that we had learnt our lesson, much as I believe was foolishly thought before. We hadn't. We recovered, regrouped and rearmed for what was to be the final go at it. A...

Also, whilst I remember, here are two links to the only two decent and mildly interesting blogs I have seen. Admittedly, I haven't looked at that many but that is no excuse. Angelica, the Angel of Detox and Mysterious and Informative Lady of London Nights Check 'em. They is worth the minutes.

Wrote a letter today to this chap who makes inks for tattooists in the US. Want to find out about ink that reacts to UV light. Always been something I wanted. Hey August, Hi there. Saw your advert in Feb's Tattoo. I have always wanted to have some UV reactive ink done. Ever since I was 17 (about ten long years ago), when I used to do a little stage dancing in raves in London, about the time when white gloves were necessary adornments, all the better to help spin out the crowd as your hands flashed through the air...sorry, a little flashback there. Anyhoo, I thought why not get UV tats on my hands so doing away with the need for gloves and fulfilling a desire to have some ink whilst avoiding expulsion from the very draconian school I found myself at, at the time. I had the designs all sorted out but then I read some articles about the ink being carcinegenic etc. etc. which put the fear of god into me. Now, I am not sure if those were just the normal type of rumours that cir...

I feel the ponderous weight of my blood as it drags its way around my veins and arteries. Corpuscles made fat and deformed by the prolonged onslaught of strong and mixed spirits, the plasma weak and diluted by lagerish tipples and the oxygen content negligible, the fault of hundreds of rollies and great big spliff doobies. But what a time was had! Was not last night a recapturing of the spirit of a Medieval after-battle victory party? Were not the nights before strewn with a healthy delirium surely reminiscent of a late-night tea party round at Byron's gaff? If they were not then I must have been really wasted, to so confuse the jumbled and inane inner workings of my mind with an obviously pale and shriveled reality. I speak from experience when I tell you that too much alter-reality, be it induced by drugs, alcohol, no sleep, no food, a swift kick to the knackers, will eventually spill over into real-reality. Trust me on this, you big purple anaconda - no, wait, well, you se...