Apathy UK

As I meandered home through the grave yard, struggling to undo the knot I had left myself on my hockey shorts, so that I might express my fluid bloatedness, I stepped on a snail. Not full on although it was a crushing that would leave a survivor without his (actually I cannot be sure if it was of the male or female persuasion) home and probably doomed to be some keen bird’s early morning breakfast. As I urinated on a tree it occurred to me that the truly ‘undertrodden’ are not the plebiscites who can barely afford a can of Tennents Super Strength Lager because they are socially abused by the high and mighty, but the snails. I step on at least one a day. It is not really my/our fault as the little slimy bastards get everywhere. Just to round it up, as I put myself away and moved toward the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, I stepped on another. If it turns out that Buddhism is the one true and only valid belief system then I am in the shit. I will most likely come back as a snail onl...

There is a time and a place for doing a back flip whilst holding a pint of cider. Yesterday, at about four in the afternoon, outside the Dog and Vomit on Mutley Plain was perhaps as good a time as any. I mean, perhaps it should be asked whether or not there is a good time or place to do such a manoeuvre, ever or anywhere, but quite possibly, outside the pub, basking in the sunshine, surrounded by a baying crowd of inebriated Sunday revellers and being watched by the city-wide CCTV system is as good as it gets. Patrick certainly thought it was. Patrick had been telling Joanne, Meg, Tilly and myself about how, in his younger days, he used to be a gymnast. I do not have a picture of Patrick to illustrate exactly how hard to believe this statement was. All I can say is that Patrick looks to have the sort of body that had started larger than most and then actively decided to take the title of being the most squat and large and barrel-like ever. I can reveal, although I probably shouldn’t, b...

Bruce, that’s me, otherwise known as the Professor of Lurve, formerly known as the Doctor of Lurve but that was before my PhD paper titled ‘Aspects of Lurve – a Luving Look at Languid Lurve Licks’ was so well received by the GMCL, the General Medical Council of Lurve, and I took a seat at their behest at St. Cupid’s, has a small problem. There’s this chick, right, and she is very, very, very lovely indeed. When I saw her face for the first time I almost dropped the condoms and when she turned and my eyes fell to her succulently pert backside I fumbled the lubricant. I picked it up and handed it to the bloke behind the till and he asked if I had a Boots loyalty card and I replied,” No, I’m afraid I don’t.” You see, she is an incredibly well dressed and kempt petite, dark haired, dark skinned sex bomb of a dispensing pharmacist behind the counter at my local Boots. She is frequently in my thoughts and we have spoken on two separate occasions. Unfortunately, these were both in Boots when ...

So, goddamn it, I have had to move out of the beachside residence. Summer is coming which means the Emmetts are coming down to Kernow to populate our beaches and foul our waters with their putrid urban body-slime. They bring their swollen red bellies and obscure Northern accents and a dress sense that makes even me vomit and let’s face it, I don’t have a dress sense at all, and they rent our old bungalow for exorbitant sums and enjoy that loveliest of locations whilst the sun is beaming and the house is warm and not frigidly cold and I’ve moved into a flat in Plymouth which is alright and it’s free but I’m going to miss evening games of golf at Ivyleaf when the sun is drooping behind the Atlantic and we drink beer and smoke spliff and smack fuck out of our golf balls and enjoy the time. Goddamn it. I sneer in the general direction of all this that displeases me so this thundery afternoon. Look at me sneer. Is that not a sneer to be proud of? Eh?

Sneeration 

Driving at speed with the desire to get home to the beachside bungalow at 10 pm with ice on the roads and two bald front tires left indentations on the steering wheel from my clenched fists. Life and limb are risked as a result of the apathy that flows throughout the system that governs certain aspects of decision making. Do I take two hours tomorrow to secure the safety of my vehicle or do I take the two pills tonight, that some kind soul left on the top of the TV after the last party, and sleep all day tomorrow? Well, let me see about that. Let's weigh the options, balance the benefits, adjust the scales slightly, realise there is only one sensible course of action and then ignore it blatantly and leave for the pub safe in the knowledge that when I stumble home hours from now I shall neck the two brown tablets without further thought. Which I did and now here I am. Sat on the sofa with Jack in front of the TV. Jack had a few beers at the pub too and now we are drinking a...

I have a few proper nouns to list. Firstly try these on for size: Elvis, Jim, Jimmy. Now try these: Mick, George, Lou. Everyone is expendable. Everyone knows the first three but struggle for the latter trio. Why? Well, because whilst the expendability is never in doubt, the lasting impression is. I have nothing more to say on the subject, it is obvious and I have better things to do. So, the Hunter is finally dead. His terrible and awful presence upon this sorry globe has come to an end at last, preceded by the curt cock of hammer and oily squeeze of trigger. I bet he used his magnum .44, with the extended barrel and optional optical sights. He probably would have taken the sights off as even an old and decrepit, foul-minded, drug-using spent invalid would have trouble missing a big ol' bald dome such as his from arm's length. He is gone now, spirit fled from Woody Creek, Colorado, away from his preening peacocks and bike and car and arsenal and information centre. Thank god he...

Adios Stockton, you Brilliant Nutbag. 

So, yes, been fucking ages since the last proper expurgitation (word? It is now!) of verbiage. Reasons being that my lifestyle has changed from North to South. What I mean is that polarity has become an issue - I have points of reference now. What was: Life of ease with a smidgen of well organised labour has, somehow, become an existence of labour with only a smidgen of life. But as Old Dear Ma has always said, it's quality not quantity. The sort of quality I need now resembles diamond. As in the carboniferous life I used to have has been squeezed to such an extent that I can chisel what I have left away and propose marriage with no fear over the expense of a very large and arm bending ring. Am I blessed or am I just beginning to sell out towards the almighty money exchange? I haven't lost any hair in the last two months of hard work. I am still grey free. I am fatter as I cannot make hockey practice (read as: two hours of flagellation) and I find the need to drink when I retur...

Will and Chris posing as PVC clad muppets 

Will catching a cold one 

Orange Sunday closeup 

Fucking Fuck-Fuck. This fucking beautiful picture refuses to stand upright! It keeps fucking lying down and refusing to get the fuck up-up. Fuck it!

Orange Sunday Sunset, Widemouth Bay 

So, yeah, Bruce has bought a camera and cannot help himself. Cris the tatooist had his 30th on Saturday. Not exactly banging, more bass-slapping. You know, all down and funky, godforsakenly effective cocktails, the ones that taste of kiddies' fruit juice but impact like demented alcoholic three-headed hounds of hell upon your levels of inebriation, some exotic greenery and excellent company. Nice.

Bruce a little pissed, pre-party style 

Jase, looking overcome with hilarity 

Trish and Clair looking lubberly 

Birthday Boy Cris, looking like a happy muppeteer! 

Bruce, generally out of fucus