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Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Beneath Contempt

I haven't blogged for a couple of years. Owing to various health problems and distractions on my part. I'm going to start with an unusual request of you dear reader: I find it all highly amusing. Not the jokes, the fact that people are waking up to the fact that the Liberal Elites in this country and indeed, globally are a set of snobbish, condescending arseholes, whose opinion of their audience is lower than anyone could have envisaged.
    I am a Brexiteer. I studded in depth the mechanisms of the three main branches of European government {Council, Committee and Parliament} The court of human rights, the ratio of corporate cronyist lobbyists to officials. The disturbing lack accountability, bloated imperial overreach and bureaucracy which typifies the EU machine. I am a libertarian { Of the Classically Liberal variety, Not an anarchocapitalist or a minarchist} I therefore believe in an efficient, limited government. No extra layers of bureaucracy for me, thank you. My opinion very rarely coincides with that of the late Tony Benn, however, on this issue, as on the issue of the British Monarchy, I am wholly in accord. In 1981 he wrote a paper on how the EU was the greatest threat to our legal sovereignty we'd ever faced. He also had 5 questions he thought you should ask any powerful person: What Power Have You Got? How Did You Come By It? In Whose Interest Do Wield it? To Whom Are You Accountable? How Do We Get Rid Of You?  On both a collective and individual basis, The EU fails this test. Not once have I felt even the slightest pang of voter regret. If I were a US citizen, I'd have voted for Trump. Why? Because under the circumstances I'd sooner have Scrooge McDuck than Cruella Deville. Everyone in the chattering classes loved Julian Assange, until Wikileaks published, Hillary's Emails, The DNC emails and John Podesta's emails. Pizza anyone? How about some al dente pasta with walnut sauce? Where are the jokes? No, the jokes are only forthcoming when they are about the right people and subjects mete for ridicule. Evil, waycist Brexiteers? Fair game. Cultural Marxist academics who've been denied funding to stage the world's first ever Oppression Olympics? That's an outrage! Quick, somebody notify The Guardian. I am a free speech absolutist. I have no desire to silence anybody, though I'm happy to ignore them. The real reason people are walking out of comedy gigs is this: You don't articulate the shadow anymore. You are part of the shadow. The fool has become a cruel archetype who serves a corrupt master. Your jokes fall flat because you aren't joking. You are mocking. Mocking the people you have othered in time honoured Cultural Marxist fashion. And now they know it. So, I hope audiences start to decline. I hope you realise as the late, great Eartha Kitt once said:"When the audience no longer wants you, you're finished." But what would I know? I'm just a cynical old pleb.

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Take The Royal Grilling

On the count of three, to the tune of God Save The Queen 'Who gives a shit?" The whole debacle about Jeremy Corbyn respectfully standing, yet refusing to sing the National Anthem at a service to commemorate the Battle Of Britain, is quite frankly not news. I wish to begin by nailing my colours to the mast. I am a slightly right of centre libertarian who did not vote Labour at the last election. Nor am I a member of any political party/group. I am however, a republican { not a member of Republic, though I subscribe to their newsletter}. I find Monarchism baffling from a logical standpoint. I believe hereditary rulers, in the dim and distant past served an evolutionary purpose which has long since been outgrown. Yes, they were a unifying factor in primitive societies, do they really serve a purpose in this day and age? NO. They are expensive, absurd and do not generate nearly as much income as Monarchists would have you believe. If you care to do any further reading simply follow this link: The most bizarre part of the whole thing is that upon being voted Leader Of The Opposition Corbyn has to become a member of The Privy Council. An archaic, outdated institution whose brief is supposedly to 'advise the Monarch' had he refused this dubious honour, he would've been barred from attending meetings of The Advisory Council On National Security. So you see we don't really live in a democracy, because if you don't believe a hereditary Monarch is the best choice for Head Of State, you're a threat to national security. I for one don't believe Corbyn will ever be Prime Minister. I doubt I would agree with him on the standard colour of shite. The point is this country is riddled with corrupt, ridiculous institutions which ought to be disestablished, The House Of Lords and The Privy Council are but two of them. Of course a want of democracy in terms of which beliefs one is permitted to hold when standing for high office is nothing new, especially if like me, you happen to be a Roman Catholic  {although most Catholic theologians would question my orthodoxy} I identify as such. As Stated in the 1829 Catholic emancipation act, I may not be Monarch, First Lord Of The Treasury/Prime Minister or Lord Lieutenant Of Ireland. Not that I aspire to hold any of the aforementioned offices. The point is 'All Governments Are Organised Hypocrisies.' To misquote Benjamin Disraeli {devoted Monarchist} who once said the same of Conservative governments. I wish to see positive change, I do not think Corbyn wished to disrespect the diverse group of people who fought for our freedom in WWII. I think he was respecting the general public by being honest about what he believes. A recent study by The Whitehouse Consultancy of 225 parliamentary candidates, found that 33.78 were atheist while 42% claimed not to belong to any religious denomination. Yet, most religious skeptics remain closeted, fearful of harming their careers by disclosing their beliefs. I'd sooner know who I was voting for, and while I don't share their opinions, I happen to think honesty is an admirable character trait. So why do we persist with the charade? Answer: Psychological security," I want to live in a cosy little world where The Archers is on the Radio, The Monarch is on the money and we all pretend we believe in God." Many humans have a need for substitute parents who'll think for them and keep them safe. Fathers and Mothers of the Nation, spiritual archetypes whose hagiographies are printed on 20 page, glossy pull-outs, which come free with the Daily Mail. This weird irrational response is not confined to royalty, the same mechanism is obviously in operation in people who worship celebrities. The fact is : You don't know these people, if you are seriously insulted by someone criticising the Royal Family or a celebrity or any other person you do not know: There Is Something Wrong With You! No one likes their core beliefs being challenged, but if you actually think one over-privileged, elderly woman is the spiritual embodiment of the nation you are deluded. The spirit of any nation is the collective consciousness of its citizens. That is why a presidential system is fairer: The people elect them. So choose your pill: The red one with send you back off into your waking coma with the rest of the sheeple, experience the collective outrage when someone in the public eye demonstrates the capacity for free thought. Take the blue one and it'll leave a bitter taste, you'll find the world isn't what you thought it was or what you'd like it to be. Yet, fully aware of the world and all that is the case, therein lies the possibility of making improvements.

Friday, 19 June 2015

A Clockwork Testament

Many appy polly loggies o my brothers. It has been a while since you heard from your humble narrator, Alexander  DeLarge. As it is I've been rather busy, rabbiting away for the government in an advisory role on such diverse subjects as social alienation and ultraviolence amongst the young. Visting skolliwolls and youth clubs, re-engaging with disenfranchised young malchicks and chellovecks. The government seems to be convinced that someone like me is ideally placed to get inside the rassoodocks of these lewdies. Though the old 20-1 is on the rise among devotchkas and ptitsas, it is generally much rarer and not so much of a pain in the gulliver for the authorities.
 "What's it going to be then eh?" was the question I asked the young chelloveck I was govoreeting
with. He was uninteressovated in the hand wringing by the starry old vecks in the government.
He explained to me that it made his mozg bezoomy when a molodoy ptitsa or devotchka didn't respond to him. That when she told him in a high preachy sort of a goloss that she wasn't interested in spatting with him, he wanted to tolchock her and rip of her platties and have her on the floor, real savage like. I explained how I had once thought like that but now kopated that sharps were lewdies too. He remained unconvinced my little brothers. He was firm in his conviction that you could only really trust your droogies. Devotchkas only really wanted to control your jeezny and spend your cutter. Some people, trickcylists and other oomny ones believe that these lewdies are vreded in the soul, probably because their Pee and Em were inadequate. Usually the Em, her sins being less forgiveable than the Pee's. What ever the reason, when these molodoy malchicks grow up to become moodges and pees the creeching and tolchocking continues o my brothers, having as one might say an adverse effect upon their zheenas and cheenas. Not to mention their rebyonoks.
  Now, when I was released from the hospital, after the doctors and nurses mended my poor broken plot, I underwent what is known as 'rehabilitation'. Part of this involved govoreeting with a councillor. What this cheena had to skazat related to the label which had been given to your humble narrator. 'sociopath'. You see I had been told I had a condition whereby I couldn't 'emapthise' with others. And because I was sick, the state thought it only just to try and cure me. The councillor forella told me she thought I was perfectly capable of empathising, and that I chose not to. This is what is called 'evil' in old fashioned parlance. Even so the state was wrong to take away my power to choose between the horrorshow and the plockhoy. For when they did that I ceased to be a fully functioning malchick. Like a tom kot without his yarbles. So you viddy my brothers, whatever happens to a malchick when molodoy does not remove his ability to choose. When you think of sharps as sookas, like they are less than malchicks, it is because it makes it easier for you to treat them like cal. Some lewdies think malchicks and chellovecks are born predisposed to think that way. If I'm honest bratties, we probably are, this mesto being what is and lewdies what they are. It is not that we viddy things this way, but that we make no effort to viddy things other. Empathy, can then be a choice and can increase with years, like wisdom. So I leave you with this, o my brothers, try and relate to devotchkas and ptitsas as lewdies first. Less about the old in-out, that's the klootch.

                                             Alexander DeLarge formerly Staja 84F inmate 655321

Friday, 20 March 2015

Alpha Dog And The Dweebs

I wish to begin by stating a fact: I have appalling social skills. By which I don't mean I'm impolite or inattentive. I mean I don't 'get' people, I am ill at ease making small talk. Granted what passes for cultural currency with me would doubtless be considered illegal tender by most people. I am far more likely to be impressed by someone who relishes the cover artwork on 1970's Sci-Fi novels than someone who loves 50 Shades Of Grey. I am the Benjamin Disraeli of pornography, if I wanted to read decently constructed filth I'd write it. As it is I prefer reading The Psychopathia Sexualis on the toilet { an average case history endures as long as a standard dump}. While it is highly probable I am on the autistic spectrum {though I have never been officially diagnosed} I am more than capable of polished {formal} interaction. What I don't get is the informal stuff. The nuanced interactions between groups of 'friends'.  I'm talking about the way certain people can act like total beta males in a homosocial environment, yet treat women like shit in relationships. The way certain people are afflicted by a fear of loneliness so paralysing they'd sooner endure all manner of horrible treatment by their peer group rather than just fucking them off. Sorry, but I don't get it. If having a social circle is heaven, then I'd sooner rule in my own lonely hell. Yes, you can get pissed off with your own company, but not half as quickly as with a set of dickheads you're supposed to have a 'bond' with. Unsurprisingly, I did not thrive at the school I was sent to and left after the first year. I was homeschooled thereafter. I always got along better with people who were older than me. As I've matured I've found I can get along with people younger than me too. Part I guess, of the pupil/teacher dynamic. I have never got along with my own peer group. Partly because I don't have a peer group. Sure, some people are the same chronological age, but past a certain point what the fuck does that matter? Who decides the age when we should all pair off, get married, go home and pick curtains for a nursery? Another thing which confuses me is hugging. Now, I have no personal objection to being hugged, but when is it appropriate? Some people hug upon meeting you, others may venture a hug when better acquainted with you, say after 4 or 5 pints. Some people find having their personal space invaded upsetting and object to being hugged at all times. What's wrong with shaking hands till we're better acquainted? Robert Anton Wilson stated in Prometheus Rising that humans marked their territory, no longer by pissing to delineate physical boundaries, but by inky excretions on paper. Which is why I'm quite particular about my blog. I don't get many comments of any kind but if I do, I prefer them, whether affirming or critical to be at least germane to the post. What is it with the non-sequitur shit? What indeed. Back to my original theme. The winner/loser psychology is inherent to all human interactions. None of us wants to be on the bottom of the totem pole. We all engage in unconscious dominant/submissive behaviours in social situations. Even if we're only lulling people into a false sense of security, we pretend we want our tummy tickled. Hence the title of the post. Rude Dog is in fact a cruel father, who, when he liberates the Dweebs form the pound, expects them to be thenceforth beholden to him. They are bound in a familial group not unlike Charles Manson's, where they are expected to participate in criminal activity {the autoshop is a front} in return for Rude Dog's protection. The Dweebs are suffering form a type of collective Stockholm Syndrome. That's why I'm with Seymour The Cat, because he had fucking brains.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Pob Spat In My Eye And On My Grave.

In light of the revelations about Jimmy Savile and ensuing investigation: Operation Yewtree, the paranoia about kids tv presenters from the 1970's and 80's has reached fever pitch. Nothing and no one are sacrosanct. My mind is now filled with images of a Rolfaroo hopping from bush to bush with a leering grin on his face. for people over a certain age, it's as if someone came along and kicked in our collective reality tunnel. The comfortable, twee, slightly naff, play corner of our psyche has been shat in by the very people who helped to manufacture the illusion in the first place. They have poisoned the noosphere. Sensitive being that I am, I have become soul-sick. Now, everyone and everything is tainted. Not just the certainly guilty or even the suspected, but the ostensibly innocent also. Watching old clips of kids tv shows one starts looking for sinister subtexts in everything that is said. I cannot watch The Trapdoor without thinking that Berk was being sent out as some kind of procurer for the thing upstairs and poor old Boney hadn't been the same since he was skull-fucked and his brain fell out. {The claymation style on The Trapdoor always reminded me of the denouement of Evil Dead} That the fate of the kids who didn't survive Tregard's dungeon on Knightmare was indeed nasty. That Mike and Angelo was the story of a paedophile alien living in a young boy's wardrobe. Watt on earth was a shapshifting, nonce alien who caused an emotional disturbance in the young boy he abused and coerced into silence. Simon was obviously being groomed by The Witch to be part of her Satanic cult. Ohhh.. the horror... If you go down in the woods today you're sure of a big surprise, if you go down in the woods today you're sure to cover your eyes, 'Cause Mr.Noseybonk, is ramming his conk, up the arse of all of The Moomins.... Chas and Morph are spit roasting their tinfoil girlfriend Folly while Nailbrush the dog licks Morph's arse. Basil Brush, Sooty, Sweep, Gordon The Gopher and Edd The Duck  are all gang banging Sue the panda while Nobby The Sheep off Ghost Train snorts poppers with George off Rainbow. Bungle is obviously a bear and that's the way Geoffrey likes it. Just when I can't take anymore Mr.Claypole strums his lute and shoots ectoplasm into my eyes...and I awake in a cold sweat. You get the point. I suppose it has something to do with my Catholicism, with my pleasure and guilt circuits being so closely intertwined. Whenever the artist Eric Gill is mentioned I am confronted with an intellectual dichotomy: Gifted artist/depraved pervert. Can the art be divorced form the character of the artist? Can it stand alone morally? Cardinal Basil Hume once said that if Gill's Stations Of The Cross could inspire religious devotion in people then they could not be rendered an evil work, though Gill was undoubtedly a warped man. Which begs the question: What is the greatest threat to childhood innocence? Evil people whose crimes, though terrible, are slowly but surely being brought to light. {Which in itself is a sign of progress} Or the collective guilt and paranoia we are all currently feeling? The personal hurt of the minority inevitably ripples out through human society.That said, do we wish to destroy the innocence of all children? By innocence I don't mean ignorance. Instructing them in morality or carefully making them aware of the dangers presented by certain individuals is both necessary and commendable. What I don't want to see is them become cynical. All Adults Are Bastards. Trust no one. There are no innocent, unalloyed pleasures, which will not be tainted by future revealations. I for one, never had any love for Jimmy Savile's work. Though, I did enjoy Rolf's Cartoon Club and Animal Hospital. As an informed adult I have no desire to revisit such programs, but I refuse to make my innocent, child-self feel bad for liking them at the time. We have to be realistic: The world can be a shitty place, but do we want to burden future children with our complexes? The first step to healing is acceptance. We got it wrong about certain people.We based our character judgments on very little information. The availability of  said information was tightly controlled by people who KNEW. Though we will doubtless think the best of certain individuals and be disappointed in the future, does that mean we should stop seeking for and thinking the best of people? The guilt and the shame belong to the guilty, not the innocent.

Sunday, 15 June 2014

Ms. Strangelove: Or The Psychology Of Fancying Ugly Men

It started over a week ago. I have been going through A phase of Stanley Kubrick admiration. Which in and of itself is nothing peculiar. Dr. Strangelove has always been one of my favourite films and A Clockwork Orange has long been considered, along with Witchfinder General and The Wicker Man, a family-friendly drawing-room comedy. At least in my family. Spartacus, Paths Of Glory, Full Metal Jacket, The Shining and 2001: A Space Odyssey are all iconic films which have enduring appeal. The less said about Eyes Wide Shut, the better. It was during my annual viewing of Strangelove I got to thinking how I'd always wanted a T-shirt depicting Major T.J. Kong riding the bomb. I began searching the Internet for a vendor, found one, purchased said t-shirt and am anxiously awaiting its arrival. The image so often referenced, homaged and parodied is an iconic one. A testament to Kubrick's keen, adapted eye from his beginnings as a still photographer. This got me to thinking about the man riding the Bomb. A character actor by the name of Slim Pickens. I knew little about him, other than I enjoyed his performance in Blazing Saddles as Mr. Taggart. When I Googled him, I found the results rather intriguing. Born in California in 1919 Pickens was a 6'3 ex-rodeo clown and bullfighter, who had been drafted in as a last minute replacement for the injured Peter Sellers. The intrigue turned into fascination, which for three bizarre days metamorphosed into a full blown obsession. I was looking for pictures of the young Pickens dressed as a Mexican bullfighter, as a rodeo clown, in early standout performances in obscure, almost forgotten Westerns. Now, I have always fancied Peter Sellers, he was the kind of neurotic I yearned to share a psychiatric ward with. I have always appreciated George C. Scott as an actor and understood how, even with a face once described as being like " A relief  map of Afghanistan" by his then wife Colleen Dewhurst, he had a certain appeal. The tall, blond, athletic figure of Sterling Hayden was always photogenic, even in his later years. But Slim? a small eyed, broken-nosed, weird mouthed, fat man. WTF??? If one would have asked me to put money on my obsessively accruing information on one of the Dr.Strangelove cast I'd have given Tracy Reed better odds than him. But there I was, engaged in some kind compulsive Psychic Onanism as Krafft-Ebing { another sex obsessed Kraut Doktor} would term it, over a compellingly ugly man.Was it the strength of his performance as the brave but ultimately insane Major Kong? Was it the rugged allure of a man who in reality once "broke the left side of his body" ? I have no idea. Interestingly, this is not the first time this has happened. A few years back I developed a similar obsession with American comedian Rich Fulcher, a fat, unusual looking man who looks rather fetching in drag. There is no Freudian explanation for this as my own father is tall, trim, athletic and not weird looking. I can only conclude it must be something Jungian. My usual type as you may have gathered, is rather more metro than the two aforementioned gentlemen. They perhaps represent the archetypal antithesis of my conscious preferences.Which means: Slim Pickens represents my shadow... oh my God I'm going to have some kind of trippy Black Swanesque experience where I'll be naked apart from a Stetson, riding him like the bomb, I dare say reverse cowgirl also. In the morning I will emerge a more fearless and independent woman, eager for a career in either a rodeo or the USAF.  Joking aside I find the psychology of the whole thing totally absorbing. This got me thinking: Do men develop similar fascinations? Are some "Borderline Boilers" as Viz so unflatteringly terms them { your eyes say no, but your nuts say go} actually embodiments of unconscious archetypes? Answers on a postcard or via email... Mmmm I wonder, if Bolton council hasn't secretly been fluoridating the water supply without our knowledge, if these preverted manifestations are not physical evidence of an active Commie plot to pollute all of our precious bodily fluids...! Peace On Earth= Purity Of Essence!
Slim in his younger days with his left arm round Rex Allen

Friday, 2 May 2014

Why I'm Not Difficult To Work With And How The HuffPost Isn't A Democracy.

I'm not a frequent blogger. I tend to find the mindless chatter which abounds on most journals and blogs anathema. It is as if the whole online world is afflicted by a pernicious strain of logorrhea. So it is no surprise to me that I've been rejected TWICE by The Huffington Post. Once, when in my naivete, I applied in the forlorn hope of expanding my readership. Once, when my better known and connected cousin recommended me to them. I furnished them with all the necessary details and waited....for 3 months. They simply ignored me and decided I wasn't important enough to merit an explanation. On either occasion. Now some people might think that this post is a deliberate piece of self-promotion. That I am merely hoping The HuffPost will have a change of heart and decide they'd rather have me inside the tent pissing out, as opposed to outside the tent pissing in. Not So. I now wear my rejection as a badge of distinction, in much the same way Dr.Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson saw the disapproval of the US government. If the Huffington Post reject you, you most probably have the capacity for independent thought. Let me explain, The Huffington Post likes to promote itself as a bastion of liberal free thought. A free and easy place where you can blog at your leisure and express reasonable opinions in a style of your choosing. WRONG! Naughty, keep still while I whack your knuckles with this ruler. To be accepted by the Huffington post you must fit certain criteria: 1. You must be a liberal with slightly left of centre opinions. Not too left-wing, a latter day Diogenes who lives in a wine barrel and idolizes Leon Trotsky is beyond the pale. No, you must write articles about how you're heartbroken about every worthy cause going and how you nearly choked on your latte in Starbucks while reading about them. 2. You must not be too right-wing, the mere willingness to discuss immigration, religious ideology, social engineering or to take in to account somebody's gender or race makes you de facto a fascist. Please do not try to defend yourself or Somebody will end the discussion by comparing you to Hilter. 3. If you are eccentric be the right kind of eccentric e.g write whiny, needy, self-pitying articles about how much anxiety you feel about turning 30 and how you've taken to drinking  liquidized wheatgrass of a morning, in order to prolong your fucking meaningless existence. 4. If you cannot conform to any of the above criteria, BE FAMOUS. If you are as thick as the shit from an elephant's arse and are only able to sign your name with a specially sharpened crayon, The HuffPost with still oblige you, provided you were on X factor once for all of 5 minutes. These are only some of the many reasons most libertarians actually dislike, if not hate The HuffPost. They are also piss takers who are quite happy to dangle the carrot of publicity in front of people, all the while making money off the advertising on their blogs. Fuck Them and their hypocritical agenda. I'd rather be a Val Kilmer than a Miley Cyrus.