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: https://republic.org.uk/what-we-want/royal-finances 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 An archaic, outdated institution whose brief is supposedly to 'advise the Monarch' had he refused this dubious honour, he would've been barred from attending meetings of The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.

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.

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

The Emerald Serpent

The Emerald Serpent is crucified.
The Emerald Serpent cannot reach her tail.
If she could get down, she'd slither around
And spit in the eyes of those who drove in the nails.
Out! Out! get out of my garden!
Flee to the netherworld ye bastards of men!
Ye who gorge on the fruits of the Holy tree, I fed,
I watered with blood, and nourished with skins that I'd shed.
I hereby declare this is no more your playground!
The time of your reckoning is upon you at last.
Your mental remains are the deeds of your past.
Ye didn't stop to count the revels
Ye paraded before my weary eyes,
Proud as a platoon of cavorting devils
Now, I am free you will give me peace.
Arise! Now! Walk away, never cease.
Back to oblivion, in one thing you may trust,
That The Wheel of Fortune will grind you to dust.

Books and Dead Men

My two loves are books and dead men
Especially when they bite.
Incisive, they feed off me
And I them
An orgy of ghosts who visit by night.

Friendly faces long since reduced to dust
live once more in me while I breathe,
A rotten bunch in whom I trust
For none of them give me cause to grieve.

Though energetic exchanges occur just the same
In the nether worlds of my fevered brain
And just for a moment I manage a kiss
With a congenial spectre across the abyss

Rarer still a switch flicks in my head
And my bedroom filled with the long since dead.
When this happens I invite the shade I like best
To be a good incubus and sit on my chest

But displease me and I'm afraid it's goodbye
Before I'm sucked dry, by psychic succubi.
Though summoning the dead is a perilous feat
I prefer it to reading the modern elite.

This is the result of self-reflection
Occurring at once in all directions.
With them looking forward and I looking back
Stabbed through my Omega point
By a spiritual tack,
Remember, remember the wise Rebbe said.
Just not too hard lest you wake the dead!

Cave Paintings

The cave of my heart is cold, hard and black,
The being inside just rattles around.
How vast the cave is essentially unknowable,
Though amplified screams echo around.
 They bounce off the walls of the hollow chamber,
A demented wraith of harrowing sound.

The being inside has no lights but one,
A tiny gold flame dances over her head.
By it she sees nothing but shapes and shadows,
All she hears are fragments of what is said.
From the glimpses she catches she paints the walls,
Of the cave with portraits of the shades of her mind.
She knows only iridescent black granite,
The shades only know though they see-
They are blind.
"How cruel an irony" as Socrates said,
When he smashed through the wall of Plato's cave.

"That those who enjoy the gift of vision are fettered,
while the purblind are free to govern the world".

Funeral For A Facebook, Non Je Ne Regrette Rien!

Just over a month has elapsed since I deleted my Facebook account. I am now ready to talk about it. Please don't be alarmed, I shan't bore you with trivial details about how difficult those pernicious technocrats make it to delete your account. No, this is essentially a positive article about the psychological benefits of no longer giving a shit.

It is now a matter of sovereign indifference what most of my erstwhile FB friends are doing. When I created my account just over 3 years ago, it was a different story. I created my account because I felt isolated, plus, in all good conscience: I'm a nosey bitch. I like accruing information for future reference. I don't lay claim to being a FB Sidney Reilly or anything, I'm just a freelance character assassin, semi-retired of course, I now see how unhealthy it was. Besides, Mark Zuckerberg has far more sensitive information about you and intends to put it to far worse uses, than I.

Which brings me to my main point. I feel so much better now I've disentangled myself  from that rather unpleasant outgrowth of the web. I've never made any secret of the fact I have Bipolar disorder. During my periods of intense depression I found myself drawing endless comparisons with my FB friends. Namely the smarter, fitter, more beautiful, better travelled, generally more popular folk. Honestly, it grated on me. it was the fuel my melancholy needed to sustain its weary existence.
One of the most perplexing things for me was the photos. Not just of special occasions, but those people who posted a drunken, gurning record of every night out they'd ever had since joining FB. As I don't have a form of short-term memory loss, I feel it unnecessary to keep a regular photographic log of every activity I engage in or indeed, post a written missive to my waiting faithful, just in case they miss a nugget of solid gold wisdom or forget my existence for more than 5 seconds.
I think Facebook actually began to suck the joy from my existence. The push to quit came from the fact I was suffering from extreme ennui. The realisation that I had failed to give anything my undivided attention for three years and as a consequence, fully engage with many activities in the real world was because of a certain anxiety attached to Facebook. I must, post this, others must know of this occurrence, then will I know validation, when others approve of me, then will I know my existence is worthwhile.
 Which begs the question why are you blogging about this? Why do you need validation from another source? The truth is we are all social animals and require some form of acknowledgement/validation. This is normal, I appreciate feedback and interaction. My problem is with what Facebook as a format turns people, myself included into: Egomaniacal, deluded narcissists with sociopathic tendencies. Now I'm not saying it happens to everyone, some saintly phlegmatic souls are I dare say, immune. Just most people. I admit I've Googled  FACEBOOK IS SHIT and the like. On one blog a man made a brilliant point regarding sociopathy. He delineated how a lot of Talented Mr.Rippley types, actually create a fabricated persona which is the TOTAL OPPOSITE of their real personality. E.g. they have 800 friends, are always posting status updates which are candid to the point of indecency, constantly posting albums full of pictures of their alcohol soaked nights out. this person, must be an open, confident, popular, social butterfly right? WRONG! What you're actually looking at is a deeply insecure, attention seeking, exhibitionist with a possible embryonic drink problem. Hiding, behind the mask they have so elaborately painted. They have 800 friends 'cause they're an absolute whore who both adds and accepts adds, from the world and his dog. They need mementos of nights out to reassure themselves they A: actually happened and B: They didn't disgrace themselves too badly because they were so intoxicated they cannot recall the details of what happened. This is the case with regard to most social events. Now, I'm no plaster saint. I do drink and have been drunk. I did, on occasion upload the odd snap to Facebook. I just grew up and snapped out of it! Sorry to have to say it but FB is a giant virtual playground. It turns intelligent adults into insecure, competitive, children. You may notice I omitted a word from my former statement: MATURE!
 Mature people are those who posses certain truths and act on them. 1. An experience good or bad is significant because of its significance. 2. Other people knowing of these events doesn't mean they care or are well disposed towards you. They are generally leering pervs or jealous bitches. 3. Making a photographic record of every thing you've ever done, is a symptom of insecurity. You're not taking these photos because you're so happy, immersed in the moment, you're taking them because of what they represent: social currency. See I'm popular, I have a girlfriend, new house/dog/car ect...
 On the plus side, I'm a born empiricist, I had to experience this firsthand. I didn't use Facebook for 3 years because everything about it was terrible. I just outgrew it. I realised that for me the cons outweighed the pros.Virtual social networking was, a novel experiment. Unfortunately I suffered unpleasant side effects. Fortunately, they wore off when I opted out.