A Monograph: The Strength And Character Of Bodily Functions As Indicators Of General Well Being.

The above title refers to a recently acquired antique medical document by a nineteenth century physician called Dr. Clovis Stanton-Marwood.  He was a pioneer in the field of holistic medicine, advocating stool analysis as a method of assessing the overall health of an organism. This particular publication dates from 1880, while I do not intend to publish the whole thing verbatim I have decided to print the first chapter for the education and amusement of the reader:

 Chapter 1: The Composition Of Excrement
" A sound stool is the outcome of  an agreeable diet. Light, nourishing and well balanced. Too many times have I seen patients writhing in agony, sore afflicted with excessive bowel gas, owing to the costive effects of rich, stodgy foods. Suet pudding is the enemy of a healthy bowel! One patient in particular, a wealthy industrialist from the north, called Mr.H- consumed such an excess of bowel clogging foods, he required surgical intervention.  Mr.H- aged 54, plump leonine countenance, Sanguine-Choleric temperament. Height: 5 feet 7 inches, Weight: 16 stones. Apart from carrying excess weight the patient enjoyed better health than one with such a dysfunctional bowel could reasonably expect.

  He came to visit me at my rooms in Harley Street complaining of a terrible "gripping" sensation, as if  "a red-hot hand had caught hold of my innards and twisted them about". He was taken ill at his club and had to be brought in as an emergency. After conducting a very brief, preliminary assessment of his general condition, I asked him a series of questions about his diet. Beginning with what he had consumed at his club that day. There followed a litany of sins against the bowel. Scrambled eggs topped with cheese, followed by a steak and kidney pudding and quantity of fried potatoes. He concluded his ghastly repast with jam roly-poly and custard. When I asked him how many fresh vegetables he consumed in a week, he told me never, insisting that he was loath to "feast upon the devil's t----s".  As I was about to admonish Mr.H- for despising the humility and medicinal efficacy of plants, he brought forth a great roar and fell to the ground. He was in the grip of a full paroxysm of the bowel. Time, was now of the essence. I called for assistance from his friends who had brought him in. They burst through the door of my consulting rooms and took hold of him, all the while he struggled, as we lifted him onto the bed in my adjoining surgery. Mr.H- screamed as he was straightened out and had to be secured, to the bed on all fours, by wrist and ankle straps. I then cut off his breeches with a pair of scissors. He begged for chloroform, but I refused, assuring him that the inherent risks did not justify its employment. Besides which, I was experienced in these matters and the situation would very quickly be resolved. This inspired confidence in the patient and he relaxed sufficiently for me to examine the area. There was no need to utilise a speculum as the matter had already begun to present itself. A hard impacted mass of faecal matter known medically as a 'spigot'.The etymology of the word is rather interesting, it derives from the Latin Spica meaning ear of grain. Its spiral shape comes from faeces having to slowly tunnel through a tight intestine creating a 'corkscrew' effect. Also from the magma spigot of a volcano, as extraction often precipitates the expulsion of a stream of burning, liquid excrement. There are two types. Firstly the simple or 'crowning' variety where the end protrudes from the anus. The second complex or 'occult' variety is situated further up the large intestine and is far more difficult to treat. fortunately, this was a typical presentation of the former occurrence. There was only one course of action; to perform an extraction. One of the more alarming consequences of a crowning spigot is the immense build up of gas pushing it forward. In order to alleviate the pressure and lubricate the surrounding tissues, I was first going to drill into the spigot, by means of a narrow brace and bit and through said hole introduce Castor oil via a syringe. This on occasion, coupled with anal massage can be enough to free the blockage, however, this was one of the most extreme instances I have ever treated in my 35 years of practice. I knew it required more a more radical solution. I prepared myself for surgery, washing my hands in a solution of carbolic acid and donning my protective goggles. The goggles are an essential when performing this type of operation, I know of a terribly sad incident involving a talented young surgeon, whose career was ended when he was blinded by a high velocity spigot. I made but one concession to my patient, I gave him an inhaler, a modified version of Clover's invention, which allowed him to inhale nitrous oxide throughout. Many physicians favour a combination of compounds such as nitrous oxide, sulphuric ether and chloroform. I however, harbour grave doubts as to the safety of chloroform and so prefer a combination ether and nitrous oxide during minor operations. My methods have not met with universal approval in the medical community, some still question the orthodoxy of my approach. My adoption of stool analysis, coupled with my preference for nitrous oxide has lead to me being referred to colloquially as: "Dr. S---s and giggles". As he began to inhale the gas, the patient relaxed, and chuckled pleasantly to himself. I first drilled the spigot, the deepest, most tightly impacted I have ever encountered. I calculated from the residue on the brace and bit it must be at least 5inches deep. Then inserted my longest needle through the hole I had just made and injected a syringe full of Castor oil through the opening, directly into the bowel. This proved unsuccessful. Not even the most rigorous massage, or the now rapid contractions of the rectum, {precipitated by the patient's now almost convulsive laughter} were enough to dislodge the spigot. I then had recourse to a device of my own invention. The laqueoscope, patent pending. From the Latin laquem meaning 'trap'. it consisted of a narrow steel tube divided in to two segments. Inside the uppermost chamber were two hooked prongs. both made of strong metal wire, though covered with rubber to protect the delicate tissues of the bowel. One must first insert the tube through the hole in the spigot, then twist the uppermost chamber in a clockwise direction away from the bottom one which releases the hooks. These should then grip into the mass. In the base of the bottom chamber one will find a small protruding button. Pressing this inward releases the telescopic handle which extends the exposed gripping area from 6 to 18 inches, thus affording the physician a better purchase. I inserted the device, before extending both the hooks and handle. Once in position, I began to gingerly pull the spigot towards me. It refused to budge, even a fraction of inch and so I was forced to exert greater pressure. Once it had proved itself resistant to all the force I could personally muster, I was forced to call Mr.H-'s friends back in. As in the children's fable, The Enormous Turnip, as I held onto the instrument, so they held onto me. At the count of three we all heaved in unison and flew backwards as the spigot came free. When we three healthy specimens of manhood had gathered ourselves from the floor we turned our attention to the patient. Mr.H- let out a scream through the incessant laughter when the spigot was released. This was followed by the usual stream of acrid diarrhoea. While the spigot was safely impaled on the laqueoscope the liquid ordure had squirted out and befouled a picture of Sir Joseph Lister on my far wall. Upon examination his bowel proved sound, no lasting damage had been sustained. When questioned further regarding his dietary habits it transpired that the spigot crisis was precipitated by his actions of the previous day, specifically his gluttonous consumption of an entire jar of his wife's plum conserve. The liberating effects of fruit combined with the already brewing crisis in his bowel caused the situation to come to a head. The plum conserve was the cause of the gas and diarrhoea, hence the magma flow following the extraction of the spigot. Mr.H- was extremely fortunate to be brought to such an experienced physician. I have known of many instances in which such a crisis has proved fatal. To conclude: Dietary imbalances are frequently the cause of acute dysfunction of the bowel. Such dysfunction may  be avoided by careful, infrequent consumption of such foods as are considered costive. A plant based diet is therefore to be recommended, however, excessive consumption of fruit is to be avoided as this may cause the opposite problem {too fast a digestive transit}. Although I am unaware of anyone perishing from such excesses. I will delineate further on what I consider to be the ideal diet in Chapter 2: The Perils Of Fruit: loose stools in infants, the elderly and invalids. After adopting my dietary principles, Mr.H- now enjoys excellent bowel health, having lost 3 stones and has experienced no recurrence of any of his previous symptoms.

Hot Lazarus

I am affronted. Seldom do such archaic, righteous-sounding words pass my plump, over-active lips. I am more than affronted. I am incandescent. My dead facebook profile has been digitally raped. Not only has what remains of my cyber corpse been dug up, dark arts have been employed in an attempt to resurrect it. That evil trader in virtual body parts Mark Zuckerberg has furnished a ghastly set of people based in New Zealand or thereabouts with the key to my sarcophagus. A league of wicked sorcerers called The Profile Engine. How you might well ask, did I happen upon this horrifying discovery? Being of a paranoid disposition I do at intervals Google myself {about once a week}. Ever since I deleted my facebook account on August 25 2011 I have been secretly anticipating this day. One of the reasons I left was because of a deep rooted mistrust of Zuckerberg and his ilk. Confronted with my half recovered profile I felt simultaneously violated and vindicated. I was as thorough as I could be {spent about 4hrs deleting photos and data} yet they still managed to find 26 of my erstwhile Facebook friends along with numerous links and likes. They ask you to sign in and claim the profile in order to delete it. I will not. I know better. What they have now is a carcass, sure there may be DNA but there is no life about it. What they have is my past life. To initiate further contact or furnish them with any more information would be to give them a window on my present. Which I certainly have no desire to do. What am I worried about then? That those ghoulish Frankenstein motherfuckers are going to run enough volts through my digital doppelganger to give it life. Independent life. That the angry revenant will wander abroad in search of the creator who abandoned it, seeking to destroy my future. That my profile will become sentient a la Daniel Feeld's preserved head {brilliantly characterised by Albert Finney} in Dennis Potter's Cold Lazarus. One imagines a dystopian future when the Internet will be peopled by the shades of our aborted brainchildren. Mark Zuckerberg allows people to digitally fist-fuck your dead eidolon. To ram their clawed {from excessive typing, gaming and wanking} hands straight up your arse, through your liquefying guts, into your mute, dead mouth and engage in a macabre puppet show. So I've fallen prey to the Facebook body snatchers. Read my epitaph: Fuck You!

The Emperor's New Comedy

Last night I exposed myself to an obnoxious poison. While that, for one such as I is not unusual per se, it was the origin of this particular toxin which caused me so much distress. When seeking a distraction from the ennui of existence, I tend opt for strange substances, rare herbs and exotic potions, redolent of moral decay. As I was stone cold sober, due to a dearth of the aforementioned life enhancers and consequently, bored, I decided to watch Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy on E4. As someone who appreciated The Mighty Boosh, I was hoping for some surrealist humour in a similar vein. What I was exposed to was a pretentious, self-indulgent, vanity project by someone of dubious talent and intellectual capabilities. Mr. Fielding is obviously artistic, though no Caravaggio. In some measure amusing, though no Peter Cook. Why the fuck does some jumped up Primary school art teacher who just happens to possess the courage of his mediocrity, become the object of such approbation, in some cases adoration? One suspects that if he had a face less appealing to 15yr old girls and metrosexual, bi-curious amateur photographers who call themselves Tarquin Sequin {Thomas Smith to their estranged family}, he mightn't be so popular.   What really annoys me is his "I could shit in a newspaper and you'd still eat it up" attitude. During the "Jelly Fox" animation segment there was so much puerile, mindless repetition, I may as well have been watching a fucked up episode of Puddle Lane from 1987. He imagines that by name checking and pastiching established artists such as William Blake, Rene Magritte, Freida Kahlo et al, he can confer genius upon himself. He is sadly deluded, like the owner of a grimoire, imagining that access to a body of esoteric information will automatically transform them into a sorcerer. The Ghost Of A Flea sketch was for me the least stinky pile of shit, although that's probably because as a student of Blake's mythology I could appreciate the allusions. That said, it was pathetically childish and not a redeeming feature, rather a moment of light relief during a mostly unpleasant experience. Comparable to the man torturing you farting, while he bends over to increase the traction on the rack. Rich Fulcher was the Blake proxy William Jessop,
though the best thing he ever did was the short-lived BBC3 offering Snuff Box with
Matt Berry, he seems to degrade himself in this sort of drivel on a regular basis.
 All I can think is the money must be good. Not just for Noel and Rich or the rest of the cast, but for
E4 too. So good, in fact they have commissioned a second series. probably on the back of ratings. It terrifies me to think how many soggy-knickered school girls, gay design students and pseudo-intellectual amateur film makers there are in the world. What will they do to me if they ever catch me walking down the street? Most probably kidnap me and make a short film of me being drowned in vat of glittery fanny-batter. I digress.
  The reason I'm so pissed off is I enjoyed the Boosh. I feel like I've been conned into admiring the naked Emperor's multi-coloured, glittery jumpsuit.

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.

A Curious Shade Of Indigo

A shaman is a magician

Who is also a musician

And sometimes a physician.

This one wore a ceremonial robe,

a curious shade of indigo.

"Hear me, children!

How many of you

are alive?" Cried the shaman

A few world weary souls nodded their ascent.

"Doubt, ye not

The wisdom of butterflies,

I have heard them speak."

"Sometimes they scream, especially the Red Admirals."

The shaman began to sing,

as he did so three pretty, plain, white butterflies

alighted on his head.

"Paint our wings and we will accompany you"

So he did.

They added beauty to his words.

Accentuating, adorning his sacred song.

It didn't last long.

For the shaman died.

And the butterflies, in their grief

wrote panegyrics in pollen.

Which were not to be sneezed at, unless of course you have hay fever!

The Spectre Of Addiction

All of us are haunted. Our minds are purgatorial realms populated by disorientated, distressed, often unwelcome 'souls'. These wraiths, who wander seemingly aimlessly through our psyches begging for attention or deliverance, are mostly harmless. Easily banished by positivity and mindfulness. Others, such as the degraded being of which I am about to speak are sinister. Not the customary plaintive moans for attention or mere chain rattling. Oh no, these entities are far more powerful, they are vicious elementals, capable of manipulating the behaviour of the host. The revenant which cannibalizes my tender mind-flesh, answers to the name: Addictus Compulsus. Addictus Compulsus. I daren't say it aloud a third time as I fear the consequences. This entity visits me chiefly when I'm online. He speaks to me of other worlds populated by like-minded individuals. People who will 'follow' me. People who will recognize me as the the long awaited voice crying in the wilderness. People who will heed to my words and act upon them, hailing me as the bard of the alienated intelligentsia. Thus will the world know my 'friends'. They will support me, acknowledging the artistic superiority of the outsider over the colourless homogeny that is modern entertainment. "You are a prophet, through you will come 'The Great Awakening' people will be enlightened and vomit the lukewarm, mediocre bilge water from their newly discerning mouths".

That I know this being for a liar doesn't always stop me from heeding his words. "Go online, go online and receive the plaudits you crave, the acknowledgement you have sought all your life. This time it will be different. Today represents the turning point you've been working towards. If you miss this you'll be disappointed. You'll be out of the loop. Your life will have less meaning as a consequence because, as we both know someone liking or re-tweeting one of your comments is the zenith of your existence, and someone disliking or disagreeing with something you post, the herald of your destruction". And so it begins, the cycle. Post, wait for reaction. Positive=good. Negative= must respond immediately, must not be thought of as: Foolish/intimidated/unkind. "You must watch", he charges me, "with the concentration of a cat watching a mouse hole. Turn your back for just a moment and his little grey nose will be poking out, mocking you". So I hold my vigil. Hours tick by, my eyes hurt and I'm bored, yet I must not leave my post, with being prepared to stay at my post.

I'm thinking of creating a video installation called 'Digital Consumption' it involves someone staying awake for 24hrs, for the duration of which they may consume nothing but Red Bull. They must sit at a desk, on a commode chair, into which they may discharge their bodily functions. Three computer screens would display respectively, their e-mail inbox, Facebook and Twitter profiles. A jar of pickled gherkins to their left, a jar of Flumps to their right. Every time an e-mail or message bearing good news from a friend appears they may eat a Flump. Any time anything negative appears e.g. spam, unwanted advert, negative feedback ect... a gherkin. The purpose of this experiment? I aim to see how long it takes for them to vomit. How long before they're literally sick of the vicissitudes of the Internet and they spew forth the demon, exorcising it once and for all. Please don't misunderstand ME. I don't mean I'll never go online again, no, that would be silly. I just intend to take control. ME! I could stream live footage of MY experiment to thousands of people in the same predicament. Just think, thousands of other souls glued to their screens in the hope of exorcising their demons. So gripped they don't want to miss a second....! STOP! STOP IT NOW ADDICTUS! I've got to log off. Alright check Facebook, Twitter and my e-mails, then log off.

Medieval Relish

This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.