Spazzing Doom Biscuits!

It's a hard life.

It's been a while since I've entered the blogosphere so here I am, back with gay abandon as I search for something to tell you all, something boggling and bending and furiously funicular. (Of course I know what that means you silly billy, but imagine if it actually pertained to fun, wouldn't that be great!)


The other day I saw a naked woman wearing a horse's head and almost fell asleep. That was pretty much the highlight too, which is to say that it didn't get much better, but it would have if I had fallen asleep and dreamt of something better.

So, a woman with a horse's head caused narcolepsy in me, due to her unfathomable dullness. I'm not normally one to watch naked ladies, so that was a bit of a culture shock for me, being all proper and dignified and used to clothed women and that, so I closed my eyes and turned her into a radio program. Which made it worse. A lot worse, which didn't help my impending boredom catastrophe.

Naturally, this isn't a real catastrophe, in that I work in a boring job and sometimes get bored, but I've over-played and over-stated it for dramatic effect, which is also enhanced by italics.

The impending boredom catastrophe may be averted by some of the things I'm trying to take on, some of which are called hobbies and being more active, others of which aren't, but I'm too bored to tell you about all of them, so you'll get the edited highlights.

I'm writing a novel.

I've started a new blog about running and exercising.

There you go, that was pretty quick, wasn't it?

A novel! Yes. What's it about? Not telling. Will it be good? Hope so. Oh.

Running and exercising, do you do them? Yes, a bit. Why? I like it, and I found a movement which causes a massive double chin, so that has to go. Also, I read a book (yay for you, thanks) which was good and inspiring and stuff.

Ah well, I'm off for a poo.

Sometimes, in the morning...

Sometimes, in the morning, when the sun is just creeping up and beginning to spill it's light all over the land...
Sometimes, when you people are going to bed and old people are getting up from theirs, again...
Sometimes.

Sometimes, at elevenses, when the tea wasn't made right by your co-worker's less than dainty hands...
Sometimes, at elevenses, as the farmer is ploughing his furrows fondly, straight as a broadbean...
Sometimes.

Sometimes at lunch time, when the TV's on standby, the bacon's on the bap and the tray upon the lap...
Sometimes at lunch time, when the car is sat in nuetral and your brain no more engaged...
Sometimes.


But sometimes I get distracted.

A kick and a splutter and a rattle and a cough

This is poem:

A kick and a splutter and a rattle and a cough,
I fell down the stairs and landed on a toff,
His wig was all bent and broken in the middle,
He and I couldn't help but have a giggle.

So we went to the shop with the fake hair on top,
To try and mend his barnet with a fosbury flop,
Tilting to the left with the squint of a loner,
He looked in the mirror and left to get a doner.

Tripping on the pavement led to claims against the council,
Presented with a plaque which was held by Nigel Mansell,
He got tuberculosis so ran away to another hospital,
Leaving all the nurses to reveal that they were SAUSAGE DOGS!


Today I have been mostly bored, so I have done this to relieve my boredom. Soon I will not be able to post during the daytime, which may or may not have an affect on my bloggery.

I shall leave you with this deeply philosophical thought from Herbert:

'Fish know only that the water is good - so they continue.'


Yes.

Long ago, in times past...

Long ago, in times past, a man with silly hair and soulfoul eyebrows stared into a Charlie Chaplin mirror and reflected.
The yawns that came next weren't silent movie star induced, they were simply a symptom of boredom.

'Boredom is as boredom does' is the mantra of my cat, but then, he licks his own testicles, so is not to be trusted. Anyway, anyone taking advice on boredom from something with a tail needs checking, I mean really checking. In fact, most times that humans have taken advice from tailed species has resulted in carnage.
Let us take, for example, the fictional example soon to arrive i.e. the one that my sleep deprived brain has yet to come up with. You know, that time when the Japanese were conviced to bomb Pearl Harbour on the say so of an erudite gibbon.
Well why else would they have done it?

Anyway, to topic!

Herbert and I recently went on a small journey to one of the most troubled areas of liverpool - an ill persons bathroom - but it is not this picture I wish to grace you with, it is that of me rescuing Herbert from certain doom.
DOOM, I tell you.

With the return of the wee highlands lass there was an attempt on Herbert's very existence! I couldn't believe that someone who saves lives for a living could think of sacrificing someone so wooden, so giraffey and so inanimate.
Hastily, but not without skill, I removed our poor unfortunate from the front room where he had for so long held counsel, and unleashed upon my room.

'Bit gloomy in here, isn't it?' It seemed he was doing his best 'Compo From Last of The Summer Wine' impression.
'Shut up, it's my room - it's nice.'
'I can already tell that the blanket which doubles for a curtain never gets moved and the only 'nice' bit of the room is where I can make out carpet, or is that dead animal fur?'
'Oi! It's carpet, thats premium beige that is.'
'Otherwise known as 'covers up poo and sick brown.' Frankly, I'd had enough.
'Look Herb, it's in here or it's down and deadly with the crazy kilt! What's it going to be?' I should have known immediately that it wasn't going to go well for me, threatening him.
'What's it going to be? Who are you? John blumming Rambo? Do me a favour!' At this point he adopted a silly cockney accent and unleashed the full heck of his ninja fury.
You'd all forgotten that he was a ninja, hadn't you? I had.
I sprung for my rubber dart guns - all 3 or them, knowing that one would be spare and that only 3 rubber dart guns could save me from a maniacal ninja girraffe. [Maniacal, really? That seems a bit harsh. - Herbert]
I unleashed the full fury of my attack, firing both my double-barreled surnames at him, closely followed by my pump action cliche launcher.
'Harris-Smith and Pembroke-Wallasby, you fiend! You're not the man I married.' Ka-chunk, I pumped that action! 'You're under my roof, you'll live by my rules!' Ka-chunk, more action pumpery. 'Never in month of blue moons!' I was getting flustered and then, BAM, my pump action cliche launcher jammed! 'Now look here...'

Defenceless I threw myself onto the floor to surrender. Luckily the pile of clothes that I had strategically (shush you lot) placed there cushioned my fall enough so that I was completely pain free.
Until Herbert stabbed me in the face with his euphemism.


Thankfully we've made up now.

There is, as there always has been, more than one way to flog an insolent subordinate. Overarm, underarm, right or left handed, the possibilities are just beginning.

Now then, take a good look at the word possibilities, that has an awful lot of "I"s in it. I'll tell you what else has a lot of those in; a crowd.

Crowds are a baffling entity, an organism made entirely of unique parts which comes together in such a homologous way. Baffled face. Why should a lot of things that are different come together and form something that agrees, that follows the median? Why do we expect that? Personally I blame the cornetto ice cream.

Why, well I'll chuffing tell you why!

The cornetto is a brilliant snack, make no mistake, but it is - in and of itself - unfulfilling and you couldn't, you really couldn't, live of them.

[As a non fascinating side not the internet has no record of the word unfulfilling, how dissaspointing is that? Very that's how.]

In my search to find out what happened to the word unfulfilling on the internet I completely lost my bus of thought. No matter. I shall now have a go at the internet.

There, that's better. Maybe next time I'll type out my rants and we can all have a good read, eh?

Mazeltov!

Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind

This is entitled 'Staring into the gateway of your mind - from behind'.

On your shoulders rests your neck, on that your head. Your head, its said, contains the mind - wherein we find, a thought that bustles, blinking madly.
Or such is as it seems from here.
What we'll find, as mind joins spine, or even brain as doctors say, is the medulla oblongata. If you can't see it; look harder.
To wit, time does not permit this twit, to journey farther and muchly further with ascending climactic fervour... into your mind.
From behind it seems that the range from dreams to blinking, plinking, bonking, dunking - swimming nit-wits or their biscuits, drunkening and farcical wordifying must pass, at least but not last, through this pass(ageway).

Still with me?

Good.

Climbing, dancing, romancing, prancing, philanthropisting, misting over, all must travel, at some level from the A to the B via our 'watch and see' oblongaty.

If I left me to my devices, some would say its not the nicest, holding back the primal vices from the final prices, desperate to score - what's more the store is almost closed, and I've not finished my list - I'd be a timeshared terror-less tenor. More of a lazy baritone, but don't bring your hazy parrot over here and stick your mazy carrot-chomping-verbiage-spitting-stomp-watching-neck supported passive-action supports-my-faction NONSENSE over here.

Thanks.

And he just looked at me and said:

'So thats a no to giving £2 a week to cure unhappiness in Sardinia?

What a wally, eh?

Or would you rather be a pig?

As if this guy wasn't nutty enough, he now expected me to psychically pull his name from the ether. I was running out of all sorts of things, but mostly names to call this guy in my head. This went beyond 'needs a good slapping' right into 'needs a good strong jacket and a padded room'.

'Come on, you're a smart guy Jacob, I would have thought you'd have it figured out by now.'

Nobody's called me Jacob since I was 5 years old and a while back I legally changed my name. He'd just gone from 'nutty' to dangerous.

'If Sandringham sent you to kill me then you can get it over with. Here is as good a place as any.' If that was true I wouldn't get the choice anyway.

'Do I look like a killer?' He carried on, already knowing the answer. 'I don't, because I'm not. I'm an old friend, a very old friend that you've forgotten about. I've been forgotten for a long time, haven't I Jacob?'

I searched back through my early memories, trying to find where this guy fit into being raised by just my mum and then in foster homes. I couldn't find any glimmer of recognition, it just wasn't a face I knew.

'I don't know you. Not unless you've pulled some kind of 'Doctor Who' malarkey and changed your face.'

'Be careful Jacob, you only get three chances.'

'What?' He was back to being his old confusing self and it just wasn't fair. 'Look, if you've got all the answers why don't you just share some with me? For God's sake, I'm not freaking superman, or the memory man, I'm just a man, like you.'

There was a collision of expressions on his face and he shook his head. 'Please don't blaspheme, its really not worth it.'

'Worth what?'

'Your soul.'

I sighed and made a series of exasperated sounds, then had an idea.

'You're not my mum's priest, are you?'

'No, but you might say I was a friend of his and your mother.'

'I don't know you.' I was adamant this time and he looked crestfallen.

'Please, thats twice now, be careful.' I was tempted to shout it again at him a million times, just to rile him, to make him tell me, to make it stop. I screamed it in my head and let it echo around. I waited impatiently for him to advance us again.

'Do you remember the song that your mother was always singing? You'd both sing it, together. You used to sing it... to me.' He'd gotten quiet at the end and I wasn't sure I'd even heard him right.

It took me only a moment to remember the song that had stayed with me throughout my entire life, one of the few true memories of my mother I'd ever had. A song she would sing on and on, over and over. It wasn't really a song, it was some kind of composition, she had loved that refrain. It had been written by some guy called Gavin Briars and haunted me my entire life.

All of a sudden I knew, I realised who he was. I swore out loud and he looked up.

'Hello Jacob.' I couldn't look at him, couldn't stand it. I tried to start a sentence a few times then gave up. Finally I managed to croak something out.

'Don't look at me.'

'I missed you Jacob.'

'No.'

I heard one guy say that the world will end by toppling on its axis, by spinning right around. That was how I felt now, my natural centre tumbled and I clung to the ground for support - somehow I'd arrived at my knees. 'Please let this be a dream.'

'You know it isn't.'

I cried then. A single tear fell from my eye straight to the earth and he moved towards me. I scrambled back. 'Don't touch me! Don't touch me. Don't... You're dead, you can't touch me.'

He held out his hands and looked like a thousand posters, a million drawings, but I couldn't take the hug. I wasn't good enough. I turned, I needed to escape.

'Would you stay, we've a lot to talk about.'

'No, I can't stay with you, here. I have to go, I have to.' One step became two and he called after me. I slowed but didn't turn or stop.

'Do you remember what your mother used to say to you every morning when you woke?' I stumbled to a halt and it came flooding back. I roared in pain and took off down the hill, unprepared for the memories this 'get away from it all' trip had wrought from me. In the background his voice carried effortlessly with what she'd said every morning I'd seen her.

'God's swiftest blessings to you, dear heart.'

I chased myself away, finally reaching the sanctuary of my car and wept like a small child. It could have been 3 minutes or 53, I didn't count. I was sure I would never see him again and a small part of me was weeping for that.

As I collected myself, I wiped my face and set about the car, getting ready to leave. Then the thought hit me; I still had my last chance.

I turned off the ignition and got out of the car, I could just see the tree from here, but I couldn't quite make him out. I drew a deep breath and set off up the hill.

It was a favourite hill, a favourite hill with a favourite tree and I still had my last chance.