Thursday May 16th 2019, a lovely day. The sun was shining, we were under a mini-heatwave, which at this time of the year meant the temperature was a pleasant 72°F. The weather was of minor concern to Jason, who had just woken to the sound of his alarm clock. Unemployed for nearly nine months, he still got up with his alarm at 7am, as he didn't fancy slipping into the morass of ennui that some of his mates wallowed in. Steve was actually proud of the fact that he never arose from his pit before noon, the lazy bugger.
Jason awoke with a rare smile on his careworn face, for he was looking forward to the weekend, as a £300 scratchcard win a couple of days ago has given him the wherewithal to take his wife out for a meal for...well, he couldn't remember exactly when it last happened, must've been over a year ago. Linda and Jase both liked a curry, and luckily Linda lived in one of the
few conurbations where a few curry houses still existed, as the coalition
crackdown on migrant workers had led to thousands of restaurant staff
leaving the country, some willingly, some not so, rather than put up with constant suspicion and
finger pointing, not to mention the steady withdrawal of benefit
entitlement.
Since they lost the flat, Jason didn't get to see Linda much now, as he couldn't afford the exorbitant return train fare charged by the new rail franchise to her parent's place 70 miles away. There's half the win gone already...still let's not worry about that, for after he had given his mum a rare £50 there will still just about be enough left over for the meal, that's the main thing. Food prices had shot up since we left the EU two years ago, and he had wanted to give his mum all the money, as things were not exactly flush for his parents either, since their teachers' pensions had been reduced by 25% as part of a "rationalisation" in the last coalition Budget. "No, you take Linda out, it will do you both the power of good" she had said, bless her.
After that initial and uncommon burst of waking optimism, he got out of bed and promptly nearly fell over, the pain in his ankle reminding him that he couldn't put off going to A&E any longer. He had vainly tried getting a doctor's appointment, armed for disappointment as it was well known that unofficially you only got a appointment now if you were usefully employed and at death's door, or could afford to make a hefty donation to to the "Surgery Roof Restoration Fund" as it was euphemistically known. Jason's anticipated kickback came with knobs on as he thought he heard the disinterested receptionist at the other end of the phone suppress a cynical snort as he described his condition. "Try A&E" she had said and brusquely hung up. That prospect filled Jason with dread, as he resigned himself to losing a day and most of a night by spending the now average 18 hours in the desperately overcrowded and frankly dangerously grubby A&E waiting area. The long waiting time and dilapidated state of his local NHS hospital (at least he had one) being the result of the coalition's cutbacks, privatisation, and draconian immigration restrictions leading to
hospitals up and down the land being unable get the staff to do the
menial jobs, jobs that only the most desperate of the indigenous population
would apply for.
Jason hobbled to the bathroom, only to find it already occupied by his Dad. "Fuck" thought our Jase, as Dad never spent less than half an hour in there of a morning. "It's either cross my legs or go piss in the kitchen sink". Oh the joys of living with your parents, something over half of Jason's 30-something generation were now doing out of economic necessity because housing, both owned and rented was way out of reach for the ever-increasing millions in Jason's jobless position what with the huge reductions in Housing Benefit, as well as being an increasingly unrealistic aspiration for those on the average working wage, which was shrinking every month, that and the burgeoning unemployment rates again thanks to the UK leaving the EU.
Jason was ever grateful to his parents for putting up with him and keeping him housed, fed and clothed after his meagre unemployment benefit stopped three months into his current workless state and he lost the marital flat, Linda's low wage not being anywhere near enough to support them both. Jason was thankful they didn't have kids to worry about on top of all that.
Jason's last job was at the local car plant until it announced that owing to the UK's imminent leaving of the EU it was relocating to Lille in France three months prior to our upping anchor and sailing off into the open arms of the Third World. They did offer Jase a position over there, but he just couldn't see himself putting up with all those Frenchies, a decision he soon came to regret, as France would no longer let him in as a now non-EU citizen. Desperation was taking hold for our hero, and it looked like he now had no choice but to apply for one of the hundreds of very low paid hospital cleaner jobs, assuming he's not forced into one on Workfare. Even if he could get paid a wage for it, the minimum wage had been frozen since the election, and let's face it, it was nowhere near what you could independently live on anyway, especially as the powers that be had recently withdrawn the right to tax credit to people living with their parents.
As Jason limped downstairs towards the kitchen, his bladder by now tripping the light fantastic and praying his Mum wasn't in there, Jason fretted over the circumstances that have led to this coming day out at the hospital. If only the bloody council would fill in those potholes instead of wasting their money on that immigration processing facility, then I wouldn't have tripped while crossing the road last week, he pondered. He could forget suing as that was now a legislative minefield that only the wealthy could afford to negotiate. Still, it could be worse, his mate Dave had been in prison for nearly four months now on suspicion of an unspecified terrorism-related offence, simply because some lackey frightened for their job at PC World found some writings on Arab sponsored militant Islamic groups on his computer when he took it there for some routine maintenance. The fact that Dave was doing a thesis on Middle Eastern politics didn't seem to have any effect on his case, and now we were no longer part of the EU Human Rights Act, the State could do whatever it liked if the "T" word was bandied about enough. They wouldn't even allow visitors, the bastards.
Thankful to arrive at the kitchen to find it empty, Jason stood on the footstool and blissfully relieved himself into the kitchen sink, as he ruminated some more on his unfortunately brainy mate. Dave had always been a leftie, and was forever banging on about justice and equality and other subjects Jason couldn't give a toss about, let alone grasp, but Dave always made him laugh and always got his round in, that was what really mattered after all, eh? Smiling at the memory, Jason recalled that Dave once tried to physically stop him from voting "Out" in the EU referendum by unsuccessfully attempting to lock him in his flat on that fateful Thursday. Fuck, that really tested the friendship that did! For all that, it was slowly dawning on Jason like a sunrise through the thick sulphurous fog of his prejudice-clouded brain that he along with many thousands of other dimwits voting for UKIP in droves back in 2015, thereby giving Farage's poisonous little cabal a big say in the current Tory/UKIP coalition, and then voting "Out" in the EU Referendum were possibly the two biggest mistakes he had ever made in a voting booth...apart from that time he voted after an afternoon session at the pub and threw up all over the ballot box, but that's another story.
2 Apr 2015
20 Feb 2015
Duh-duh duh duh-duh-duh...
Unnecessarily long and convoluted plotlines leading to a ludicrous denouement, with a completely unconnected massive shark jump thrown in for good measure. Nope, I'm not talking about Dr Who for once, but EastbloodyEnders (SPOILER ALERT). Overseas readers - there be a touch of the old cockernee vernacular in here too, me old shiners.
I don't normally watch EastbloodyEnders, but I have this week as it included the conclusion to the long (too bloody long) running "who killed Lucy" plotline, not that I cared particularly, but hey, it might be vaguely entertaining.
For those who don't know, or give a monkey's, Lucy Beale was an amoral, needy, self-centred, grasping little trollop with a massive sense of entitlement and a completely basis-free superiority complex, for whom death could only be a vast improvement. Come to think of it, that would apply to most of the cast, male and female. But come on...her weedy 10-year old and previously (as far as I know) totally silent little bruvver was 'im wot dun it? Really? It remains to be seen 'ow ee dun it, but my guess is he sucked her soul out through her eyes by dint of a hitherto unsuspected demonic power, causing the poor wretch to scream hideously as her life force evaporated into the ether...or summat.
And that wasn't the massive shark jump I referred to earlier, oh no. That was the return of the previously brown bread Kathy Beale, Lucy's gran, apropos of absolutely nothing at all. OK, her son was getting married for the 28th time, which is a decent reason for mum to visit from the hereafter I suppose, but up to the point Kathy stepped out of the black cab, not a dicky bird had been heard of her since she died, unsurprisingly. EastbloodyEnders Zombie Apocalypse!! Bring it on! What upped the weird city factor was that the actress who plays her now looks about 5 years younger than her "son".
Keeping track of the 703 plotlines all concluding at once last night was actually quite fun. These included the discovery of the demise of comedy bungling cockernee tea leaf and all-round bad egg "Nasty" Nick Cotton, who died from an over-indulgence of the old spark plugs under the rueful gaze of his "Ma", the ancient cigarette holder/ashtray combination Dot Cotton, who confessed her "crime" to the rozzers and was promptly arrested. "Nasty" Nick Cotton has been in and out of the soap forever, and if nothing else, "actor" John Altman is consistent and reliable, bearing a marked similarity to that heavy and battered oak dining table you inherited from your gran and can't bring yourself to chuck out: that is, utterly wooden.
...
Speaking of misanthropic miserablism, I can't stand The Wall by Pink Floyd, which was the most deserving of the five records nominated under the heading Worst Double Albums of All Time in The Daily Telegraph the other day...sorry, got side tracked there, back to TV...still on misanthropic miserablism, I have long suspected that JK Rowling, a woman with the countenance of an over-burdened tax inspector, is living proof of the old maxim that money cannot buy you happiness. If A Casual Vacancy gives the lie to some of the author's character traits then my musings are spot on. The book sits as yet unread on our shelf, but apparently the TV version has had the narrative changed to give a less nasty conclusion, because, according to the script editor viewers deserve some kind of redemptive ending after investing three hours of their time.Look, if we can cope with EastbloodyEnders where innocent ten year olds are turned into psychopaths capable of fratricide without so much as a by your leave, then we can cope with a bit of good old misanthropy. Make the ending as grim as the book I say, we can take it!
Although I have been forewarned of a damp squib of an ending, this still looks like being a belter of a drama, almost like EastbloodyEnders for folk with more than two brain cells. Michael Gambon is superb in it, although his presence reminds us that JKR has some way to go before she writes stuff as wonderfully bile-filled as the sadly missed Dennis Potter, who as everyone knows was Harry's grandad.
...
I don't normally watch EastbloodyEnders, but I have this week as it included the conclusion to the long (too bloody long) running "who killed Lucy" plotline, not that I cared particularly, but hey, it might be vaguely entertaining.
For those who don't know, or give a monkey's, Lucy Beale was an amoral, needy, self-centred, grasping little trollop with a massive sense of entitlement and a completely basis-free superiority complex, for whom death could only be a vast improvement. Come to think of it, that would apply to most of the cast, male and female. But come on...her weedy 10-year old and previously (as far as I know) totally silent little bruvver was 'im wot dun it? Really? It remains to be seen 'ow ee dun it, but my guess is he sucked her soul out through her eyes by dint of a hitherto unsuspected demonic power, causing the poor wretch to scream hideously as her life force evaporated into the ether...or summat.
And that wasn't the massive shark jump I referred to earlier, oh no. That was the return of the previously brown bread Kathy Beale, Lucy's gran, apropos of absolutely nothing at all. OK, her son was getting married for the 28th time, which is a decent reason for mum to visit from the hereafter I suppose, but up to the point Kathy stepped out of the black cab, not a dicky bird had been heard of her since she died, unsurprisingly. EastbloodyEnders Zombie Apocalypse!! Bring it on! What upped the weird city factor was that the actress who plays her now looks about 5 years younger than her "son".
Keeping track of the 703 plotlines all concluding at once last night was actually quite fun. These included the discovery of the demise of comedy bungling cockernee tea leaf and all-round bad egg "Nasty" Nick Cotton, who died from an over-indulgence of the old spark plugs under the rueful gaze of his "Ma", the ancient cigarette holder/ashtray combination Dot Cotton, who confessed her "crime" to the rozzers and was promptly arrested. "Nasty" Nick Cotton has been in and out of the soap forever, and if nothing else, "actor" John Altman is consistent and reliable, bearing a marked similarity to that heavy and battered oak dining table you inherited from your gran and can't bring yourself to chuck out: that is, utterly wooden.
...
Speaking of misanthropic miserablism, I can't stand The Wall by Pink Floyd, which was the most deserving of the five records nominated under the heading Worst Double Albums of All Time in The Daily Telegraph the other day...sorry, got side tracked there, back to TV...still on misanthropic miserablism, I have long suspected that JK Rowling, a woman with the countenance of an over-burdened tax inspector, is living proof of the old maxim that money cannot buy you happiness. If A Casual Vacancy gives the lie to some of the author's character traits then my musings are spot on. The book sits as yet unread on our shelf, but apparently the TV version has had the narrative changed to give a less nasty conclusion, because, according to the script editor viewers deserve some kind of redemptive ending after investing three hours of their time.Look, if we can cope with EastbloodyEnders where innocent ten year olds are turned into psychopaths capable of fratricide without so much as a by your leave, then we can cope with a bit of good old misanthropy. Make the ending as grim as the book I say, we can take it!
Although I have been forewarned of a damp squib of an ending, this still looks like being a belter of a drama, almost like EastbloodyEnders for folk with more than two brain cells. Michael Gambon is superb in it, although his presence reminds us that JKR has some way to go before she writes stuff as wonderfully bile-filled as the sadly missed Dennis Potter, who as everyone knows was Harry's grandad.
...
1 Jan 2015
A Potato in a World of Huemul
TV over the holiday season has been largely ignored by moi this time, and looking at the listings, I didn't miss much, did I? The best thing I've watched on the box has been the 5:1 version of The Godfather (Part One), which had languished in its plastic wrap-seal since being unwrapped at Xmas 2012. You can tell I'm not a film buff, eh? Might give part two a go on New Year's Day. Part three will probably wait until the next holiday, for as we all know it's a bit poo.
So, what have I watched? Well, we got home slightly sozzled from a luvvly Xmas day out at around 6pm, checked the Radio Times and saw that Dr Who was starting in 15 minutes. We put it on, B watched it, I was asleep by 6:30, only waking as the credits were rolling. After all, that's what these later series of DW are for surely? Quite why a ridiculously overhyped kids sci-fi programme is now poured over and picked to bits by legions of obsessives has long been a mystery to me, and I was a big fan up to when Pertwee left. I suppose I just grew out of it like you grow out of short trousers and simplistic pop music.
It has to be said that the Beeb wastes a good proportion of its drama budget on a franchise that spends half the time gazing adoringly at its own navel and the other half setting new world records at shark jumping. Still as long as it turns a profit for the Beeb then I'll carry on using it as a visual lullaby.
...
Another programme getting well past its sell-by is Top Gear. I would bet that at least a third of the audience for this year's "special" were only there to see the well-publicised bust-up at the end, when Mr Potatohead and his mates were sent fleeing for their lives from southern Argentina. At the start of the second part of the Patagonia extravaganza, Clarkson, in a specially filmed prequel with May and Hammond sitting silently around the table with him like two not-so-wise monkeys said the production team were aware of the errant numberplate - H982 FKL - and that they couldn't simply change the plate before leaving the UK, and that it would be changed before the planned game of car football at the end. What a load of horseshit! Of course they could have changed it, by spending a few hundred quid at DVLA. Did they really think no-one would spot the provocative plate as it was driven for hundreds of miles through Argentina and Chile and that word would reach the excitable Argentinian veterans and their buddies of what was coming their way? Do they really expect anyone to believe that they weren't expecting trouble sending three British neanderthals to "make peace" with the locals at the home port of the General Belgrano, a place where Brits are loathed probably more than in anywhere else on the planet? Like everything else about this programme, the whole scenario was so obviously fixed, but they got far more than they bargained for, and you can only say it served them right.
There was only one part in the two hours that made me laugh as opposed to chuckle, when they jerry-built the final section of an unfinished bridge, and Clarkson turns to Hammond saying "Yes, but is it straight?" "Yes" replies the short one, quick as a flash - you got the impression it wasn't scripted too. Of course the dreary and humourless Guardianistas will be up on their high horses over that, I've no doubt. Clarkson is, despite his TV image, a highly intelligent bloke, and is only too aware of the controversy that he deliberately courts. He is possessed of a self-awareness and guile that we can only be thankful are way, way beyond the feeble mental grasp of the likes of Nigel Farrago, so be grateful for small mercies...unless Clarkson joins UKIP...bloody hell, that's a frightening prospect!
The glorious scenery and the concluding and frightening rock hurling scenes aside, it was all rather dull, and it was embarrassing watching the three of them churn up deserts and a pristine beach with their primordial gas-guzzling cars in areas where frankly cars shouldn't even be allowed. I think it's high time they called it a day. James May seems to have more about him than the other two, and it is disappointing to see him continually going along with Clarkson's irksome jingoism. He must love the dosh too much to care.
...
A lot of football is played over the holiday season, but as Mr Martinez has turned my team into Wigan on crutches, I haven't watched a single Match of the Day. Hopefully that will change tonight, but I ain't counting my snapped ligaments.
...
Charlie Booker's annual round-up has become something of a fixture for me. You think I can be acerbic? Well, Charlie is the master! His withering and dyspeptic style was perfect for summing up a bloody awful year that came packaged with austerity, atrocities, religious intolerance, bigotry, disease, war, political dislocation, extreme weather, a royal baby, and 40-year old sex crimes deflecting attention from the endless list of unpunished filching carried out by thieving bankers. Levity was provided by dumb prole parody characters Philomena Cunk and Barry Shitpeas, who I laugh at with an increasing uneasiness as every year the growing proportion of the wilfully ignorant in the general population moves closer and closer to the stupidity of the intellectually condemned duo. Oh, the joy!
...
B and I ended the year watching "Queen + Adam Lambert" on the Beeb. Never heard of Lambert before, but he did a passable Freddie impersonation. Apparently he once came second in American Idol, but he can actually sing, so I won't hold that against him! During Bohemian Rhapsody they cut to a video of Freddie singing, and it was instantly noticeable that Lambert has nowhere near the power of Fred's voice, but Fred was unique and could have been an opera singer if he wanted. And, boy, didn't Queen have a vast number of hits?! It's only when a largish chunk of them were played end to end that I was reminded of that. Seems John Deacon is no longer with the band, so "Queen" are now Roger Taylor, who sounded and looked a bit knackered, and Brian May, who can still bang it out. Yep, quite enjoyable!
Have a great 2015, and may it bring you and yours all you wish for...and now, my 2014 TV wibble...
...
This is Britain, so where TV is concerned there are no "seasons" here; winter is a season, a sequential TV show is a series! Harrumph...
Over the last year I watched - or more correctly, the TV's been on and I've intermittently looked up from a book/magazine/tablet - a few drama series, the best of which, and one that got my undivided attention, was Peaky Bloinders ("o" optional, for added Brummie affectations). As if the premise of setting The Sopranos in grime-filled industrial 1920s Birmingham wasn't enticing enough, the pin-sharp script, great visuals and marvellous soundtrack all combined to make for some rivetting viewing. Unusually these days the script made the female characters as strong and as malevolently flawed as the men. You won't find any female victims or martyrs in Bloindersland, for sure.
Speaking of which two well made if ultimately formulaic cop dramas centered on socipathic killers being sought by female head honcho cops - The Fall and Happy Valley - both relied on the usual misogynistic and stereotypical roles, where the women are either victims of brutal assault, or martyrs to violent men, or, as heads of drama these days seem to demand, preferably both.
...and worked her way downhill from there. The show had a general downer on men, with all the male characters being weak at best, and this was compounded by far more vicious misogynistic violence than was strictly necessary to tell what was actually a well acted and a decent if familiar cop/psycho story. All in all, a ghastly and nasty piece of TV.
The Fall at least redeemed itself partly by making Gillian Anderson's misandrist steely eyed copper as calculating and cold as her sociopathic nemesis, and was the better of the two despite its telegraphed predictable ending.
Both those two I dipped in and out of, but two more series I paid full attention to were Fargo and Utopia. Fargo was the TV remake of the film, which I've never seen, so I can't say how it compares. Although it was a vehicle for Martin Freeman, who did a sterling job as the henpecked hubby who snapped, that being only the start of his decline, there can be no question that Billy Bob Thornton stole the show as the psychopathic Lorne Malvo. Rarely is comedy as dark as this.
The second series of Utopia arrived. For those not familiar, Utopia is a quite bonkers "us and them, us on the run" construct with the promise of possible armageddon, all fried in Leary's finest acid. Filmed like the director was trying to show the world as a synaethesia sufferer sees it, and allied to a very surreal script, it made for hyper-real and edgy TV - progressive TV, if you will!
Right, that's it...time for a hangover-absorbent lunch...
So, what have I watched? Well, we got home slightly sozzled from a luvvly Xmas day out at around 6pm, checked the Radio Times and saw that Dr Who was starting in 15 minutes. We put it on, B watched it, I was asleep by 6:30, only waking as the credits were rolling. After all, that's what these later series of DW are for surely? Quite why a ridiculously overhyped kids sci-fi programme is now poured over and picked to bits by legions of obsessives has long been a mystery to me, and I was a big fan up to when Pertwee left. I suppose I just grew out of it like you grow out of short trousers and simplistic pop music.
It has to be said that the Beeb wastes a good proportion of its drama budget on a franchise that spends half the time gazing adoringly at its own navel and the other half setting new world records at shark jumping. Still as long as it turns a profit for the Beeb then I'll carry on using it as a visual lullaby.
...
Another programme getting well past its sell-by is Top Gear. I would bet that at least a third of the audience for this year's "special" were only there to see the well-publicised bust-up at the end, when Mr Potatohead and his mates were sent fleeing for their lives from southern Argentina. At the start of the second part of the Patagonia extravaganza, Clarkson, in a specially filmed prequel with May and Hammond sitting silently around the table with him like two not-so-wise monkeys said the production team were aware of the errant numberplate - H982 FKL - and that they couldn't simply change the plate before leaving the UK, and that it would be changed before the planned game of car football at the end. What a load of horseshit! Of course they could have changed it, by spending a few hundred quid at DVLA. Did they really think no-one would spot the provocative plate as it was driven for hundreds of miles through Argentina and Chile and that word would reach the excitable Argentinian veterans and their buddies of what was coming their way? Do they really expect anyone to believe that they weren't expecting trouble sending three British neanderthals to "make peace" with the locals at the home port of the General Belgrano, a place where Brits are loathed probably more than in anywhere else on the planet? Like everything else about this programme, the whole scenario was so obviously fixed, but they got far more than they bargained for, and you can only say it served them right.
There was only one part in the two hours that made me laugh as opposed to chuckle, when they jerry-built the final section of an unfinished bridge, and Clarkson turns to Hammond saying "Yes, but is it straight?" "Yes" replies the short one, quick as a flash - you got the impression it wasn't scripted too. Of course the dreary and humourless Guardianistas will be up on their high horses over that, I've no doubt. Clarkson is, despite his TV image, a highly intelligent bloke, and is only too aware of the controversy that he deliberately courts. He is possessed of a self-awareness and guile that we can only be thankful are way, way beyond the feeble mental grasp of the likes of Nigel Farrago, so be grateful for small mercies...unless Clarkson joins UKIP...bloody hell, that's a frightening prospect!
The glorious scenery and the concluding and frightening rock hurling scenes aside, it was all rather dull, and it was embarrassing watching the three of them churn up deserts and a pristine beach with their primordial gas-guzzling cars in areas where frankly cars shouldn't even be allowed. I think it's high time they called it a day. James May seems to have more about him than the other two, and it is disappointing to see him continually going along with Clarkson's irksome jingoism. He must love the dosh too much to care.
...
A lot of football is played over the holiday season, but as Mr Martinez has turned my team into Wigan on crutches, I haven't watched a single Match of the Day. Hopefully that will change tonight, but I ain't counting my snapped ligaments.
...
Charlie Booker's annual round-up has become something of a fixture for me. You think I can be acerbic? Well, Charlie is the master! His withering and dyspeptic style was perfect for summing up a bloody awful year that came packaged with austerity, atrocities, religious intolerance, bigotry, disease, war, political dislocation, extreme weather, a royal baby, and 40-year old sex crimes deflecting attention from the endless list of unpunished filching carried out by thieving bankers. Levity was provided by dumb prole parody characters Philomena Cunk and Barry Shitpeas, who I laugh at with an increasing uneasiness as every year the growing proportion of the wilfully ignorant in the general population moves closer and closer to the stupidity of the intellectually condemned duo. Oh, the joy!
...
B and I ended the year watching "Queen + Adam Lambert" on the Beeb. Never heard of Lambert before, but he did a passable Freddie impersonation. Apparently he once came second in American Idol, but he can actually sing, so I won't hold that against him! During Bohemian Rhapsody they cut to a video of Freddie singing, and it was instantly noticeable that Lambert has nowhere near the power of Fred's voice, but Fred was unique and could have been an opera singer if he wanted. And, boy, didn't Queen have a vast number of hits?! It's only when a largish chunk of them were played end to end that I was reminded of that. Seems John Deacon is no longer with the band, so "Queen" are now Roger Taylor, who sounded and looked a bit knackered, and Brian May, who can still bang it out. Yep, quite enjoyable!
Have a great 2015, and may it bring you and yours all you wish for...and now, my 2014 TV wibble...
...
This is Britain, so where TV is concerned there are no "seasons" here; winter is a season, a sequential TV show is a series! Harrumph...
Over the last year I watched - or more correctly, the TV's been on and I've intermittently looked up from a book/magazine/tablet - a few drama series, the best of which, and one that got my undivided attention, was Peaky Bloinders ("o" optional, for added Brummie affectations). As if the premise of setting The Sopranos in grime-filled industrial 1920s Birmingham wasn't enticing enough, the pin-sharp script, great visuals and marvellous soundtrack all combined to make for some rivetting viewing. Unusually these days the script made the female characters as strong and as malevolently flawed as the men. You won't find any female victims or martyrs in Bloindersland, for sure.
Speaking of which two well made if ultimately formulaic cop dramas centered on socipathic killers being sought by female head honcho cops - The Fall and Happy Valley - both relied on the usual misogynistic and stereotypical roles, where the women are either victims of brutal assault, or martyrs to violent men, or, as heads of drama these days seem to demand, preferably both.
Strangely the most violent of the two was written by a woman. Happy Valley looked like it started with Sally Wainwright staring at a blank Word document and writing in bold, font size 20, centered and caps lock on...
ALL MEN ARE BASTARDS!!
...and worked her way downhill from there. The show had a general downer on men, with all the male characters being weak at best, and this was compounded by far more vicious misogynistic violence than was strictly necessary to tell what was actually a well acted and a decent if familiar cop/psycho story. All in all, a ghastly and nasty piece of TV.
The Fall at least redeemed itself partly by making Gillian Anderson's misandrist steely eyed copper as calculating and cold as her sociopathic nemesis, and was the better of the two despite its telegraphed predictable ending.
Both those two I dipped in and out of, but two more series I paid full attention to were Fargo and Utopia. Fargo was the TV remake of the film, which I've never seen, so I can't say how it compares. Although it was a vehicle for Martin Freeman, who did a sterling job as the henpecked hubby who snapped, that being only the start of his decline, there can be no question that Billy Bob Thornton stole the show as the psychopathic Lorne Malvo. Rarely is comedy as dark as this.
The second series of Utopia arrived. For those not familiar, Utopia is a quite bonkers "us and them, us on the run" construct with the promise of possible armageddon, all fried in Leary's finest acid. Filmed like the director was trying to show the world as a synaethesia sufferer sees it, and allied to a very surreal script, it made for hyper-real and edgy TV - progressive TV, if you will!
Right, that's it...time for a hangover-absorbent lunch...
24 Oct 2014
The politics of ignorance
Today's headline-grabbing burst of Newspeak centered around the annual EU budget adjustment that sees the UK having to stump up a staggering £1.7bn by the end of the month, or Barroso's sending the boys round. This announcement sees the majority of the nation howling in rage in typical knee-jerk fashion at the unjust nature of the out of control EU monster.
But...hang on a minute. This is an annual adjustment, which means it happens every year...yes, really. In some years past we have received refunds, just as in some years we have made payments. Barroso, being a seasoned Brussels apparatchik has made the public announcement of this frankly staggering amount that our Treasury must have known about for months for one reason and one reason only - David Dipshit Cameron. A man who continues to dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole, and a man who conversely is the only serious threat from the UK to the Brussels status quo.
There is a by-election coming up that the Tories are desperate not to lose to the beer'n'fags myopic little Englanders (and they're the liberal wing) who constitute UKIP. By announcing that the UK must pay £1.7bn yesterday, or Liz will find her favourite horse's head where Phil The Greek should be in her bed, Barroso is feeding on the knee-jerk reactions that the majority of the UK are prone to in these situations, thereby making the Tories chances of winning that seat much less than they otherwise would have been. Not that it's difficult, but the Eton chancer has more than met his match in Barroso, for sure.
Now, I do not consider myself particularly intelligent, but the second I heard this headline on BBC Breakfast I thought there must be more to this than meets the eye. Ten minutes of research will confirm that in the past we've had refunds from the annual adjustment. You didn't see Camerong wringing his hands in liberal guilt and suggesting we give our refund to Spain or Greece, who obviously needed it more, did you? Obviously, spending ten minutes on the internet finding out what lies behind the headline before mouthing off in the manner of an ignoramus is too much for most people.
Yes, the amount is way too much when you consider it amounts to a fifth of our entire net annual contribution. Its esoteric calculation, that includes estimates of the amount made in our black economy, is yet another example of the excessive and blundering bureaucracy at the heart of EU being its main failing point, but the principal behind it is right, the richer nations should support those not doing so well. Trying to square that with giving France and Germany rebates takes more than a bit of swallowing it has to be said. Why not scrap all this adjustment nonsense and have fixed budgets?
...
The way the BBC reported this on tonight's Six'O'Clock News was a tad disappointing. They got it right up to the point where they explained the UK's annual EU contribution, which, if I remember correctly was £8.3bn. The logical thing to have followed that with was "...and Germany contributes £xbn, and France £xbn". Instead, the £8.3bn is left hanging there in the minds of the wilfully ignorant like a maniacally grinning bile magnet. Fail.
...
I'm not finished yet, oh no. The reason we have to make this extra payment is because, relative to all the other economies in the EU, we are growing at a much faster rate. All well and good, but I don't feel any better off now than I did six years ago, how about you?
Of course the only reason our economy is doing so well on paper is down to growing employment rates that are almost exclusively the result of Multinat Corp Inc (based in Luxembourg, thereby getting away with paying no tax on their profits here, natch) being able to employ vast numbers at minimum wage rates. This is what makes the UK so attractive to immigrants, not just from outside the EU, but from within it as well. To a lot of these people, these shit jobs at shit wages represent a nirvana that their home countries cannot supply.
Immigration per sé is not the problem, although you would have to be a Guardian-reading Tarquin or Jemina living in splendid Brit-only white-only isolation in the Cotswolds not to have noticed that the sheer numbers coming in have got out of hand. No, the problem is that since THAT BLOODY WOMAN successive governments of both colours have continued at a pace with the deregulation she started in 1979 to the point where it is for all intents and purposes irreversible. Wages are suppressed to the bare minimum and unions have become an irrelevance with absolutely no power to stop the continual draining of money and resources from the general population to the elite. This laissez-faire attitude towards the control of capitalism's excesses and the resultant boom in poorly paid jobs is what attracts the immigrants from their poverty stricken countries of origin, and who can blame them?
As for "they come over here and live off benefits they've not contributed to", well, that too is an almighty red herring of convenience for the right wing. Again, ten minutes of research will tell you that the amount of immigrants fraudulently claiming benefits is a tiny proportion of the whole.
As I said, I do not consider myself brain-dazzlingly intelligent, so if I can do the research if only to confirm what my political instincts tell me anyway, why can't anyone else?
...
Now, time to put another cat picture up. Have a nice weekend.
Roger McNasty
But...hang on a minute. This is an annual adjustment, which means it happens every year...yes, really. In some years past we have received refunds, just as in some years we have made payments. Barroso, being a seasoned Brussels apparatchik has made the public announcement of this frankly staggering amount that our Treasury must have known about for months for one reason and one reason only - David Dipshit Cameron. A man who continues to dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole, and a man who conversely is the only serious threat from the UK to the Brussels status quo.
There is a by-election coming up that the Tories are desperate not to lose to the beer'n'fags myopic little Englanders (and they're the liberal wing) who constitute UKIP. By announcing that the UK must pay £1.7bn yesterday, or Liz will find her favourite horse's head where Phil The Greek should be in her bed, Barroso is feeding on the knee-jerk reactions that the majority of the UK are prone to in these situations, thereby making the Tories chances of winning that seat much less than they otherwise would have been. Not that it's difficult, but the Eton chancer has more than met his match in Barroso, for sure.
Now, I do not consider myself particularly intelligent, but the second I heard this headline on BBC Breakfast I thought there must be more to this than meets the eye. Ten minutes of research will confirm that in the past we've had refunds from the annual adjustment. You didn't see Camerong wringing his hands in liberal guilt and suggesting we give our refund to Spain or Greece, who obviously needed it more, did you? Obviously, spending ten minutes on the internet finding out what lies behind the headline before mouthing off in the manner of an ignoramus is too much for most people.
Yes, the amount is way too much when you consider it amounts to a fifth of our entire net annual contribution. Its esoteric calculation, that includes estimates of the amount made in our black economy, is yet another example of the excessive and blundering bureaucracy at the heart of EU being its main failing point, but the principal behind it is right, the richer nations should support those not doing so well. Trying to square that with giving France and Germany rebates takes more than a bit of swallowing it has to be said. Why not scrap all this adjustment nonsense and have fixed budgets?
...
The way the BBC reported this on tonight's Six'O'Clock News was a tad disappointing. They got it right up to the point where they explained the UK's annual EU contribution, which, if I remember correctly was £8.3bn. The logical thing to have followed that with was "...and Germany contributes £xbn, and France £xbn". Instead, the £8.3bn is left hanging there in the minds of the wilfully ignorant like a maniacally grinning bile magnet. Fail.
...
I'm not finished yet, oh no. The reason we have to make this extra payment is because, relative to all the other economies in the EU, we are growing at a much faster rate. All well and good, but I don't feel any better off now than I did six years ago, how about you?
Of course the only reason our economy is doing so well on paper is down to growing employment rates that are almost exclusively the result of Multinat Corp Inc (based in Luxembourg, thereby getting away with paying no tax on their profits here, natch) being able to employ vast numbers at minimum wage rates. This is what makes the UK so attractive to immigrants, not just from outside the EU, but from within it as well. To a lot of these people, these shit jobs at shit wages represent a nirvana that their home countries cannot supply.
Immigration per sé is not the problem, although you would have to be a Guardian-reading Tarquin or Jemina living in splendid Brit-only white-only isolation in the Cotswolds not to have noticed that the sheer numbers coming in have got out of hand. No, the problem is that since THAT BLOODY WOMAN successive governments of both colours have continued at a pace with the deregulation she started in 1979 to the point where it is for all intents and purposes irreversible. Wages are suppressed to the bare minimum and unions have become an irrelevance with absolutely no power to stop the continual draining of money and resources from the general population to the elite. This laissez-faire attitude towards the control of capitalism's excesses and the resultant boom in poorly paid jobs is what attracts the immigrants from their poverty stricken countries of origin, and who can blame them?
As for "they come over here and live off benefits they've not contributed to", well, that too is an almighty red herring of convenience for the right wing. Again, ten minutes of research will tell you that the amount of immigrants fraudulently claiming benefits is a tiny proportion of the whole.
As I said, I do not consider myself brain-dazzlingly intelligent, so if I can do the research if only to confirm what my political instincts tell me anyway, why can't anyone else?
...
Now, time to put another cat picture up. Have a nice weekend.
Roger McNasty
17 May 2014
Stupidland
Mornin' peeps...
eBay, despite being weighted far too much in favour of the buyer is nonetheless very useful for gettring rid of accumulated clutter. Just lately I've sold a keyboard, a guitar amp, a hi-fi amp, and a CD player. As these are all bulky items they were all listed as "Collection Only", and all four items were duly picked up from chez moi by the buyers. One guy even came all the way down from Cheshire!
It seems however, that people who read books are not capable of assimilating the simple instruction "COLLECTION ONLY" - now stated in capitals for extra clarity. B and I are decluttering some of our book collection. I am selling the Game of Thrones box set (7 blockbusters in a box), and B is selling the True Blood box set plus 6 other True Blood books, some hardback, as a job lot.
Again, as these are bulky items they are clearly marked "COLLECTION ONLY". That has probably sunk in by now, eh? The other instruction to note is "cash on collection only, please". The other day I get an email from eBay telling me I had sold the GoT box set...Woohoo!...briefly. The buyer had ignored my instruction to pay cash on collection and paid by Paypal, and I am more than slightly perturbed that the buyer resides in West Lothian, Scotland.
The next day she sends me this delightful message "hello, i ordered the game of thrones book box set and didnt realise it was a pick-up from northhampton, there is no way i can ever pick the books up, so i would like my money back please" (sic, a lot). Note the indignant tone, as if it's my fault she didn't read the instructions properly, or indeed, at all. Of course, I wanted to reply along the lines of "Yes, of course I will refund your money, no problem. Next time open your bloody eyes and read the fucking instructions, ya daft bint", and I did...but omitting the last sentence, diplomat that I am.
After that I re-listed the Got sale and amended the other sale currently running with "COLLECTION ONLY" now in the sale heading as well as in the instructions. This morning I get this priceless piece of stupidity in my eBay inbox "Are you sending to Estonia? If yes, then how much will it cost? And from Estonia I can pay for the goods only with paypal". I am still composing my reply...does anyone know how long donkeys have to stay in quarantine at customs in this country? He can send the cart on by FedEx, no problem.
By the way if any of you fine folk are interested, here are those two auctions. Send me a message and I'll take them off eBay, and, don't forget YOU HAVE TO COME AND GET THEM... :)
Game of Thrones books
True Blood books
...
It would be remiss of me to exclude myself from the stupid-o-meter, and I will now lay myself open to ritual humiliation. Most of you will know that B has gone through treatment for a serious illness, and now all is well as she is well down the road to recovery. The two of us need a break, so I headed off to Expedia and booked a week in Jersey, just the ticket. The only direct flight from Birmingham leaves at daft-o-o'clock in the morning so I took the more civilised option that leaves in the afternoon. This one flies to Jersey via Guernsey. In the flight details I notice that the turnaround in Guernsey is only 15 minutes.
Sez me to B "How on earth are we supposed to get off one plane, collect our luggage, and get on another in 15 bloody minutes?"...
In the yoof vernacular that is a massive fail, is it not? Have no fear, I did award myself fuckwit of the day for that one!
...
I can't find me slippers, I think they must be in the fridge...see ya
eBay, despite being weighted far too much in favour of the buyer is nonetheless very useful for gettring rid of accumulated clutter. Just lately I've sold a keyboard, a guitar amp, a hi-fi amp, and a CD player. As these are all bulky items they were all listed as "Collection Only", and all four items were duly picked up from chez moi by the buyers. One guy even came all the way down from Cheshire!
It seems however, that people who read books are not capable of assimilating the simple instruction "COLLECTION ONLY" - now stated in capitals for extra clarity. B and I are decluttering some of our book collection. I am selling the Game of Thrones box set (7 blockbusters in a box), and B is selling the True Blood box set plus 6 other True Blood books, some hardback, as a job lot.
Again, as these are bulky items they are clearly marked "COLLECTION ONLY". That has probably sunk in by now, eh? The other instruction to note is "cash on collection only, please". The other day I get an email from eBay telling me I had sold the GoT box set...Woohoo!...briefly. The buyer had ignored my instruction to pay cash on collection and paid by Paypal, and I am more than slightly perturbed that the buyer resides in West Lothian, Scotland.
The next day she sends me this delightful message "hello, i ordered the game of thrones book box set and didnt realise it was a pick-up from northhampton, there is no way i can ever pick the books up, so i would like my money back please" (sic, a lot). Note the indignant tone, as if it's my fault she didn't read the instructions properly, or indeed, at all. Of course, I wanted to reply along the lines of "Yes, of course I will refund your money, no problem. Next time open your bloody eyes and read the fucking instructions, ya daft bint", and I did...but omitting the last sentence, diplomat that I am.
After that I re-listed the Got sale and amended the other sale currently running with "COLLECTION ONLY" now in the sale heading as well as in the instructions. This morning I get this priceless piece of stupidity in my eBay inbox "Are you sending to Estonia? If yes, then how much will it cost? And from Estonia I can pay for the goods only with paypal". I am still composing my reply...does anyone know how long donkeys have to stay in quarantine at customs in this country? He can send the cart on by FedEx, no problem.
By the way if any of you fine folk are interested, here are those two auctions. Send me a message and I'll take them off eBay, and, don't forget YOU HAVE TO COME AND GET THEM... :)
Game of Thrones books
True Blood books
...
It would be remiss of me to exclude myself from the stupid-o-meter, and I will now lay myself open to ritual humiliation. Most of you will know that B has gone through treatment for a serious illness, and now all is well as she is well down the road to recovery. The two of us need a break, so I headed off to Expedia and booked a week in Jersey, just the ticket. The only direct flight from Birmingham leaves at daft-o-o'clock in the morning so I took the more civilised option that leaves in the afternoon. This one flies to Jersey via Guernsey. In the flight details I notice that the turnaround in Guernsey is only 15 minutes.
Sez me to B "How on earth are we supposed to get off one plane, collect our luggage, and get on another in 15 bloody minutes?"...
In the yoof vernacular that is a massive fail, is it not? Have no fear, I did award myself fuckwit of the day for that one!
...
I can't find me slippers, I think they must be in the fridge...see ya
5 Apr 2014
Chicken Hammock
I'm only posting this here in order to blow the cobwebs off Brouhaha, a blog that is in danger of ossifying I've neglected it so much...
Bugbears of Modern Life #12: The Delivery Window
You know the kind of thing: "Thank you for ordering our Orgone Accumulator from us here at The General Synod. It will be delivered by our couriers, Surly Truckers Ltd. Now please choose a delivery window 8am-12noon, 12noon-4pm, 4pm-8pm" so you have to hang around for the allotted 4 hours waiting for the thing to turn up. As we live in Warehouse Central, that usually means right at the beginning or end of the window.
Last week I ordered a new mobile phone from that nice Indian company, Virgin Mobile. The usual message about delivery, but get this; have you ever come across a delivery window that runs from 7am to 9pm? That's not a window, it's a bleedin' yawning chasm. Donning my never far away Victor Meldrew persona, I'm straight on the phone to Mumbai. Yes, I know it won't do any good, but it might make me feel better.
Having torn "Julie" off a strip for the ludicrous time gulf offered by Satnav Dichotomy Ltd, she attempted to placate me with "Well, they will send you a text before delivery", which is something I suppose. It's not her fault, so I apologise for being an arse and hang up.
They better not send me a text at 6:45am, I'm thinking, and this morning I do get a text, but at a far more civilised 8:07am. The text said "Your goods have been dispatched"...can you guess what's coming?..."they will be with you before 9pm".
...
The Trip to Italy was rather good. Loads of self-referential humour, but Coogan and Brydon carry it off brilliantly. Particularly liked the Michael Caine impression competition, and the Batman pisstake.
...
While we're on telly, it's all a bit shit really. I probably spend half the time I did a couple of years ago watching The Box. Daftest thing I'm watching at the moment is an ultra convoluted Norwegian suspense drama by the name of Mammon, on More 4, another channel with "4" in its name getting into Scandi-dramas. Why is it that so much stuff is coming out of that strangely wonderful part of the world? I suppose when it goes dark for most of the winter, you either have sex or write, and industrial strength contraception aside, as there doesn't seem to be a Scandinavian population explosion, it must be the keyboard tapping that takes up their time. Or seal punching.
...
Tomorrow sees my team's biggest game of the season. Win it and we are in the driving seat for 4th place in the Premiership and qualification for the preliminary rounds of the Champions' League. I added that apostrophe, being a grammar nerd, admittedly one who seems incapable of spotting his own mishtakes.
As Everton have a habit of bottling big games, most annoyingly against their lovable neighbours, I very much doubt we will win, aside from the more logical footballing factors, which I will not bore you with here. Of course, you're not allowed to put such heresy into words on fan sites, they accuse you of being negative rather than the pragmatic beastie that you are. They wouldn't understand "pragmatic" anyway. In the few months I've been a member of the Everton Facebook group I've quickly learned to dumb down my language, as my first posts saw accusations of "poncey words", and of me being a "posh cunt". I should realise by now that showing that you actually paid attention in class is a heinous crime in this fuckwitted country of ours. These same dumbasses think that having "belief" and "faith" is enough to outplay a team that spend more on haircare products than we do on wages.
Even if we did win, and by a series of miracles thereafter eventually finish 4th, you can guarantee that "The Shite" as they are affectionately known, would steal our thunder (again) by winning the bloody thing. We'd never hear the last of it. Come on, Citeh!
...
Haha...the word "blog" is not in blogger's spellchecker!
...
Your window has now closed.
Bugbears of Modern Life #12: The Delivery Window
You know the kind of thing: "Thank you for ordering our Orgone Accumulator from us here at The General Synod. It will be delivered by our couriers, Surly Truckers Ltd. Now please choose a delivery window 8am-12noon, 12noon-4pm, 4pm-8pm" so you have to hang around for the allotted 4 hours waiting for the thing to turn up. As we live in Warehouse Central, that usually means right at the beginning or end of the window.
Last week I ordered a new mobile phone from that nice Indian company, Virgin Mobile. The usual message about delivery, but get this; have you ever come across a delivery window that runs from 7am to 9pm? That's not a window, it's a bleedin' yawning chasm. Donning my never far away Victor Meldrew persona, I'm straight on the phone to Mumbai. Yes, I know it won't do any good, but it might make me feel better.
Having torn "Julie" off a strip for the ludicrous time gulf offered by Satnav Dichotomy Ltd, she attempted to placate me with "Well, they will send you a text before delivery", which is something I suppose. It's not her fault, so I apologise for being an arse and hang up.
They better not send me a text at 6:45am, I'm thinking, and this morning I do get a text, but at a far more civilised 8:07am. The text said "Your goods have been dispatched"...can you guess what's coming?..."they will be with you before 9pm".
...
The Trip to Italy was rather good. Loads of self-referential humour, but Coogan and Brydon carry it off brilliantly. Particularly liked the Michael Caine impression competition, and the Batman pisstake.
...
While we're on telly, it's all a bit shit really. I probably spend half the time I did a couple of years ago watching The Box. Daftest thing I'm watching at the moment is an ultra convoluted Norwegian suspense drama by the name of Mammon, on More 4, another channel with "4" in its name getting into Scandi-dramas. Why is it that so much stuff is coming out of that strangely wonderful part of the world? I suppose when it goes dark for most of the winter, you either have sex or write, and industrial strength contraception aside, as there doesn't seem to be a Scandinavian population explosion, it must be the keyboard tapping that takes up their time. Or seal punching.
...
Tomorrow sees my team's biggest game of the season. Win it and we are in the driving seat for 4th place in the Premiership and qualification for the preliminary rounds of the Champions' League. I added that apostrophe, being a grammar nerd, admittedly one who seems incapable of spotting his own mishtakes.
As Everton have a habit of bottling big games, most annoyingly against their lovable neighbours, I very much doubt we will win, aside from the more logical footballing factors, which I will not bore you with here. Of course, you're not allowed to put such heresy into words on fan sites, they accuse you of being negative rather than the pragmatic beastie that you are. They wouldn't understand "pragmatic" anyway. In the few months I've been a member of the Everton Facebook group I've quickly learned to dumb down my language, as my first posts saw accusations of "poncey words", and of me being a "posh cunt". I should realise by now that showing that you actually paid attention in class is a heinous crime in this fuckwitted country of ours. These same dumbasses think that having "belief" and "faith" is enough to outplay a team that spend more on haircare products than we do on wages.
Even if we did win, and by a series of miracles thereafter eventually finish 4th, you can guarantee that "The Shite" as they are affectionately known, would steal our thunder (again) by winning the bloody thing. We'd never hear the last of it. Come on, Citeh!
...
Haha...the word "blog" is not in blogger's spellchecker!
...
Your window has now closed.
28 Sept 2013
Sowing The Seeds Of Obsession - A Beginning
He powered down the central hub for the weekend, locked the pod, and made his way down the long flight of stairs to the exit. By the street door and lying on the floor was a small envelope. He picked it up, turned it over to inspect it, but found no indication of its origin; indeed, there was no writing or typed text on it at all. He opened the envelope and inside was a small key and a handwritten note. "You will need this when you arrive home" was the sum of its content.
Deposited at the city transport hub at the top of his street, he walked on down to the entrance to his block. Taking the opportunity to forgo the lift he ascended the three flights of stairs at speed, the only exercise he got all day in the week, and, breathing hard he arrived at his door. He passed the keycard through the lock and stepped into the hallway.
When he walked into the living space, there it was. He approached it with a mild curiosity. Viewed from the left side it appeared to be orange. He noticed that changed as he looked at it from different angles. It spoke to him without a voice. He sat down cross-legged in front of it and stared deeply at it. He was aware that a passage of time had passed as a faintly gnawing hunger eventually forced him to leave it and make his way to the kitchen. As soon as he opened the fridge door he realised he was missing it already. Hurriedly, he grabbed a bottle of beer, opened it and threw together a cold meat sandwich, and then rushed back to the living space fearing it would be gone.
It was still there. He resumed his position of supplication, this time at a different angle, to see if another perspective would be illuminating. Again it tugged at his soul. He was compelled to pick it up, and passing it from one one hand to the other he noticed it was warm to the touch in one hand, icy cold in the other. After an indeterminate while he put it down and saw a slit in one face of it.
Then he remembered the key. He rushed to the coat stand by the front door where he had hung his jacket, seemingly in another era. He retrieved the envelope, tore it open and extracted the key, while running back to the living space. He sat back down in front of it. The slit was no longer there. Panic rose through the very core of his being. His heart rate was increasing alarmingly. He picked it up again in his left hand and it stung like a thousand wasps, but he could not let go. Shaking with the pain that had subsumed his fear, he discovered that simply by transferring it to his right hand, all the pain went away. He put it down and the slit was there again.
Gingerly, but knowing it had to be done, he inserted the key. He could not recall turning the key, but he was suddenly filled with a surge of joyous wonderment as everything was revealed in its stark beauty.
Days later, he told his psychepractor "I remember very little, but I know it took a long long time. And when it was over, it had really only just begun".
...there may be more...but then again, there may not...
Deposited at the city transport hub at the top of his street, he walked on down to the entrance to his block. Taking the opportunity to forgo the lift he ascended the three flights of stairs at speed, the only exercise he got all day in the week, and, breathing hard he arrived at his door. He passed the keycard through the lock and stepped into the hallway.
When he walked into the living space, there it was. He approached it with a mild curiosity. Viewed from the left side it appeared to be orange. He noticed that changed as he looked at it from different angles. It spoke to him without a voice. He sat down cross-legged in front of it and stared deeply at it. He was aware that a passage of time had passed as a faintly gnawing hunger eventually forced him to leave it and make his way to the kitchen. As soon as he opened the fridge door he realised he was missing it already. Hurriedly, he grabbed a bottle of beer, opened it and threw together a cold meat sandwich, and then rushed back to the living space fearing it would be gone.
It was still there. He resumed his position of supplication, this time at a different angle, to see if another perspective would be illuminating. Again it tugged at his soul. He was compelled to pick it up, and passing it from one one hand to the other he noticed it was warm to the touch in one hand, icy cold in the other. After an indeterminate while he put it down and saw a slit in one face of it.
Then he remembered the key. He rushed to the coat stand by the front door where he had hung his jacket, seemingly in another era. He retrieved the envelope, tore it open and extracted the key, while running back to the living space. He sat back down in front of it. The slit was no longer there. Panic rose through the very core of his being. His heart rate was increasing alarmingly. He picked it up again in his left hand and it stung like a thousand wasps, but he could not let go. Shaking with the pain that had subsumed his fear, he discovered that simply by transferring it to his right hand, all the pain went away. He put it down and the slit was there again.
Gingerly, but knowing it had to be done, he inserted the key. He could not recall turning the key, but he was suddenly filled with a surge of joyous wonderment as everything was revealed in its stark beauty.
Days later, he told his psychepractor "I remember very little, but I know it took a long long time. And when it was over, it had really only just begun".
...there may be more...but then again, there may not...
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