Idiosyncrasy on Location

My initial objective today was to take my esoteric sentence hammer to the subject of Social Approval. It does seem that people are so unhinged in their approach to time, space and human capability that they have found their life's course by forming a mobile Popularity Judicial System. I encountered two of these high court dignitaries at a cash point today.

To create a mental image, they were two versions of this girl but very angry at the world.

And so I stood digging through my giant bag looking for my card, (hoarders lucky dip), when all of a sudden I hear some magical words the two young fearless members of The (sh)It Girls Justice League. "Look behind you, what the fuck is that girl wearin'.." brazen as you like. Followed by giggles.

I didn't even look behind me in search of another human. I knew I was that girl. What was it? the oversized TRON Tshirt (epic). The hat with ears, (that is for warmth). But, in my heart of hearts I knew. Instinct. That and the fact that they were both staring directly at me in disgust.

While they used the withdrawal services, I smiled sweetly and wondered if Glade candles were still Buy One Get One Free in Tesco and how much force it would take to put someones head through a cash dispensing unit. (As is my way). Not a word exchanged though.

On my way home after my brief glimpse of the modern day trial by intimidation at the hands of two Value-Range hardcases. I came upon the prominent matter that I would this evening convey to those who read my work. Today propelled me to make this point known.

Through life's judgemental encounters, there need only be one fact that should hold major importance to understanding and intelligent beings. Cast aside this fashion ideology. No matter what you choose to wear and how you choose to live your life, always remember this. The original TRON beats the sequel hands down.

That is all.

Cash my Dignity

Hello and welcome to Solution Saturday. Today I will be discussing how you can lose all sense of self worth in 24 hours. 'Not possible' I hear you say. 'You are going to defecate undesirable word logic all over our wistful dreams again aren't you?' You may ask. The answer my friends, is yes. By the power of Greyskull and wit combined. Yes I am.

So let's get this shameless modern society massacre started shall we? Please enter Former Supermarket referee, Spray Tanned Minion of the Anti Christ...

I will initially describe the scene. Members of the public gathering in the town hall to for the Soul-less Desecration of their pride. The two gentlemen at the front are so captivated by the Trade Your Self Worth ethos that they have sold their own legs. The lady to the right is so devoid of morale at this point that the bargain bucket graphics designers have hidden her face.

The encouragement to stage a Time Team excavation of your entire property is not limited to your bracelets though. There is the animated HomeBuyer SuperHero, The phone buying Ugly stick victim who says 'Wonga' repeatedly and the spontaneous devils dance brigade of We Buy Any Car. Look at the image above, re-read the last sentence and tell me that you are not currently considering how best to conceal weapons and evade capture.

People are not even scraping the barrel anymore for human decency. They have sold the barrel at ValueMyWood.com. What have we done to our selves. The voices and songs related to this hateful assemblage are the sounds you will hear as they wheel you through the doors of the local mental health facility.

I think in the current economic climate, any advise contrary to the Instant Finance Death Coercion may fall on deaf ears. Ears with no earrings, no car, no phone, no home and no dreams.

I do however have, in my mind of many things, an extension to the current curriculum by which all children are thrust into reality after having spent 10 years learning about the relevance of World War 2 in gaining modern day employment. (Hitler was a shit, now go and practice your Excel spreadsheets) So from my imaginary podium, i say..

'Children, go forth and gain your education. Avoid programming that makes you feel that you are not good enough the way you are. Seek to obtain a good grade and ask your teachers to advise you on following any other subject that they do not cover. Gain your grades. If you cannot obtain a place at university or do not want to, then gain enough funding to travel and experience various cultures thus gaining valuable knowledge. Alternatively find employment and a residence. Find interests that exclude the following; WKD, Hollyoaks and park bench social events. Build up good credit through your employment and buy yourself a house. research the markets so that you may incur profit on the property at a later date. If you wish to have a partner take proper precautions so as not to prematurely impregnate or be impregnated. Marry them if you would like to. Create savings accounts by both working hard so that should you choose to procreate, your offspring will have the means for further education and gainful employment prospects. Dress yourself in clothing that you can afford. Be politically aware so you may form an appropriate response en mass should the seated government make decisions that negatively effect your finances. Demand respect and maintain your dignity.'

The seriousness of that paragraph is exclusive to the younger generation. Adults, I know not what to say to you anymore.

I bid you all good day.

Oh Valentine/Go F&@k Yourself

February is a funny little fellow. All short and weird. It is also home to the one stop regurgitation parade known as Valentines Day.

I am well aware that we are now past the romance gauntlet. My mind is not so removed from social reality that I think it's January. However recently I witnessed a lugubrious image. A visual representation of futility. The Valentine related Sale items, cordoned off in the corner of a shop. Languishing in some kind of Amorous Blue Cross Shelter.

Associated Image Insert. Go.

I am well aware that the image has no relevance to the subject. It is awesome. That cat is awesome. There is no stopping awesomeness.

So anyway. Back to Emotional Consumer Fest. I stood in the shop staring at these items. all hastily arranged and covered with 50% off stickers. The stickers serving as a welcome discount for the thrifty and a reminder of the percentage of couples/customers who will end up in mediation dividing their assets. This array of courtship novelties are similar in their approach. 'A Rose for A Rose' 'A Teddy Bear for a Teddy Bear' 'A Mug for a.....' Along with the saccharin gift wave engulfing February came the swinging shit axe that is FunkyPigeon, Cardmaker/Diluted Sentiment Conveyor Belt.

By now you may have the impression that I am not enthused. It is a known fact that I like very few people on this earth. those that I do like are subject to my factual approach to life. It is a safe assumption that I am not a fan of any consumer driven celebrations. If you ask me, saying that a human being is one half of another human being is an affront to mathematics. It is things like this that lead people to lose their minds and partake in unspeakable acts of ridiculous such as speed dating, or as I like to call it Unguided High Velocity Desperation Night.

Tonight I will seek to close my drivel with an articulate point. Here it goes. The word 'Alone' comes from the Middle English meaning All One or Wholly One. The word dates back to the 1200's. It is a representation of one who stands alone. The word 'Lonely' was created 400 years later. It was influenced by the first term but was in no way similar in its description. Just because you are Alone it does not make you Lonely. There is nothing shameful in standing Alone. We were doing it successfully for 400 hundred years before a letter rearrangement associated us to something we are not.

If you remove yourself from the arena of influence I think you may find that you are much more the first than the second.

I wish you all a good evening.

The Genius of Self

All this pop psychology magazine column non sense makes me reach for a bucket. Although I am a little eccentric and when i step out of the house in the morning i look like i have been dressed by two fashion badgers on a cocaine binge, things are pretty much fantastic in Me Land (I say land not world to avoid a label of arrogance)

My wordiness may drift into the insanity lane a little more this evening as I am writing at 3am again and there is no 'day time sensible' to keep me on a fluent and understandable course.

Also I have been watching this tonight so nothing is normal anymore...

.. I am glad I watched this with someone, otherwise there is a good chance this article may have been awkwardly typed by someone in the corner of a room clutching a torch and some kind of kitchen utensil. So there's me in my fetal positioned film watching whilst trying to piece together content for my next throw of the literary insanity dice.

Watching well directed mental breakdowns made me consider, what of this world and it's rules of lucidity. The film tonight probably wasn't the best advertisement for the positive aspects of lunacy but it led me to consider the subject. Today we find our selves held captive in this shallow day time chat purgatory. Where eccentricities are booed and hissed, or even worse, turned into a profitable trend and sold down the river.

Not every 'affliction' needs a cure though. I read some advise columns recently, where a magazine doctor, or mocktor (shameful word sandwich there) advised people about their personal issues. It's filled to the brim with Where am i going wrong Mocktor? How can I make him happy Mocktor? Am I enough Mocktor? Taking a step back for a neutral assessment, people are asking a figure who's credentials are essentially a picture of them smiling at the top of a page, to assist them in a personal crisis. Now I am no judge of others, as I am about as balanced as an unsuspecting kitten on roller skates, however through my individuality and my people watching skills (not in bushes) I believe I can safely say, you know the answers yourself.

If your husband is requesting that he call you Gerald in the evening time instead of Susan, that is quite obviously a problem, not one you have to write a letter about though. There is no merit in asking the smiley face in the magazine what to do.

We should turn from the ideology that states this trend advisory printed media is the answer. It is not. It is an abhorrent insult to individuality and self governance. The same people that tell you how to fix your self in every issue are also the same people who employ Kerry Katona to write a weekly article on her road to recovery. We have reached lowest common denominator literary interest. The Tesco magazine selection looks like total oblivion's coffee table.

You are not the 'Before' in a makeover show. Do not try and empty your soul all over these copies of gossip toilet paper. They are bad for you.

Do what we do, and never do what the next person does. There. A quote from the walking talking M C Escher drawing.

I am soon away to London, (hooray), for some much needed and long overdue wonderfulness.

If I do not return, it will be for a very good reason. (Krispy Kreme Doughnuts are not available around here)

Until the next time Campers.

Somebody Save Us

After a good few weeks of contemplation, followed by me setting light to my table with a soldering torch (epic) and a near concrete face removal whilst attempting impressive feats on a BMX for my child (not epic), I have now returned. I am currently listening Starship and eating copious amounts of pear Fruitellas so the mood is distinctly up beat here. The rest of the Fruitellas are languishing in the kitchen drawer, ashamed of their mundane flavour.

Today I am chewing, dancing to 'We Built This City' and attempting discourse on the horrifying shitwagon of Neon Yes Men otherwise known as The Radio One Presenters.

Look at them. Everything that is wrong with the airwaves starts on that fucking couch.

Please stop hitting your screen, it will do no good. I took a hammer to mine and when I woke up the next day they were still there, spreading I Can't Believe It's Not The Zutons all over an otherwise decent day.

After several lengthy conversations with others on this subject, it is agreed the human epicentre of this BBC Audio turdquake is the one known as Jo Whiley. This walking talking bowl of unsweetened ReadyBrek rolls around the commercial airwaves bumping into programs saying 'Kasabian' whenever prompted by the BBC trend stick. The vile male counterpart of this vacuous popularity hole is known as Zane Lowe. His name alone makes me want kick him down some stairs. Added to this seething chorus line from hell is Moyles. Perfect contestant for an episode of 'Celebrity Gut Punch' As a group they induce many to set light to their own ears in an attempt to avoid the tone of their nightmareish voices.

Through the rage, there is a salient point. I appreciate music greatly. I remember the first time I heard The Kinks. When I heard them I thought that Sony had replaced their speaker range with hi fidelity orgasm peripherals. The current state of affairs on the radio has me wondering whether anybody gives a shit about music anymore. When the radio is held hostage by a banal cavalcade of nodding heads reiterating whatever they overheard from the sarcastic kids on the way to work that day.

It then encourages a tidalwave of singing haircuts who would have been best served staying in their bedrooms, to make demo's and myspace pages flooding the internet with horrendous skinny jeaned karaoke all wailing the like minded version of Delusions of Grandeur 2011. Saying that one of those little shits may be reading this page and thinking that Delusions of Grandeur is a fitting name for whatever pile of audio vomit he is burning to disc this evening.

The people mentioned in this article may be aging as we speak, still clinging to youth by wearing their parka jackets and running around the Glastonbury Festival with their heads up the arse of who ever is head lining that year, but for those of you stupid enough to enjoy these cretins, do not fear, father time will not take them from you. As we speak the new face of Radio One is busying himself around the capital. Nick Grimshaw, Lily Allens Pet Twat and the inspiration for the Wii's new release, Who Wants to Glass a VO5 Cock.

In conclusion if you are a fan of Radio One, I apologise. Well actually I don't apologise. I wonder why you are here in the land of reason and not out and about socialising in your Tinie Tempah glasses with your finger on the pulse. Waiting for the next craze like a child waiting for the toy to fall out of the fucking cereal box.

To everyone else. We paid for that station. We have rights.

Audio Revolution. Engage.

Until the next time.

Writing.

Some times I can think of many things to say, some days I have nothing to say at all. Today, I have this to say.....

These Little Things

If we had a little time
One day
He may sit and read
and breath heavy sigh
A Dreamers Dream in pages
I'd take mine in gazes
His Skin or his eyes
And the way his hands work
While the world rushes to mass
A flash ideal without depth
Or reason
At every cursed pass

Let them have their seasons glory first

He turned this head
And inspired this verse


Written for someone I met recently...

That is all.

Consumer Revelations

Adverts used to make me joyful. As a child, I would sing along with the subtle product invitations, unaware of the companies intent. It was a wonderful time.

Of late, I have sensed a lack of nuance on the part of the Advertisers. They don't want the kids to enjoy themselves and sing songs at all. They don't even give products responsible names and characteristics anymore. Granted in times past, Advertising was responsible for this inspired piece of ridiculous..

Including children in such irresponsible advertising. That is shocking. There is quite obviously nothing worse than this. Fast forward to the 21st century. Oh I'm sorry, I retract that statement, there is something worse...

I think my eyes are bleeding. I think the screaming in my head just hailed a sheep dog.
I think that the Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse have been given access to some eyeliner and low rise jeans. I don't know what message that poster conveys. On the surface probably, 'Come and see this Film' is likely. I will take a step back. This is an innocent fashionable baby with a microphone. The children need fashionable make up wearing babies. Let's all join in the spirit. Aren't they cute. They sing as well, the microphones aren't just for show.

Look....

Well at least they are singing the F-Word. That's nice. Like miniature Julie Andrews' singing on their profitable popularity mountain.

As a child, I had a Battlecat and some Sylvanian Families. There was nothing reprehensible about the Badger Bakery.

The badger and the mole worked hard in that bakery.

I loved that bakery. I don't love Bratz.

A Sharp and Silent Satire

The World Wide Wonder is responsible for many things. Ebay, Wikipedia, Porn.... More Porn. It is a colourful array of pass time options. It is also fast becoming the main source of communication. Gone are the days when we would talk to each other and laugh together. We now LOL. It is a form of laughter without the laughter. I would bet money that when you LOL you are not actually laughing. LMAO and ROFL were beyond me, I had to 'Google' them. Short ways of conveying an action that your friend cannot see.


I am not behind the times or some kind of Anti-Web revolutionary, armed with fountain pens and stamps smashing modems in my Royal Mail cape. I am no superhero. This here, is a superhero...


So my reason for the Title today. Along with the joys of browsing the online Argos (much the same as going to the shop, but with less walking) and finding answers to questions that you would only ask when your comfort mask of Internet anonymous is strapped to your face, those of us who like to attempt humour and not spend our day obtaining champion wrist cramp, are lost here.

We are accused of being rude when quite clearly, to us, we are attempting to take tone on a screen. About as easy as getting a corset on a giraffe. An informative communication is taken as snappy and harsh. Obvious rules. If I give you a one word answer, that is an answer, yes? informative but brief. If I give the same answer and follow it with ShitSandwich, I am being rude to you. Which would you rather have. Peoples assumption that I am being short with them is bringing me ever closer to using the second one on a regular basis. '3pm' will change to '3pm ShitSandwich!' Nobody wants that. Let's all reach a resolution lovely people.

We are all human beings. Life is too short to spend it with you assuming, me replying, you expressing your feelings and retracting your assumption, me plotting against you.

I'll make it simple. I will end all hesitation and doubt in the world wide worries that befall some distressed, obsessed individuals. I feel for you, I want to help you, I know you need to convey your objections at peoples chosen form of wit. Allow me to present to you, an answer that you can use when considering your next complex and mesmerising post or message. I promise it will solve these ills.

Fuck Off.

....to the rest of you, I bloody well love you to pieces, you are all great. I want to hug you.

Realistic Story Corner

Fairytales and Nursery Rhymes.

Humpty Dumpty is a victim of the inappropriate stamp of dislike (Politically Incorrect Character). Judging by his shape his fall and demise was inevitable. First off, his shape was Egg like, so even in checkered shorts he wouldn't have been able to maintain his posture and stability. I don't think Humpty ever sat on that wall, I think he may have attempted to, but his efforts were met with failure. I would have thought that after having spent some time attempting to sit at ground level and ending like the tortoise on its back flailing about trying to correct himself, Humpty may have had the sense not to attempt the same feat on a wall. According to the book below, which has apparently passed the traum-o-meter, although Humpty was not appropriate on a wall, he did have a chance to procreate. I don't even want to know how that worked.



Next, Three Blind Mice had their tales removed by a lady in a kitchen. Again politically incorrect. I apologise for my naivety, I guess that these days we lure them from the kitchens of England by offering them Waitrose Gruyere and reciting Tennyson. It's not wrong, it's realistic. If I met a mouse in my kitchen I certainly wouldn't Hi Five it.

The Brothers Grimm penned an elderly child eater. However as a child I never considered the possibility that I may be eaten. I was sitting there mindscreaming "IT'S A HOUSE MADE OUT OF GINGERBREAD, BLOODY GINGERBREAD" No consequences, just baked goods.

If you go in a book shop now, you will see a lot of the visible character books are based on characters that have airtime on major TV channels. So hey, maybe it's not political correctness. I am being a pessimist again aren't I? It is for the children. Humpty is a traumatic tale of uncaring non-vegan bastards on horse back not meeting the needs of the local Egg shaped wall climbing nutcase.

Hooray for In The Night Garden, with their nonsensical speech patterns and mesmerising music. Don't give your child Dumpty, give your child this....



Yes, Time To Wash Faces with Macca Pakka.

Yes. That is the acceptable face of young childhood storytelling. Those cold eyes just spell fairytale, don't they? Bless him.

Anyway. Enough of my nonsense.

Unpredictable Friday/Advanced Mathematics

Hey, today is Friday. The party begins here people. Let's launch ourselves into the weekend revelry by getting a little crazy. Allow me to engage to good people of web with a lovely image, Ministry of Sound album cover? Hardhouse podium Dancer with glow bracelets?

That's the Lorenz Attractor. It is beautifully complex. It is mathematical soft porn. Apart from the known Butterfly effect, it is one of the definitive descriptions of what is known as Chaos Theory.

Seemingly unpredictable movements taking place in a determinative system. The rate of some things being constant in movement, for example, being made unstable at the point of origin, with the effects only being seen once the initial disorder reaches a wider scale.

The mission is to find the factors at the point of origin that produce Chaos, giving order to Chaos, as there is Chaos in order.

So for some Friday fun, I'm going back to basics. As an alternative to Twitters Follow Friday, I am going to show a little appreciation to the wonderful people who think in numbers.

The picture above shows that basic order and disorder in it's mathematical form, can be an extremely beautiful thing.

Turn off Twitter, turn off Facebook, go outside and appreciate the simple and seemingly mundane things. They are not as mundane as you think.

That is all.

I like MS Paint

Oh look, a little Omen-esque drawing. Character from a little short I worked on last year. One of many little things in my desktop box of unfinished fun. A unusual ode to an admired writer. (Yes, that writer) What can I say, I likes what I likes boys and girls.




That is all.

A Cynics Romance

Something, a bit rhymey. Was reading a lot of Edgar Allan Poe last night. Anyway, here, have some of this.

Give me this rain and a beautiful grey sky
Bring me the winding road and hills
And bring me a still and silent gaze
Give me lust in it's bracing phase
A sharp wit and a cynics smile
While the rest walk by
In search of loves illusions
Give me a refusal to submit
And an amusement of fear
That apprehends the mind
With a tight unwavering grip
And leave me
To savor and write.

Damien Thorn Says F&@k The Naughty Step

I have low tolerance for tantrum throwing children, not all, the kind of children who turn over furniture in Argos after their mother denies their request for Lego. They land in a heap on the floor and form some kind of public protest slump. You know the ones I'm talking about.

If you are the parent of one of these children, this is not a break down of family dynamics that needs time out clocks, naughty steps and Jo Frost therapy. You don't have issues, this family has issues.


My reasoning for this post, I was in Homebase this morning buying a shelf. I witnessed what seemed like a human firework display going off in the paint aisle. A lady was trying to secure a small person who had obviously become upset and in order to demonstrate their frustration were throwing themselves into the Dulux. The small person landed on the floor and commenced with angry flailing star shapes. It was amazing. I was rather impressed, the flailing human then started to move the show along the floor in an effort to make aggressive contact with the now distraught mother, who had probably only come in for a tin of duckshell.

The grand finale was this one-stop tantrum shop acquiring his mothers bag, and lassoing it down the aisle where the contents promptly dispersed. One of the items landed close to my ankle so I made my way cautiously into the arena of conflict to return it to her. With a look of embarrassment she thanked me and explained briefly that the violent remix of Proms in The Park had been initiated by her refusal to give him a Kit Kat.

My presence obviously rendered her unable, in her mind, to appropriate any form of discipline, she turned and offered him a Kit Kat Ceasefire. He promptly returned to his chauffeur driven throne and awaited payment.

When did we, the adults, start entering hostage negotiations over snacks.

I never baby talk children. My generally firm tone secured me the title Scary Auntie Gemma. I retained the title for many years.

Although the Homebase mother will not be reading this, if your child is in Tesco's collapsing and spinning like a raging sprinkler over a bag of Wotsits, be reminded and take heart. You do not have to submit. You do not have to retreat or be afraid. Your child is testing you. Your child is extremely smart and quick witted, treat them as such.

They may seem to you miniature ticking time bombs in Mr Men Tshirts, but believe me, your child is no Damien Thorn.

The Acrimonious Pleasure Theory

Is the aspiration for pleasant, well behaved serenity, a sensible one?

According to the man who inpired the term Sadism, the answer is no.

"They declaim against the passions without bothering to think that it is from their flame philosophy lights its torch."

-Marquis De Sade

The first question, regarding our human behaviour is, what constitutes unreasonable behaviour? The second, by what measure do we define reasonable?

The second question if far harder to answer. Unreasonable has several definitions, some consecrated by law. Reasonable is a subject of state, a term of contentment.

So, at the beginning of this piece, I asked whether well behaved reasonable aspirations are sensible. Sensibility itself lends to the spirit of mild mannered existence.

Sensiblis is the latin origin, meaning perceptible to the senses. the next definition is to be aware. Later description of the term is reasonable, then practical rather than fashionable. Last meaning recorded capacity for refined emotion.

How do we answer the first question, when our own history of the the terms by which we measure our good behaviour have been a deviation.

The Marquis De Sade was arrested and confined to an asylum for his unreasonable thoughts. Reading his work you can make your own decision on whether any of it is acceptable. His was a crime of creating a fiction of extreme. Had his discourse been a documentation of war, it is doubtful that he would have reached this end. Eroticism was the thin dividing line.

My definition of reasonable is simple, to not inflict distress upon others where undeserved or uninvited.

When measures start to decide upon character based on polite conduct or private practice, that is when we are in danger of slowing civilisation to a crawl. It is a rule governed by the next mans society. If you choose not to become a part of someone else's ideals that is not unreasonable.

Personally i find a certain measure of passion and anger desirable. It shows depth.

The enjoyment of anger and pain is far from unreasonable. If it is invited and agreeable to those involved, then it is just as it would be if the the two things were the polar opposite.

To classify the enjoyment as depravity, is the work of the bores.

The world was civilised by far more than well mannered etiquette.

Philosophy takes a measure of all behavioural instincts to function.

Just Sayin'.

The Estrous Ailment Veil

I consider myself, a some what cynical person. I do not feel that this is negativity on my part. I can be humorous and friendly, however life as a subject does not encourage me to throw shapes.

In contrast, from 9 o'clock in the morning, until 3 o'clock in the afternoon on a week day, if you use your television remote, life becomes some kind of enthusiastic muliebrity montage.

This daytime smile-a-thon takes an unusual but persistent tone though. Please help me understand this.

Now as far as I am aware, the dilemma associated to this advert, is not a celebration of any kind. But when you see the television advert, the music plays, the pretty lady poses carefree, and dances, life is a basket of puppies and somewhere, almost subliminally you will hear the faint whisper of 'Bladder Weakness'. you wouldn't have known what you had just heard, too busy being impressed by the ladies salsa moves. However if you do ever come to suffer such a problem, somewhere in your mind, this advert will remain.

I could probably well digest one of these adverts. It is proof of power advertising, what I cannot digest is when it becomes a daily cerebral pummelling. Apparently these ladies have similar digestion issues.


That is a glamorous stool softener. the television advert for this product takes the somewhat chilling guise of a girly chat in a restaurant. Champions for stool softening, Adversaries of lunch time etiquette apparently. If any of my friends took out that box at the dinner table and started to explain its use, I would likely lock them in the toilet, thus solving the problem. Lest we forget that the viewers are watching this advert whilst eating their own lunch. If you did suffer such a problem, and were cautiously consuming your ham sandwich, the last thing you would want, would be four joy machines discussing the thing you're trying to repress.

So allow me to explain my discourse, Paracetamol/Ibruprofen in it's basic form, provides excellent relief for pain. When you switch on the television, you may see branded specific pain remedies, you do not see any glamorous advertising of the basic ingredient though. Reason, what can you say about paracetamol. It is about as exciting as tying your shoe laces. The products above are of the same caliber.

These things are an exploitation. There is no round of applause for creating the appearance that women spend all day discussing Pads, Break ups and fashion. There is no glory in that. (see Shovel and a Paving Slab)

I know a great deal of intelligent, erudite women. They are beautiful and funny. Granted we do not spend everyday discussing the works of Sophocles, however, their is an understanding that bowel movements/or the lack of are not a regular on the social agenda.

My suggestion is that those responsible for our viewing pleasure, slow the jazzy discomfort tide.

Let people eat lunch in peace.

Well Then That's No MacGuffin.

I am a little tired today. last night was restless. It was somewhat self inflicted. My mind did heavily fix itself on the seduction of the senses though and I couldn't rest.

In the midst of my sleepless night, I, being a single 29 year old woman, did what any one in my sleepless predicament would do when thinking of that seduction. I thought about Alfred Hitchcock.

It is hard to place your own thoughts at times when watching his films. His body of work is monumental. He was a master of conveying unsettling, breathless cinema. This is one of the things I adore about him the most.

Today we are reluctantly aboard the Hollywood A-list Express where promoted films seem like some kind of 2 hour MTV advert. The actors who play the characters, at times, outway the characters themselves.

In comparison though, 1945, Salvador Dali had designed the Dream Sequence in Spellbound. The film starred Bergman, Peck and Chekhov, but none of those names were ever bigger than the narrative. And that was due to the insistance of Hitchcocks direction and the weight of Hecht and McPhails adaptation. The pyschological effects on the audience outwayed everything. Because the audience mattered. There was a mutual respect. I trust all the writers and directors that I admire to fulfil that admiration with whatever they choose to do not with what I expect of them. That is the basis of suspense, to let the writers and directors do their job.

I have two overwhelming Hitchcock favourites

Subtle scene detailing, perfection in voyeuristic camera angles, the suspense of seemingly normal actions. Hitchcock is a cinematic legend. His work is timeless.

Modern day cinema's access to CGI/Special effects have caused many viewers to depart from these ideals.

Where we are lucky enough to find current writers and directors that rely upon their own creative instincts, we should appreciate them, and allow them to take us where they want us to go.

And to the genius..

Thank you for taking us to where we are...

The Value of Preference and Medium

Some things in this world you just can't put a price on. Happiness, the kind words of a loved one, the actions in a VISA advert, this mint condition Sword of Omens....



..Priceless (excuse while I take a moment to look at the Sword of Omens)

Now have a little look at the lovely children's tricycle. All red and shiny. Aww, how lovely.



Now, I'm a 29 year old, and obviously have no need for stabilisers, however I am enamoured by that tricycle. Not just any tricycle. That one. That playful little bundle of shiny childlike fun had a price tag of £12,000 to £15,000 in December. Some of you may think, Argos are taking the piss a little bit aren't they? Not really, that tricycle was owned by Harvey Stephens who played Damien in The Omen.

As tricycles go, that's an expensive one, but there is only one of those in existence. If I owned it, it would more than likely have it's own room and visitors would be roundhoused for trying to touch it.

I wanted to start the typing day with a discussion of value. When you read stories of the worth associated to certain things, and the words used are inspired by the notion that paying so much money for such an earthly thing, is some how ridiculous, ludicrous, the product of some people having more money than they know what to do with, you may start to align with the idea that there should be some kind of monetary cap on memories.

In a time where everybody is trying to under cut the next man in the War of the Supermarket Giants (Sounds like a pretty boring film Title) we are being led to a path of reasoning that makes us feel like the best price is what we should all aspire to.

When I shop, I have to make these kinds of decisions. It is a necessity. It is not a choice.

Truth is, you don't have to have big money to collect things. When you shop in big chains, it is big money that is buying your loyalty to a brand.

If you visit an antiques dealer, you could leave with something that has history, and that has been loved, and deserves to be loved again, or at least leave knowing a little more than you did when you went in. Some of the people in there love those items and spend each day caring for them.

The supermarket which has turned into some kind of one stop solution hell hole will teach you the same thing every time you shop there and after many years, I know what good value is and Can't Believe It's Not Butter is always on a promotional deal.

I'm going on Ebay now to stare at Thundercats Toys.

Ta ta for now my good people.

The Art of Conversation

Today I had the most wonderful conversation with my Grandad. He is one of the most wonderful somebodies I know. Growing up I used to think that he was magic because he could tap out the beat to music really fast, by drumming his fingers on the table. He is married to one of the other, most lovely people on the planet, my Nanna.

Today I sat and had a conversation with him about classical music. We spoke about the composers we liked. He has a passion for Beethoven. (Not the St Bernard) He is also not so fond of Brahms. I always knew that he liked Beethoven.

I spoke about my favourite piece. Prokofiev - Montagues and Capulets.
I am more a follower of the heavy sways and crashes. I have never been to see an orchestra play live though. It is a dream.

I am absolutely amazed every time I hear classical music, that it was composed by someone. All that sound was created and nurtured piece by piece, with an exhaustive amount of effort and care.

After the piece I wrote yesterday, and after the conversation I had today, I wanted to convey that conversation on wonderful things is a beautiful human capability.

It was my Grandads birthday recently, I brought him some kind of tea box set. I wanted get him something a little more personal but couldn't find a thing. However, tonight I thought of something.

I am a lover of classical music. If i could have it drip fed into my mind I would. An associated piece of this adoration though, is that I love classical music because of my Grandad. I have never wanted any part of popular culture really, I have trouble digesting it. I tire of things too quickly. I have never, and will never tire of Classical music, and it is because of him.

He is a wonderful man, I love him very much and this is to go with the tea box set.

A Quantitive Easing/Dave Does Disbursement

No, readers, that is not a Tory Pornography 2 disc Set. That is 2011, in the form of a blog title. While we all Ninja Star our credit cards across the counter at Debenhams, and nurse Sale Sign related blindness on our DFS half price 'why did we buy this sofa' sofas, the government are sitting in the Downing Street Ship of Despair calculating how to turn your year into a Singing Dancing ShitFest.

The Creative Director of Demolition Briefcase The Musical is Chancellor of the Fun Police George Osborne.

Here he is looking concerned for your welfare.


Don't be fooled, under this mask of overwhelming sympathy, there lurks a grey predatory mind. If you stare at the picture for too long, your house will be subject to foreclosure.

The shining turd beacon, however, merrily floating at the centre of this epic financial toilet bowl, is the Human Event Horizon David Cameron, features drawing ever closer to the centre of his face, reputation drawing ever closer to total annihilation. Supporting him is the Captain of Trial Sized politics, Liberal Democrat kamikaze General Nick Clegg.

There you have the three main characters in the Cabinet production of 'Dude, Who Stole My Pension?' But they are not the architects of this travesty.

While they regale you with their TV show Ambiguous Information Weekly, the leaders of the major banks relieve you of your assets with all the criminal prowess of a shoplifting addict on day release. Aghast, i say. Shock. Well, no. They did it last year and the year before in broad daylight. They forced a gargantuan bailout arrangement , more than once, paid for by the general public, and then used their bailout to royally shaft the general public, rolling out explanations that would floor Marcus Du Sautoy.

So in the spirit of creative finances, and in return for the entertainment they have provided, I am considering a letter of request to the government, that we pay the extra 2.5% in feces and deliver it to the Banks largely responsible for the VAT increase. This may seem like an absurd form of currency, however that's a rough estimation of the GBP worth by 2012, and we are essentially bailing out the government so they can bailout the banks again. We are essentially saving on postage.

Failing that, and in exchange for the late Christmas Potential Bankruptcy Sweater that they have all sent us, I suggest we all club together and offer them all a coach trip to the side of the cliff where they will undoubtedly need to be once WikiLeaks gets a hold of them.

It wont be feces in exchange for 2.5% of anything. It will just be shit through their letter boxes.

So here's to 2011. Here's to the Cameron Floating Loyalty Band Wagon Complete with wrist restraints. Here's to the City Bankers. That's not a euphemism. You are bastards for what you have done.

Lastly, and most importantly, here's to us, sitting reluctantly on board, praying for the iceberg to move.

Seriously, Here's to us.