Hats and Such

I saw a man down the street today. To call him not very sharp would be to put it bluntly. He did, however, have a rather nice hat. One's upstairs flaws can often be overlooked with the aid of a good hat, such as was the case here. Sharpness is overrated, anyhow. It creates too many pricks.

The Phony Rung

Shoesie correctly pointed out that my rankings are judged mostly on quantity, rather than quality. I'd say about 90%. So to win my undesirable favour all one needs to do is do. Still, I'd like to clear up a few things. His current air of self-deprecation is refreshing in lieu of his previous manner, albeit in an unsettling way, and his dismissal of himself in favour of the currently hibernating Pewter Pew is unfair. P.P.'s biggest strength is his lack of pretension — though his biggest weakness is spawned from the same source, in that sometimes you get the feeling that you'd enjoy a particular weekend chronicle a tad more if you were actually there at the time. I find it akin to explaining your dreams — when they don't feature gold pine cones, that is. He does make for an interesting tonic, though.

It seems the Diplomat landed on this persona to combat his face-to-face manner, much as I vented my unpleasantness in the face of my timidity. A totally organic reader may get the wrong impression. Lucky we don't have any, then. Ah but maybe this is our true selves, and that deep within we're angry, lusting lunatics. Either way, his walls are better than mine. Most likely he'll celebrate this revelation with a blow on the ol' shoehorn — after the well-worn "Who's up for a good shoehorn?" line wears off.

The Shoehorn saga seems to have garnered me that elusive corner of the spotlight, which was most likely my intention in the first place. Thus the real key to my rankings seems to rest on how much attention I get. I am a whore, after all. Though I'd never admit it.

Rotten Sun

Plunging into the wrong pastime tomorrow. For coins. Need certain arms to wrap my gift. Tip the scales. A twenty should do it. Apologise to the fish. Elope and sew hips. One of those jerks was standing at the foot of some obstacles screaming: "I need your lap!" He had a point. It was a stanley knife wrapped in a bum glove. I bade farewell and filled my accountant. He bought me a jet. I mastered it, flew it and found a spouse somewhere.

How to Eat Cape Cod

His sexually-charged persona (three hundred hours of community service) certainly doesn't lend itself to the Juan, but I'm sure there's enough rough and proper stuff beneath the surface to see his extra-busy hand try itself at good ol' fulfillment and all that jazz. Hopefully his shoehorn isn't too persuasive. Though much grander, the next's shoehorn is outweighed by a weightier mind, and only rarely overpowers his hands when the tricks convince and the moment is right. He knows what he's looking for. The last knows too, but his is a harder thread to weave... Or so I believe.

So all this boils down to me and my steam, standing on some sort of mountain and chesting my pride rather aloofly. And I don't care for your verdicts. Or the shapes you twist your pricks. Or even how you clean your specks and spicks. I don't even care for proper sentences. I'm just a lonely country boy with nice ears.

So one, I predict, will die in a sea-side shack near a pier. Here's hoping, though.

Ah screw it.

Here's a breath at the top of my lungs and a bedside end a significant amount of time later.

Hollo Monday

Some wanker wrote the last post. Still, I'm a tad disillusioned, but that always happens to me.

The Mediums III

1. Music.

Listless

Here's the list hinted at in the title:

Glorious Promotion

The much-fabled Bucket Men have finally joined the modern world. You can find four of their songs and a slew of not much here. You can either listen to them there and then with horrible compression, or you can download them in high quality for your own masochistic use.

The Jack Nicholsons, too, have leapt onto this unstable bandwagon with pretty much the same deal, only with slightly less content.

Neither should hold any interest to anyone interested in music.

Madam Council Worker

Where to turn in times of trouble? Madam Council Worker. The first thing that strikes you upon entering her abode is a startling range of off-beat bohemian ornaments and framed mirrors. Soon you begin to notice the subtle but claustrophobic aroma of incense, which hangs in the air like a lynched man but smells far worse. None of this, however, could prepare you for the sight of Madam Council Worker herself. Clad in elaborate brass beads and platinum bracelets, she resembles a watermelon wedged into wedding cake. Layer upon layer of colourful fabric was wrapped around her body, with the only visible flesh being that of her bony wrists and creviced face, to remind you that you are in fact staring at a human being.

It was many a problem that led me to her door. Far too many to go into here. Suffice to say, I'm up a creek and in a spot. I tried all the usual solutions: reasoning, denial and alcohol, but none of them improved my situation. Madam Council Worker was my last and only hope.

I first heard of her from a friend of mine, who, after suffering years of alcohol, drug and physical abuse, turned up one day looking positively radiant. When I asked what brought about this amazing transformation, she simply smiled and replied: "Madam Council Worker".

"O Madam Council Worker, I have travelled many Ks to reach you and seek your advice."
She gazed at me through thick lizard-like eyelids and nodded slowly to herself. I waited in obvious discomfort.

"Fuck off," she said eventually, waving me out rudely with her bony wrists.

And I did.

Observational Tragedy

There's a swan in the river. Glistening like a porterhouse steak, it makes its first mis — I wish I could be free like that swan. Free to float where the lecher's roam; free to please as I please; free to give thanks to banks and part with seas. But who'd update the times? It's either freedom or self-sovereignty. And no one's giving me an easy answer. Hmm. Maybe my mike's not on. Hello? Testing, testing, swan two three. No one reacted. It must be on.

You know what a swan represents? A swan represents the glorious, albeit brief, union between two older swans. And you know what I represent? I represent the swan. The trial's tomorrow, followed swiftly by the tribulation. I'll be there, of course. And so will you, I hope. We can sit there and watch the jury box. It's going to be a wonderful match. Maybe I'll even strike it. Not too hard, mind you, just enough to keep it in check and obedient.

Not that I would say anything like "I'm feeling lucky. Lucky's feeling luckier", but sometimes things get twisted and, well, it sounds that way. I'll tap off the beaten path whenever possible, though. And drink from the faucets of tennis. I'm also not liable to say something like "I'll blow a balloon until the air bursts out", but again this dude gets misconstrued. If only words weren't so definite and minds weren't so unappealingly made-up.

But the swan, still see-sawing and cutting a fine line through the lake, has become restless. Then again, maybe I just haven't seen it sleep. I'm only there two minutes a day, after all. Unfortunately that didn't hold up well in court. You won't catch me trying that again. Goodnight.

Betty Lou Has the Minor Key Blues

By Chris White, Rod Argent and Hugh Hamilton

"I'm a parent at last!" she screamed, her eyes dancing — or so it seemed.
"Really? How did this happen?" I wondered.
"Would you like me to go into detail?" she asked, but her inflection was unclear.
"Yes please."
"I found a baby in the chimney."
I paused.
"That's funny," I began, "I found a chimney in my baby."
"What?"
"Nothing."

If I settled for less, she wouldn't have taken my watch. Without it, I just keep bumping into things. The irony being that if I could find my way to the watch shop, I'd buy another one. It's a cruel, cruel world. Aside from that, though, life's pretty good. Especially if you can ignore those starving white kids in Africa. Which I could up until the point where one of them spoke to me in English. You don't want that to happen, really. You don't want to see them as real people. But when he spoke, he could have been my neighbour or my next door neighbour and my stiff lips quivered.
"All right," I said, "I'll fund your excursions."
"What?"
"Nothing. Here's a dollar."

Now I'm in a bit of a spot. If it wasn't for my collages, I wouldn't be able to cope at all. They are my livelyhood, you see. Though the critics invariably describe them as "derivative and uninspired", I know them to be ahead of their time and worthy of Mark Twain himself.

I walked in on her and she was with another man. Several other men, in fact. And women, too. They were having a business lunch at a café. Cunts.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"What?"
"Nothing."

Kapital Letter

I slapped a man in Freo just to see him die. Slaps, however, aren't lethal, and this was no exception. He merely nursed his cheek with one hand and punched me with the other. That experiment cost me a pretty penny in hospital bills, but I suppose it's better that I learnt it early in life. Well, at least before I became an assassin or anything.

But such things are mere contrivances on the road to true fulfillment. Is it a road littered with harmony, though? Well, socialism is based around the building of a classless society, so I assume it must be littered with something. Whatever that may be, though, the whole thing boils down to a lack of labels and unclear definitions. Sure, the "I'm not a communist, I'm a Marxist" defense failed to convince the authorities during the black-list years, but today's world is much more tolerant and gullible. With the right backing, a New English socialist could really go places. And hopefully they'd be the right ones.

Why has it become such a dirty word? Is it really that much different from capitalism? No. In fact if you remove the democratic element and all that stuff about private ownership, capitalism is very similar to communism. And yet here we are, waging war against Wales for having a few fanciful ideas about harmony. Well I'm here to change all that.

I propose a revolutionary new system where there is no government at all. That's right, no laws, no elections, no nothing. Everyone can just run around and do what they want. And no one would be prosecuted for exposing themselves in public.

How I Learned To Stop Reading The Tom

They have bits that fit together. Some call it destiny, others call it genetics. I call it fun. They have fingers that interlock over great distances. Fingers that disappear and shake. But particular hassles and reluctant turtles do not a happy couple make. And I should know; I saw two people kissing on a train. Seems like a rather unsavoury pastime to me. And there's too much oil and grease for it to be sweet. Stick with the bits, I say. Stick with Heaven's template for recreation. But don't spill a drop.

They say it leads to heartache and cigarettes, but I know that's a crock. The stalk leads to heartache and smoking leads to cigarettes, not the other way round. You can't believe everything they say. Especially if you know they're lying. But that's neither clear nor fair. Too much of it, you see, is wasted. Whether it be in rolls of toilet paper or on someone's toes. There's really only one place for it. If the bits fit, don't fix it.

My studies led me to believe that the most sacred act in our play was that of the embrace. But after hugging several strangers and a few pillows, I began to realise that I really wanted somewhere to stick my bits. Preferably somewhere willing. Meanwhile time around me was running out. There were only so much years before my ne'er-do-wells eroded into a clutch of wrinkled flesh, ne'er to be seen again. And I wanted to close the deal long before then.

I failed, of course. Now I spend my time vicariously prying into these two's lives, waiting to see if either of them befall that which befell me. I put my money on him, because, as they say, you have to learn how to sink before you can swim. Call it philanthropic justice, if you will. But if you do, make sure you explain it to me.

Plastic Tips

I rode from Pacific crests on plastic tips but only reached the ankles, not the hips. Granted there were certain things that could be done from that position, but my interests lay elsewhere and my pants were full. I'm not one to reach for the prize without having reached the podium. And plastic tips only get you so far.

Glimpses make it worse, though. Like a fake glass of water when you're fairly thirsty. Sure, you could just take it and swig, but that would be accepting deceit. And deceit is not something I'm willing to rest on. Everyone else may do it day to day (via night), but I have pure, clean-cut intentions. No washing powder behind these ears.

I did, however, gather up my plastic tips and placed them on my desk. After close inspection, I discovered that most of them consisted of nothing more than worthless advice, whilst the rest were divided between endless peaks, suspicious glancing blows and loose, perpetual change. It's a wonder they got me this far.

I made a loose grab for ships on changing tides but there's more to me and less besides. There's still hope, or so I've heard. I could claw together a small fortune and sing its greasy melody to superannuation. And then we'd really start living. Breathing, too. It's been so long since they sent word.

Plastic tips can creep and grind from any pocket or mouth. Each one can observe your sleeping, found your finding and lock your housing. It's a pity none of them can smile. But I won't split or milk their honey or grit their tiling. I'll just lie back and say, "Here lies a man stooped in truth and steeped in youth. With fanciful manners and daily planners, he uses four walls to keep up the roof." But without rhyming, obviously.

Mostly Archetypal

One, a remarkably tolerant and beautiful maiden, the other, a stunted fiend with busy fingers. Not to mention smarts, wit, grace, vibrancy, tenderness, and vanity, stubbornness, pessimism and ineptitude, respectively.
"You're my favourite thing," said the latter one morning, "and we're out of milk."
"Thank you, and no," replied the former.

Which brings me to my point: there has been a fair amount of change since 1502. There were no computers in 1502, yet here I am in 2005 using one. It's funny how the world works.

"Let's never leave this couch," said the latter on another morning.
The former smiled wistfully and went to work.
A few hours later, the latter left the couch and went to the bathroom to experiment.

Or to put it bluntly: I'm verging on a sneeze.

"I could can your behind and charge a lot for it."
"Don't be cheeky."

Oh and I'll make it.

Cushion the Envelope

Well, enough I suppose. I shouldn't keep rolling in the gutter and brushing off on the postman. It's like engulfing someone in dour ash, and soon they may just sneeze the wrong way. I'd say "No more" if I believed it, but I'll cross my organs and try to keep my mind on pleasantries. One last thing: picket fences never yield enough time.

Well, there'll be some. Sitting on couches and standing on corners. Golly gosh. A mil-lion memories lying over some glaring hurdles. Incidentally, I'm bringing some mighty impressive springs for my daggy shoes. Oh and a positively optimistic smile.

If it weren't for the blind, I could observe the sky. Bastards. And if it weren't for fees and seas... Well, I was piecing together magazine pictures and piercing personalities, and mixing up cauldrons of improbable potions, but their pie charts have been comprehensively dwarfed, superseded and overshadowed by this lovely oven, with its produce of sweet biscuits and lame cakes.

Two generations can sing of one men guys, but one generation can sing of two, and he tries.

More Dead Words

Yeah yeah. I mainly grumbled about that because I was fed up with myself. I'm not saying that songs are the ultimate vehicle for words, because obviously you can cut a whole lot deeper with a novel or even a poem, but songs, when done right, are infinitely more pleasurable to experience. And it's a visceral pleasure. Sometimes you can read a poem and think "Why don't you just come out with it, Yeats? You're a lonely, miserable bugger in some vanity tower by the river. We get the picture." Yes, you can defend it by the way he says it; the beauty of the words and all that jazz, but that's nothing compared to what you can get from a great piece of music. Music transcends intellectualism. And yes, I know it's really idiotic to compare the two mediums. Basically all I'm trying to say is that music has leapt to the top of my pile, and this argument is purely a matter of my personal taste. In my last medium ranking post, if you'll remember, I placed writing at the top, with the justification that it's "the most expressive". I meant "expressive" in an intellectual kind of way; profound ideas and all that. Well, now I've thoroughly gone off profundity. It's just me, of course. Writing is a terrific medium.

Ironically I once stole from Yeats and compromised him heavily in a song. It was all that shit about swans too. Thanks Bob.

Y2K Bug Blues

Somehow I expected toppling buildings and distressed damsels. But here we are, reemerging as though from a short sabbatical. And here I am talking without the excessive clog of faux cryptitis. Perhaps I no longer need to disguise the fact that there is nothing beneath the surface.

I am the faulty leg, to be sure, but I'll try and hold up as long as I can and keep this second coming* from the toilet seat. Hopefully there's enough womb for us all.

Like the man with the "We All Die At Noon" sign around his neck, I have a healthy amount of egg on my face. Luckily this time it wasn't expelled by a business man negotiating unsuccessfully with his innards on a bus filled with school kids. When you've caught your breath, I'll move on.

The tall and the short of it (if you know me, you'll take the latter option) is that I'm prying my fingers back into working order and letting the buggers run free in a meadow somewhere. Excuse me if I don't acknowledge the cackle of diplomatic applause. Presumptuous, I know. Hoot hoot baby.

Roll your eyes and smoke 'em while we're here. I want to get it over with before hand. Now I plunge into the depth of my wallet to get a few coins off the loan-moths, which I will try to fashion into a crisp Venetian ticket. Goodbye my juvenile spatulas. I'm off to the weep of a violin.

Cheerio.

*© William Butler Yeats and Ben, 1921 and 2003, respectively.

The Mediums Mach Their Second Territory

1. Music.
Easily the most enjoyable medium to experience, and that's all there is to it.
2. Writing.
Dead words that occasionally elicit pleasure. The Human Condition™ doesn't bear scrutiny, however, so most of it is rubbish. At least with a song you have a tune to fall back on.
3. Film.
In the hands of such a lot fools trying to anathematise the way that you feel, but has produced a handful of pleasant distractions.
4. Art.
Still dead, but if you avoid the galleries you may find something that's worth a look.
5. Theatre.
Yeah right.

With life-affirming love and affection,

Hugh

A Smirk from the Shoes Down

Hugh And The Times
Chronicling The Human Condition™ since 1905.

Either we've all hit concrete and won't be able to make it to China, or it's just me. The man with a life seems to be living it instead of writing about it, while the other third has put up a firm and cryptically unstable roadblock that could, in all honesty, mean anything. Yours faithfully seems intent on limiting the spidery stride of his poison fingers, so he's no help either. If I could be so bold as to call this a triumvirate, then I'll say that I will really miss 66.666666666667% of its writing, and be somewhat glad that I won't be tarnishing it as viciously as before with my 33.333333333333%.

The wretched idea of waiting "till I feel like it", as if I'm a mellow who travels by breeze, is locked and keyed in combat with the borrowed aphorism, "It's better to burn out, than to fade away" and twisted unfairly in a similar manner as its '90s embodiment, who now resides in oak with a lot less looks and an absent consciousness. But that jerk deserves to have his words twisted. And his potatoes pinched.

The lowest point? Ooh. So many to choose from. But I think it has to go to criticising myself under the pseudonym "A Well-Wisher". Wanker.

Hugh And The Times
Wanking on canvas since 1905.

It can only go up from here.

I couldn't even resist slipping into that awful tone here. But all's fair when you're amoral. Which moral remains to be seen, not to mention the issue of a missing space, but I'll stick by it anyway. I suppose it's better this way. Back in the day, I'd finger the keys even if they weren't in the mood, which isn't necessarily the best road to mutual happiness. Now I at least wait until they consent before I dive in.

What about that fellow who learnt to stop fearing himself? Well, since he will never ever ever read this, I have a really strong urge to insult the pepper out of him. He will never ever ever ever ever complete one track. He will never ever ever ever ever post on his site again. Yes, exactly. They aren't insults at all. They are selfish extensions of my warped psyche that say a lot more about me than him. Then again, his most recent burst of enthusiasm and ambition was so short lived that I became annoyed instead of expecting. No, that's not a reason either. Nice fellow, I suppose. Hope he marries and lives off the earth.

Hugh And The Times
Terminally self-obsessed since 1905.

Well aren't we all? No? OK, it's just me then.


Hugh And The Times
Looking forward to 2098, if not beyond since October.

If you can cut through the preceding drivel, then you shall hear my heart from here on in. But seeing as it's not much of a talker, I'll continue anyway.

Incidentally, for those of you in a serious enough state to consider a marriage of sorts, I offer you the use of this line, which I probably won't be able to use myself for quite some time, if ever: See you in court.

Hugh And The Times
Ho Hum.

You're History

The best thing to do is smile grimly and let the past be just that. Your history ain't mine, doll. I'm still lacked in clews. Also, a Hello to Ms. Laurel & — I know your discrete admirer and he's even smaller than me. Please dress more discreetly/completely.

Shoehorn Harry Lets Loose on Nervous Nymphs

The less said about that, the better.

"What did I do?" he asked.
"Exactly," I replied.

He then flew off into the clouds and got promoted for his altruism.

Harry's Agile Wit

Obviously shaken by my comments, Harry has posted the following rebuttal on his site:

I WILL FUCKING SHOEHORN YOU ALL!!!!!!

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead

Harry The Shoehorn Shithead and his catchy name are four steps away from noosing my head. How can I live down the fact that he has been updating more regularly in recent times than me? Actually it's not as hard as you think, especially in lieu of tepid passages of uninspiration such as:

It's been uneventful of late. I'm FUCKING TOP SHIT!!!!!! I wish I had my camera. I could show you my throbbing shoehorn.

And he lives for all the pregnant women.

Look elsewhere! Stephan's site, for instance.

161st Anniversary Special!

I'm so excited I'm speechless.

But is He a Poof?

I apologise for addressing you like a person (which, as Ben correctly identified, only leads to the pitfalls of “Sorry I haven’t updated for a while, but nothing much has been happening…"), but this matter deserves to be treated on a human-to-human level. Ben (of Betweenways fame, and a burgeoning songwriting talent) uncannily, if not overtly, resembles Oscar Wilde. This is going by one small picture in the paper, mind you, but the fact that Stephan Fry, who also resembles Ben, plays Wilde in a biopic only serves to reinforce my separated-at-birth suspicions. Also, Ben arguably possess wit, which the other two have in spades. Well all right, Wilde has tenfold the amount of Fry, but still.

Leonard Cohen on a Pile of Electric Ladies

That said, there is a certain indefinable somethang that bears thinking about. But this has nothing to do with thinking.

Not including my own compositions, what is the worst song ever written? Because Of by Leonard Cohen, of course.

Cheerio.

Horsehead Lane

My lung-metre was ticking over the mooning dog-end. My tie had the dread-look. Almost blue eyes idiotically named a piece In The Wee Small Hours, which is the equivalent of saying "That's a giant big house!" But there's no feeling of regret or shame when you're planting the hard yards on Horsehead Lane.

I count Vampires among the closest. I braid proud donkeys until they are but snuffed powder. And I ate four fortnight's worth of weeks whilst holding out the mail in nocturnal military posts, each briefly-attired and temporarily-weary accounts of daily mathematics. But there's no fame to claim when you're lying teethless on Horsehead Lane.

My arms were empty (Military Triggers) and laid-off by teachers. My catch meant I had enough rain till the King lost his peaches. And my greatest feet had exclusively-clubbed cuff-linked toes. I was the least happy during morning time, mainly because the real noble and good recordings were ignored, leaving only the fauxs. But there's no one too tame or beyond blame when you're alone, unpaid on Horsehead Lane.

I was overarching the target with a gift-wrapped bow. I was fretting my lap with an arrogant crow, which was instrumental in making the blue lights blow, and confident in what agony-aunts know. But when you stop to lift the top off a red-light dame you find yourself staring at Horsehead lane.

Bedpost Leanings

I was enhancing a rowboat near my riverside recording studio (the birthplace of my Celtic meanderings with Paradise Pussies) when a yard of communiqué rattled my fingers and caused me to react. I deciphered the message with the help of my senses and told the reader: "Ho, this is Ben. Just worrying about your mental state. Heard the latest Looking For Legs record and it disturbed me. Particularly the lines I just want those unholy eyes upon my chest/With the holster slipping favour at the mutual crest. And when a stream of rockets spoils the dockets in your pockets/You'll have another excuse when your eyes fall from their sockets from All The Spoilt Positions. Anyway, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid, but I think we should have a luncheon together. Ho-up." Poor Ben, I thought. He didn't get my subversive angle. But I decided to comply with his request.

Due to touring commitments with The Pink Butterflies, I had to postpone the meeting until the following week, so it was a later Friday when we met at a modest lunch-house and began an exchange much like the one that follows.
"Ho," said amiable Ben.
I nodded.
"Listen," he continued, "I'll get straight to the point: I'm worried about your mind."
"I gathered," I said.
"It's just that I'm afraid all this isolation and prolificacy seems to have had an affect on you — and your work." Ben looked genuinely concerned, and for a moment I was touched. Withdrawing my hand, I finally responded.
"Nonsense," I said.
"Then how do you explain A pillar arose from my southern clothes and froze Rose in a stunned pose?" he asked.
"I'd prefer to let the work speak for itself."
"And it does. That's why I'm here."
"Look Ben," I said, "you've got nothing to worry about. Without entirely ruining the mystique, I will say that you have been reading a lot of my lyrics at face-value."
"Well I sure hope so. But whatever comment you're trying to make, these perverse fascinations can't be healthy. I'd understand if you made the comment once, but it seems to crop up in every song you do these days."
I smiled. "That's the point."

This encounter inspired me to begin work on a new triple album for my rock-jazz outfit Praise The Pill entitled On My Hump. After writing the opening track, Elsie Has Blown A Fuse, I wandered outside with a satisfied smile and gazed at the river. No one was about.

The steam had dissipated when I returned and I decided to wait until tomorrow before I attempted any more songs. Still, I knew that I was on the verge of something great and would soon add to my many masterpieces. I began envisaging critical reaction on my bed and almost believed that I shall be released, if only for a moment.

Pointed in No Sense

I wrote something yesterday but quit the browser before I got a chance to publish it. Naturally it was my best work.

Post to Post, L.A. to Chicago

In a haze, nay, in a daze, nay, in a phrase.

Worrying About the Room

I looked up "Prolific" in the dictionary and it turns out that it only means "Updates every so often."

Lipstick Vague

I wonder how I can sit there idle whilst awfulness is spread fat over our great sandwich, but I can. I don't wonder for long, mind you, and I usually forget the whole dirge-fodder soon after, but I'm glad I have the right frames from which to see the big picture, if only on occasion. I've heard of persons who spend their whole lives with thin glasses, and are content to just worship the flock they've been dealt. Probably die unhappy, though.

Jack's Generosity

To celebrate the release of their debut LP in October, those kind folks behind the world's favourite band, The Jack Nicholsons, have made their enormously successful single "Yeah!" availlable as a free download online. Get it here. Please note that you may need to troll through a few ads first, and there may be a bit of a delay before the download pops up. Still, it's a small price to pay for perfection.

The first few downloaders will have the luxury of a direct link and won't have to leave this site. If you're feeling lucky, click here.

Yeah!

After years in development, The Jack Nicholson's debut LP — clocking in at a whopping 11 minutes — looks like it will be hitting our shores next month. Though it's yet to be finalised, and there's talk of recording new material, one thing's for sure: it'll be bloody awesome! Track details are sketchy at the moment, but the inclusion of "Yeah!" — still number one in the charts of every first-world country — has been confirmed. With the working title for the album being "Yeah!" that doesn't come as much of a surprise.

Even before their album's release, The Jack Nicholsons have proved to be incredibly influential, with artists such as the woeful Jeff Mangum refusing to record again after "Yeah!" raised the bar to insurmountable heights. Indeed one can't even flick on the radio these days without hearing a flood of Nicholsonesque pop, and for a band who've only released one song for public consumption, that's staggering. But perhaps the best testament to their brilliance comes by way of has-been Bob Dylan, who has taken a wild left-turn into instrumental prog-rock after stating that he had wasted his best years writing complex verse. "When it [Yeah!] first came on the radio, I was amazed at how simple it was," he told a reporter early this year. "I'd been writing all these overblown lyrics about fiddlers and senators to try to get to the heart of the human condition, but then The Jack Nicholsons come along and sum it up in one word: Yeah! I was just thinking, How could I have missed that after all these years? And now when I look back across some of my lyrics, I'm just embarrassed by how idiotic and bloated they seem. I mean what the hell is a Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat?"

So what can we expect from this long-overdue release? Nothing short of better than everything else.

150th Anniversary Special

50 posts ago, I was writing the 100th Anniversary Special. In 50 posts, I'll be writing the 200th Anniversary Special. Doesn't that just send a resonant tingle up your thighs?

My Pretty Pretty

Hello lads. Guess what the world was doing today? That's right, it was swirling around and distorting things. Mother O' Nature was a playful lass this morn, seems. The hordes of dole-bludgers who make a habit of hugging her leafy erections couldn't even irritate her. Nothing could stop her pride and joy from shedding golden beams over the sprouting orgy of unquestioning life.

She holds my every desire and fuels them day after day. And from time to time I give a little back: a few young frogs swimming in the soil, borne from her rapturous weather. And on these occasions, when we connect, neither hell nor heaven can be. Instead, they wait for the lazy smoke to rise from the church and end the holiday.

It sickens me to see them try. Their arms wrapped and their unwashed hair wrapped, and they're wrapped. But they can never get deep enough inside to play God. It's never more than a horrible fad; a scene.

I can crawl in her caverns, I can roll in her fields and I can slip in and out of her favour, but she'll remain unchanged throughout the seasons, like an immobile stone. And though her hills provide me with vital nutrients and a place to be, her weary smile holds out for a walk in the aisle. O but how hot she is!

The Humanist Perspective

Whoops.

Better Than Never

The following is at Ben's insistence and is on a subject very close to his heart.

Yes, I have been contemplating whether I should get rid of the clock in my room. It makes too much noise in the wee hours when I'm trying to think or read or sleep. It ticks loud, you see. But I suppose I'll grow used to it.

No need for worry just yet, Ben.

Février

Her face cackled like two winds in an overblown afternoon — that is to say she laughed. The wisened man tying her shoelaces laughed too, proudly.
"O one day, my love, you will be able to do this all by yourself," he said.
She lent down like a leaner and kissed his world-weary cheeks with a smile that mooned my dwindling infatuation. I nodded politely.

The lo-ovely man of everything a humble woman could hope for rose with a glance and a proposition.
"No sugar," I answered with fierce discretion. And he a-went off in the general direction of what I supposed to be the kitchen, leaving me entirely alone but for the other person in the room.
"You see why I love him so?"
"No-o-o-o," I retorted in song. "All I see is an unhealthy man and his nurse."
Her face reflected the horrific aftermath of a juvenile joke told to the wrong audience.
"Grow up," she snapped.
"All right. Maybe then you'd..."
"What is your problem?"
"He's in his forties!"
"So?"
"So-o-o-o he was your age now when you were a baby."
"I hardly think that matters. He's only ever known me after my coming of age."
I glowered at the floor and paused for a trickle of ugly sun.
"But why?" I resumed a moment later.
"Why what?"
"Why allow such a man to approach you?"
"Because such a man could offer me more than any other. Such a man is a well-polished pit of knowledge and experience that only comes from many years."
"And you don't waver on that at all?"
"No. It's maturity or nothing."
"And maturity only comes about at the halfway point?"
"In men, yes."
"I wouldn't call I man who goes for woman half his age mature."
"I would. It means he's broken free of the restrictive class barriers and begun to appreciate people for their minds and not their status."
"Ah but you're looking for a mature man who is looking for a younger woman, which means that you both have different views on the situation."
"You don't expect me to marry myself do you?"

O and then the cups were brought in by the shining knight from the forty-year war, who sat down and gazed in at his lover in awe and patted her fragile skull with his paw.
"Darling, look how you've grown," he gushed.

And I asked Ben, who had appeared from the window, grappling hook in hand, what his relevant thoughts were.
"I preferred the six-sentence version to the umpteenth degree," he told.

Betwixt Tumblers and Tonnes

O and how horrible it seems sometimes, when things are a-flickering and blue bars are on the move and it's over into tomorrow. And around you nothing but peeps and in front of you nothing but bobbing cabinets. O and not much but a stream of nothing above a time that's wrong, over in an hour that's been and gone. And on and on, till a sizable lump has grown from an O and ended before the end.

And o-over the things that pile in stacks and are filed away but float away, and rest when the restless are restless no more and faceless and wondering like the rest. Where o-awful things are wording by word and making each other wonder. Why the stooped knee-trodden is rattling the right cage and scooping up the crap that falls. Why the face he makes is inappropriately sculpted and jarring in the very best sense. And when he feels a wind of regret or anticipation, he nets it too, and tags it and cages it as the very best excuse in town. O and he charges the very best people the very steep prices, which leave the fakers at the roots and finds the successful weary at the peak.

And though it feels wrong in aspect it's from a boy who lost the verve, and wants it back and wonders if he ever had it. So the admitting comes fast and thick and phrases flow but none of them stick, and he as an entity of whatever is left falling over himself until he's picked up on and left. O and then he'll grow and he'll wonder some more. Why he couldn't be much of anything in anything and why he tried. Why the manuscript repeats the word Forest for days on end.

Then o-o-another time will pass and apologies will be fed to the forgetful unwanting from a postman's lovely bag. And he'll still be left to wonder and a-wonder why no reply was forthcoming from a healthy communiqué. No doubt was overtaken and forgotten in the slightest by the federal rover in silly knee-high ivory nails. Who had a crisis of fate and welled a wish upon a star in a half-dead act. O accidents happen all the unsuspecting.

And in his beard he'll wonder too who became of the other one on resentful slopes. Who seemed to lay claim to any of the worth that he's long since put to waste. O and who it was who was destined to never be known. And he can picture himself waking up to their shoulders and storing the veil in a box somewhere unspecified. Like he can picture himself with half the world.

O and a-wondering and a-knowing the very reactions from the few, who look like their ears are bursting and their souls are spent. And one in very particular who abhors every bar and has lost the rival who fed his survival and lives in a car. And who is destined for floor-shows and microphones and dying Labradors. Who has just witnessed adolescence expelled upon a screen and left uncleaned for fifty days.

He knows the very diseases that will plague him tomorrow and the next. He knows the very cures but can't build enough of that party stuff to pay off the chemist and the like. And o-he knows of the things he was aiming for. The pipes in the clouds that could clean the very best expositions, and wipe the smiles off hundreds of rotting politicians in Dorsett Alley.

And over they tumble like wheels of lead, never getting any clearer or nearer his goal. Soil from his well-off roots have stained the carpets from his boots, and branded o-his every move, from valuable creeks to small bakeries.

O o-they end with the usual whimper, and he wonders who's coming to dinner. Over frosty packets and heaped dishes, he studies the guides and plans the rest of his night. O and it ends with nothing but nothing over the horizon.

Lifted From Oily Tom

My knees were sore to some extent, and I around them and above them and below them knew quite why — I did, you know. They were sore because they, along with the ground, had been supporting the rest o' me as I knelt — that's what you do with your knees, I'm told — and, in fact, did. Why was I a-doing the kneeling? 'Twas because the activity I was doing while knelt required it, see? But the thing of morer importance, I felt and feel, will be dwelt upon more then the knelt, as there's only so much kneeing you can do, and there's only so many words you can use to describe it. Anyway, the thing was a non-physical-type thing. It happened 'twixt my ears, you see.

Before this occasion of my description, there was a great bridge between myself and woman that prevented me and myself from ever approaching them and themselves. I was as scared as a chicken and a bail o' hay in winter. Now, however, after Miss Piphany struck her lovely old wand on my soul, I knew how to overcame this here problem.

Oh I was in a bar after all this occurred. In a horrible bar. I was scoping out nice faces.
"Hallo," I said. "How are you a-doing?"
"Yes."

We never married, nor did we wed. In fact we didn't even interact beyond that point. But how I was satisfied.

Kinda Stinks

"I like it, man. There's no expectation and the only place to go is up."
"But aren't you ashamed?"
"Not at all. I think it's bloody cool being the underdog. And the girls down here have a rough charm that's simply lacking from those plastic cut-outs above. I can just shove my cock at them and they don't get offended."
"How lovely."
"You bet. Honestly I much prefer these humble living conditions to the others on offer. There's something so hollow and meaningless about the glossy and pampered lifestyle of the well-off."
But I could see in his face that he wasn't telling the truth. He smiled an empty smile and swug the rest of his stale whiskey.

The next time I saw him was the one after the last. He was eating a shoelace on a fishing line.

Grave Expansion

No longer content with a few words of vague praise and a badly-segued link, the Robots have grown ambitious and begun to articulate their concerns in great length. But screw them, I'm here to talk about Rag Dolls.

The Awful Delay

With steaming brown swirling through my innards, I took to the mines with spade and barrow in search of poor man's platinum and a bigger house. Upon arrival (it was morning, you see) I saw a man milling outside the grubby entrance and, naturally, bumped in for a closer look. 'Twas none other than the esteemed silver resident. I was about to greet in my usual reserved way, when I noticed the look of deep and drowsy sorrow 'neath his brow and a rattling jar marked with skull and crossbones in his paw. With my indiscreet inhale he turned his slow eyeballs towards mine and sadly acknowledged me. I looked away. I could not bear it. From my vision of wobbling red plain I spoke.

"What are you a-doing?"
"J'attends le bon moment," he answered dolefully.
"And what are you going to do when it comes?" I asked.
He glanced down at the jar in his hand.
"Ma vie ne fonctionne plus," he said.
"But why? What's happened?"
"Ben ne visite plus mon emplacement."
"Is that all?"
"Non. J'ai cessé de visiter mon emplacement aussi bien."
"What's stopping you from going back to it?"
He wearily looked at my ears and said: "Je n'ai jamais trouvé un chéri."
"You're still young," I reassured.
"Et mon roman est terrible." He handed my a wad of faded manuscript paper and turned away theatrically. Having no other option, I sat upon a comfy rock and poured my eyes out.

Fifteen odd hours later I had finished.
"I liked it," I announced from my comfy rock.
"Menteur !" he screamed.
"No really. I particularly liked Mary's character."
"Soyez silencieux ! Vous ne dites pas la vérité. Je connais parce que Lou Reed a écrit trop de chansons avec les mêmes cordes."
"And his lyrics were awful too," I added.
"Je conviens. Maintenant pouvez-vous comprendre pourquoi je suis sur le point de se tuer ?"
"No. Don't even say such things."
He smiled and opened the jar.
"Au revoir Hugh."
But before he could place the coward's pill on his tongue, I lunged forward and tackled him to the ground. The jar flew out of his hand and bounced down the dry hill. Watching the pills spill out across the red, he began to giggle and cry.
"On me flatte que vous avez essayé de me sauver, mais j'ai déjà pris un avant que vous soyez arrivé." he said as he rose to his feet.
"What?" I cried. "How long have you got left?"
"Environ trois minutes."
"Jesus. Can I do anything?"
"Oui. Améliorez votre français." He began laughing again.
"I'll write something for you on my page," I said firmly.
"Et il coulera comme le fleuve, aucun doute."

Two odd minutes later he fell like a stone.
"Je vous enterrerai dans les mines," I said as I dragged him into the dark.
I perched him up against one of the walls and started to dig.
Gold wasn't forthcoming.
"Il n'est pas aussi facile qu'il regarde," I said.
The hole I was digging became body-size.

I sat atop the mine and took great pleasure in being. Especially over the current scene. I wasn't to be rich, I wasn't to be successful, but I hoped that somewhere down the track I would own an old car and afford the luxury of occasional leisure.

The sunset was setting and I was happy till dark. Wording my tribute for the most of it, the walk home wasn't nearly as arduous and I enjoyed the darkness for once — mainly because there wasn't to be anyone else in it. Occasionally I would falter and feel horrible over the prospect of having to work for my keep, but for the most part I was strangely calm and energised by the silver resident's departure and what I would write for him. I was happy I had known him, and that helped me cope.

As I pushed the wheelbarrow into the shed, I was again struck by the crushing blow the absence of gold brought about. It was still there as I glanced at nothing discernible through the kitchen window with a waiting cup of brown. And it was still there when an imperturbable silence reigned.

And now Monday loomed.

Quite and Nobody's News

Outside was fairly light and nice today. I had a fresh cup of steaming brown for breakfast and I might make another soon.

I saw Tom in the city last week. He had his hair in a bun and wore a "No Planet!" t-shirt. He had a bundle of St. Kilda cakes in a shopping bag too.

"I'm going to sit on top of a building at Southgate and eat these cakes," he answered.

"No thanks. I've got pressing concerns," I replied.

At the stroke of ten thirty-five A.M, I appeared almost as if by magic at the café — my visible entrance through the doors betrayed me — and sat down opposite Harry for luncheon.

"Henry is still in denial," he told. "And I's still over the moon in love with my local market employess."

"Wear the tails," I instructed.

"A bit too fat," he added.

Next up was afternoon tea at the best afternoon tea room in the land.

"It brings out the leaves," said one.

"It strangles the leaves," said I.

"A better album has seldom been heard," said both.

And of course the phone call.

"We will be it, you hear? We will destroy them. I hate..." said the phone.

"Yes, but have you..." I said.

"Monday."

And finally.

"I took this at..." he said.

"Yes, but why?" I asked.

"It stank."

What a nice day! But it's not over yet.

Tom Rises

A flood of posts from no-one's land has insured Tom's promotion from measly fourth to tender third, and dropped poor old Stephan (once in proud possession of the fabled meat platter and marble-substitute trophy) down a rung. Waiting for him in Tom's old and brief housing is a battered vinyl copy of The Return Of Bruno — with "Youngblood" rendered virtually unplayable from overuse — and a rotting steak sandwich wedged between the pillows on the couch. Tom on the other hand, has endless nights of Gold to look forward to, with only a makeshift fort Stephan built out of furniture offering light relief.

Above Thomas, the silver resident has become complacent in his newfound fame, and has taken to sipping sugary, blasphemous versions of England's favourite non-alcoholic beverage on his glorious balcony overlooking the scum below. Occasionally he joins the exhalation of above for a game of Croquet-Cluedo™ (a fusion whose rules are much too complicated to explain here) on the high-rise lawn, usually against an early morning backdrop of green fields and rising suns (though evening games are growing more popular with the pair of late).

Below, Anh Tu remains in his coma and Harry continues to swim through the waste of his making.

Harry Falls

Tom has finally clawed his way up from the dirt and settled into rung number four, where ol' Harry once resided (clean out the bin before you get too comfortable, Tom!). Now, of course, ol' Harry has his face in the phmud, and isn't looking like getting out of it any time soon. Why Harry and not Anh Tu? Well, I've taken Anh Tu's lack of internet access into consideration and weighed it against the fact that his posts generally have a tad more ambition than the likes of "Yeah......... I haven't updated in a while. Fuck I'm lazy." On the business-end, Ben has proven himself enough to remain at the peak, and I have promoted Romeo's rival from non-contender to silver medalist. That means that Stephan has slipped down to where attempting to identify Gold hits with bronze egg on his face is as good as it gets. Still, it could be worse. He could be Harry.

Only Wankers Use Diminished Chords

And as he turned away from the three bails and glanced artificially at the sweeping horizon, a note from the flutist's exposed pipe fluttered with all the gall of an ancient Frenchmen, and lapsed like a refreshing blanket around the previously silent and awkward mood, finally settling in the yellow grass near a fisherman's neglected knitting needle. The glancer's illusion shattered like so many dead flowers in a field (I've seen it happen, you know), and he was suddenly grounded in all his horrible flaws and imperfections and left with a face uncertain of whether to laugh or ball. In fact it did neither; he merely nodded slowly and glowered his way out of sight. But can you blame him? What man wouldn't act thus if he was faced with the same dilemma? As for the flutist, well, he just blew out the rest of his steam and went the other way.

The next day had the advantage of youth and celebrated by way of a particularly shimmering sun, which awoke the still-sleeping and patted the awake gently on the nose. One of the latter was cooling himself by a faulty air-conditioner in a building of sorts, and fluttering his store-bought eyelashes for extra heat-resistance. Another of the same was next to him and eating a ham roll mundanely, while all around flies made their presence felt on her yellowed right-hand. The same couldn't be said for someone who wasn't in the same situation, and won't be.

But on returning home, neither the flutist nor the industrial relations employee knew where the secret of All Rather lay. I did, but that's another matter. And then it happened. I wasn't watching, mind you, so I won't be able to fill you in on the details.

After forty years of the stuff, it didn't hold up, and eventually was laid to rest in a tomb of caskets.

To be discontinued...

When God Made Me Sick: Neil Young’s Trilogy From Potatoes To “Let’s Roll” And Beyond

Here's a small prod in the right direction, and one that resembles its maker to an uncanny degree. It goes from woe to whoa in the split of an atom and freezes inconsistencies at the push of a belly. It lights the phases of the faceless and walks the plank of despair into an ocean of plum. It mourns on broken shore-lines and breaking tides, where caking actors smile on the inside only, and puppies moan from exhaustion. It brightens on entry and bellows a roar from ear to ear.

The prod, now a respected member of society, lives off its remainders by cutting the fence-sitters down to size and smoking in prairie bathers. On occasion it speaks to the meek who gather at its door and instructs them to follow the clouds and seek the divine, so as it's left in calm and free to wear fancy. And sometimes it is allowed the luxury of mansion-hunting in the spring, where the washing is lined and the people who need money are.

On its deathbed, the prod is wisened and wistful, and willing to circumvent any troubles which pass its way. The moon, as some would have it, is still very much bent and bending, and is quite visible from the prod's lovely winding window. The sun, however, is a probing occurrence which greatly disturbs its daily peace, and leaves it bitter and unable to swallow. Things could be worse, I suppose.

Saul Bellow Vs. Glenn Richards

It was as I witnessed two conversing creatures on a Hurstbridge train that it first occurred to me; and it was as they reached the conclusion that a certain engine was superior to another that the occurrence transformed into a full-fledged decision that I would act upon that very day, and that would grant me further isolation from the riding rev-heads who alternatively and exclusively discussed automobiles and portable phones.

As soon as the journey saw me safely home, I prepared a sink full of water and burned every T-shirt and brand-name piece of clothing I owned, leaving only the clothes on my back, which I planned to dispose of after I secured a replacement pair and many besides to make up my new wardrobe. Not being very handy or well-equipped, I burned my arms and hands many times in the process, and eventually left my house resembling a neglected bomb victim with an unusually calm disposition.

Upon arrival at the reasonable pre-loved clothing store, I found myself in the company of numerous items which would suit my transformations and see me, at the very least, looking the part. Eventually I decided upon a heavily-patched brown jacket and plain belt-supported beige pants, which, along with a week of white shirts, I purchased in bulk with as little variation as possible for the unstately sum of twenty dollars.

The next step in the process awaited me at the library, and was laid out in multi-edition volumes, collected essays and histories, with inevitable detours through non-non-fiction to keep my mind up to imaginative speed. I became such a frequent visitor in my second closest library that the staff therein actually greeted me from time to time, and, on occasion, slipped a smile into their mannerisms, an expression seldom used since the gay days of their early youth.

When I was confident that my mind was suitably expanded, I began to try my hand at writing essays, ranging from mundane commentaries on the fallings of today's society, to attempted profundity in my philosophical forays. Publishers wouldn't touch 'em, but I still thought of myself as on-par with those who had inspired me and a bourgeoning talent, to say the least.

Unwilling to embark on acquiring new companions, I turned towards my former ones, who were on friendly terms with yesterday's version of myself, but wholly unfamiliar with today's, and, in an attempt at pulling them up to scratch, recommended books to them which I thought would be adequate tools for re-shaping their minds and ridding them of their pop-culture fascination. Somewhat perplexed by my erudite vocabulary and peculiar outfit, none of them were enthusiastic about their reading, and I dare say none of them actually read what I had taken great pains to choose and procure, so I gave up on them slightly after they gave up on me and convinced myself of the merits of solitude.

Though feeling that I still had some way to go before I was up to scratch, I was eager for an opportunity to flex my brain. It came within a month of that thought in the shape of two coffee-drinking university students discussing philosophy at an up-market café in the city. Listening discreetly for as long as it took to get a feel for their level of intellect and ideals, I finally interjected where one of them had clearly reached a point of contradiction by comprehensively arguing to the contrary. I'd like to think that it was solely due to the strength of my argument, but in recent years I've started to wonder whether it was partly due to my appearance and manner that induced their silence and rushed departure. Nevertheless, I counted it as a victory, but a victory, I'm glad to add, which was superseded the following year by a bout a stuffy professor and myself undertook concerning the deterioration of the English language, in which I allowed no room for credible opposing views, and from which I appeared victorious after rattling the morals of my opponent and leaving him utterly speechless.

With my ego fully-pumped, I took to the trains and waited for my former fellow passengers to breathe word of automobiles and portable phones. When they did, I was glad to discover no connection bar species linking me to the filthy twenty-somethings at the back of the carriage and those like them. It was at this point that I knew that I, like my spiritual fathers before me, was close to defining the human condition, and that time was my only object in achieving this through the truthful fiction of my own pen. Though the pages have yet to be writ; though the plot and characters haven't been outlined, I knew that the truth I had finally discovered would give birth to the modern masterpiece and bathe me in all the world.

The Drought

I was sitting in the caking sun with a checkers board spread glamorously across my knees, and with a bent-backed thesaurus flapping at eye level from a music stand, when my steam ran out and left me with the bill. Removing it from my lips, I rose to catch a glimpse of my fleeing companion, who had, I might add, only half-heated the water, which I and he intended to be tea only moments before, and which, after the transformation occurred, we intended to drink and eventually flush away. But I was too sluggish in my reaction and had no chance of catching an explanation. After sighing and tut-tutting a few times, I decided to pay a visit to the well round the back to see how things were getting on.

On arrival, I was shocked and awed by the discovery that the well was empty; no longer was there the refreshing gush of water, or the distorted reflection of a face giggling back at you, to be replaced by bare foundations and uncertain echoes. Indeed so distraught was I over this revelation, that I simply could not make anything for the rest of the day. Thus I went to bed severely undernourished.

I inevitably awoke and found myself one day closer to my day of dying, which I had estimated on my extended bedside calendar in grim red strokes. As I unloaded my bladder into a basin, I began to think about this empty well of mine, and how I would go about filling it. One possibility splashed from the basin onto my feet but the mere thought of it sent me into sickness, so I let it go unharmed. Another made itself apparent over breakfast and was much less demanding, but because of a strict word limit imposed by the task master, and already exceeded by myself, I never got around to doing it. I shouted "Ho Hum!" to the heavens instead.

Happiness for Those Who Avoid

Here comes some more minor meaninglessness bashed out without forethought in the haste of being prolific and reliable, and extended beyond reasonable doubt in hard to chew portions of overblown patches. Adjectives are the bulk of the flesh in these cases, and in this one, while the remaining quarters focus their energies on whiches and whos and ands in an attempt to float the bloat, which was sunk the moment it left port, and which has the same seaworthiness as a concrete slab.

Perhaps with the promise that I will/won't do some extra-long ones in future do I escape. Perhaps.

Substance Abuse

Beneath the gliding punts on reverential lake there must, in theory, lie hidden or half-expressed universal truths which exist to elevate its home towards the immortals above, and which serve as a tonic to the vacuousness of majority. It matters not whether these ambitious clingers have clung to another bow, or whether their sentiments are household, the point is in their existence; for without them, one would never be able to distinguish the high from the low, and standards would be standardised forever.

Contract Filler

It was an unrainy day in June when I realised my potential as an acquaintance, and discovered a glamourous facet for reservation and wholehearted agreement. And it was all the more potent when the who was taken forcefully into consideration and weighed gently against my own, which at the best of times wasn't a force one would bother reckoning with, and at the worst a force one wouldn't even admit to, even if the one was itself.

And in the end I was no better. Nor was I any closer to any of my small goals. But oh well.

Letter to Far Away Ben

[Deleted]

On His Majesties Secret Request

I squandered a fairly unique experience of my own making because I wanted it all.

I had realised some time ago, after completing my sixth novel, The Juicy Beaks, that I wasn't much of a writer. I think it was this sentence that did it for me:

The Juicy Beaks break down upon the havoc-stricken town of Ontario in lulling flights of loving round the coast to coast with flappings sounding meek and murk, and marble milling in the dirt.

So with the knowledge that no prize or positive review awaited me over the hill, I took it upon myself to invest my efforts — hitherto used to bash out prose — on developing a time machine, that, as well as ignoring physics, would allow me to claim the great works of fiction as my own. Of course later I'd expand my ambition to include the canons of great pre-20th Century composers and various other milestones of medium, but for the moment I was satisfied with being the most prolific and diverse writer the world had ever seen.

It took me a few months to create a working time machine, and a further two weeks to plot out my course through history, after which I set out with a sack of manuscripts and various inconspicuous garb for each stop of my journey. Anyway, Ben has chronicled my outcome elsewhere, so I won't go into details. Suffice to say (again), I messed up, and deeply regret it, for I could have seen more of our future instead of fiddling around with the already well-documented past. And with comprehensive knowledge of everything that will happen to me and beyond, I could have lived a nicely predictable existence with calm on my side and a justifiable belief in destiny. I could have made a mint being a fortune-teller, too — though I already would have known that.

But alas, I was finally brought in by the inanely named Rigid-History Police, and forced to hand over my creation to a person of my choosing: Ben. And it is with deep earnestness that I advise him to learn from the greed-induced mistakes I made, and use the time machine to benefit personkind or, when that fails, keep busy exploring the unknowns of unseen corners.

ELO vs. The Beatles

A magistrate of considerable talent, dipped himself into a majestic pool of considered opinion, and, with pale disinterest, withdrew a disentangled drawing implement, which in this case was going to be used as a writing implement, and vindicated a verdict upon a considerably clean sheet of paling paper, that stated, in carefully measured statements and cluttered clauses, the decision reached by him as to the fate of the accused, who was accused of interfering with the fate of a merchant by murdering his principles, and the body and soul that lived by them, in one swift stroke of a pen, which allowed or ordered a certain accomplice, whose job it was to do the dirty work, to dispose of the disposed in a quick clean manner that left as little evidence as possible as to whose hand befell the deceased, and as to how the hand achieved this, and as to why it happened and, in this case specifically, where it happened, as it was soon discovered that the place where the body was found was not the place where the body was created, which opened up a whole new pool of suspects, and ruled out the old ones, who could never have done the deed if the place where the deed was done was not near-by, and thus a whole case of filings concerning motivations and possibilities for these near-by folks was rendered void and quite literally thrown out the window, whereupon a new set of filings were writ into existence concerning the motivations and possibilities of a new group of suspicious minds belonging to a place near to where the crime took place, and, after a few weeks in this mindset, they found their man, who now swings from a post somewhere as a warning to other potentials, and as an example of the no-holds-barred approach favoured by the authorities in these parts.

For Want of a Better World

Now there's a song that should never be writ.

Just Jotting Down These Words Before I'm Faced, Quite Wondrously, With the Demise of Temporary Employment

There I was, The Mighty Jugular, with lips sewn, so as no hindrance arising from brash verbosity could arise, and with feet locked, so as escape, should I want it, would be impossible; and in this situation of my own making, I forced two disobedient pupils to make short journeys back and forth over line after line, in conjunction with my lovely processor within, which tried to make heads and tails out of their findings, and, when failing at this, instructed the two to back-track in the interests of re-assessment. And boy was it ever fun.

Our goal is:
a) To provide our customers with the BEST possible service.
b) To become the most successful of our kind in the WORLD.
c) To inspire loyalty in ALL creatures great and small.
d) All of the above.

Betwixt me and this befuddlement a battle raged, the victor of which won't be revealed until a fair way into the next sentence. So there we stood 'tween the hit-off and the green, our ears flapping in the trees' breeze, our slacks slipping, our eyes darting for the bull's eye marked by a waving white flag over yonder, and shook hands, like all good divisions of winners and losers should: me being the winner, it being the other. This meant that every grain of pride and history and philosophy that they owned and instructed was ground into every natural fibre of my being, and that I was now the embodiment of their soulless body and free of free-will for, I should think, ever.

"How's things, O Hugh?" one might ask. To which I would reply, "Things are focused on maintaining a safe environment for all concerned. By following the eight simple safety steps (ESSS), we at this particular enterprise are working positive wonders for everyone who has not liked the idea of injury, and wished to avoid it at all costs. But be wary: if an accident arises that affects a customer in any way YOU MUST NOT BLAME ANYONE OR TRY TO EXPLAIN THE ACCIDENT OR EVEN MENTION ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE ACCIDENT. Oh and make sure the customer is all right too. Just try to be helpful and calm the customer and DON'T BLAME ANYONE FOR THE ACCIDENT."

And how lovely these outbursts would prove to be at boring dinner parties and the like, where, leaping suddenly from a quiet corner, I would spout every important date in our history, and instill our beliefs upon the the eaters, who would in turn pack their lovely wallets and make for our nearest franchise. And for that I would be handsomely rewarded with advice on the best way to climb the ranks and up my rung.

And then there I'd be, Responsible Hugh, with a tie to tie and decisions to decide; and, back home, a wife to keep everything homely in firm order, and with kids to inspire with my dedication to my responsibilities. I'd stay late to give us extra flexibility in the fund department. And then I'd retire comfortably at 93, safe in the knowledge that I NEVER BLAMED OR TRIED TO EXPLAIN ANY ACCIDENT INVOLVING A CUSTOMER IN MY DEPARTMENT.

Commenteers of Rage

And here the double-edged sword, with its previously unfounded name, soars into focus over mein eyes and rears both its points with surging precision, whereupon it mouths an I-told-you-so and glints carefully out of narrative attention. It represents attention wide and expectations great, and it refers directly to certain practitioners of the footnote variety, whose job it is, with the understanding that the traffic flows in both directions with equal ferocity, to occasionally make their presence felt, so as no one thinks the harbour of sometime effort is not abandoned and churned regularly out of indulgent necessity. Thus with awaiting feedback do I now approach each piece, and with public dread and delight do I open the increased blue, perhaps purple, number near the gray, unremarkable signature. But always was not so.

Even after attracting or forcing anybodies into my womb, I was still beset by mere carefreeness, but a carefreeness that was partially limited by my own standards of practice. It was only as the words grew to be more articulate and constructive that my awareness and my pen were sharpened and shaped accordingly. The feeling that comes with this is not, in all honesty, a pleasant one. Indeed some might call the sinking sensation rotten, but it is, nonetheless, vital and important in the shaping of all things writ. Without it, one muses, this one wall would certainly crumble to self with only the fanciful hope of Professor Unknown stumbling, quite by accident, to a mess, which, in his hands, becomes a masterpiece, keeping it up.

And though it tears right through me like a ball and chain, I am grateful to the extreme for the honesty presented and the unflinchingness from which it is presented. And though I am being pierced from both ends, I feel that I, as a non-representative of personkind, am most certainly the better for it. The populous of my theatre, with bobbing heads and rampant chatter, are the be all and end all and the givers of worth and the givers of words, and for that, again (and echoing one of them particularly strongly with the whole gratitude angle), I thank.

Frayward-Thinkers

Resembling a fed-up parent who's been snubbed by a heavily defaced door for the last time, our saviour, our armour in shining knighthood, has sent us out into the ditch of responsibility and horrid independence, where casualties are pushed out into the road and, ironically, forced to fend harder than ever before, and where flickers of life's majority are projected in the fore as a reminder of the monotony — for most of us — of things to come. But, unlike some inconsiderates out there who choose to throw their brought-up-by-hands straight into the fire without so much as an asbestos bandana, ours is kind and thoughtful enough to provide us with suitable inspiration, out of which we managed to forge deceptive word-games and succeed in banishing the cruel caesareans from our once again aptly named strongholds.

We enjoyed our freedom and uninfected habitats like two jolly laural-resters, and all but forgot those which had worried us so when we were initially overrun, but, thanks again to our mentor, we became aware of our selfish ways and expanded our minds to include the poor others out there who have not been so successful in their battles. Eventually we schemed to plunge into the kettle ourselves, with a full-on onslaught of three (for the moment) that heralded all our might and courage, and that supplied story-tellers with material to embellish and children with idols to live up to; we were going to their homeland to lay waste the source of their creation once and for all and shower peace across the rolling hills and lively settlements.

And it is here we sit now around a superbly-cartographered map of our destination, that, with the aid of diagrams and complex battle-plans, in theory, should see us to victory. Our Captain is suitably donned, and we — me and the one who resists French-leaning foes but welcomes the English-speakers — are also prepared and adequately equipped. Our tally, too, has been carefully hoed, and from here it looks promising. Tomorrow beckons with all the beckoning of a seasoned beckoner, and we await.

Oh How I Love the Above

Oh dear. The pad will have to go soon. The curtains will be opened, and the outside will be endured rather than wondered at. I will pack a luncheon and began a slow trudge that will grow more and more familiar until it's unnoticed, except as an omen to drudge. I will get lost initially, but soon discover a third hand, of which I will know the back of quite well. In the mornings — the real mornings — I will rub both my eyes with all of my hands and wait for my heart to rise to function-level. Let's see how compulsory I get now.

Bottles

In a room, a young man with a paintbrush and paint, and a canvas for it all to be put, thinks about where the next splash of paint should be splashed, and, while he's doing this, hums a quiet tune. Remember that tune: you'll need it later. Anyway, this young man, whom I've just described as a painter of sorts in the process of painting, now, at last (for me, at least; for the rest of you have only just joined us), puts brush to surface and creates an abstract face of blue. The use of blue here, I believe, indicates to the looker (that's us) the mood of this figure. A good-looker will spot this instantly, but for you, who've only been with me a few short weeks, it'll take a while longer. You'll get better with practice.

In this room, this young man spends a while longer on his masterpiece, finishing it about now with a delicate stroke of yellow. Good, huh? Pay extra attention to the use of lighting and form. You'll thank me later. Some more effectively than others. And now the young man, the painter, marvels at his work, at his masterwork. Look at his face. Look at his genius. And, like all good geniuses should, he knows it.

A few hours pass and, as of now, have passed. His hands pass over the canvas. He feels every pulse of life within with every pulse of hand without. Then he reels back. I told you he would. Now he's taking a closer look. The room's lights — a couple of candles — dim obediently as the painter enters the other world. Yes, his body stays here, but his spirit is soaring somewhere we can only compromise with our academic imaginations. I have, nevertheless, written an approximation of what he may be experiencing:

Clouds. Clouds everywhere. I am free and floating. Below me are rolling green hills and beautiful forests. Everything is swimming. I am too. We are merging now into one. I am everything. I am the hills, the trees, the lakes, the butterflies. The clouds. I am as ethereal as ethereality itself. Every form of matter presents itself to me within me and without me. I am, I am.

Of course, one can never know, but, in lieu of his work, this must surely be close. Thank you. See how he's not moving? Not even his eyes. He's no longer of this world. He's somewhere much more spiritual. And we're stuck here. Still, you've got to play with your hand. The hand you've been dealt, I mean. But it makes you think. Makes you question the ol' 9 to 5, you know? Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow.

Which is now. The young painter, in his workshop, is still very much there physically, but, as you can see, he hasn't moved, and thus we must deduce that he is still out-of-body. And you can't blame him. His hand and brush have opened the doors of perception the hard way, and I'm sure he doesn't want to throw it all away quite yet. Remember to mention this at the year's end. See you in a few weeks.

Even at the sake of his safety, he remains locked in the other world. His skin is pale and his bones are showing, but in the upper deck, peace reigns. He's reached the contentment we all strive for, and it's reflected in the painting. The blue figure has the same look as he does now. The 'not quite here' look. And, like him, the blue figure isn't aware of his surroundings. Remember to rephrase that when you come to write it.

Though dead, he still gives the impression of a free spirit, as if he is beyond mortal perceptions of life and death. I firmly believe that he is as he once was all those weeks ago. I'm sure this will be amusing to some of you, but to me it's as real as day. And on that note, have a good one.

A Tall Tale About a Boy and a Whale

Character Introduction:

This is about a person named Floral.

Floral lived in what someone called a house. I was that someone. I called it a house. It was a house.

Floral was amoral.

Plot Development:

Floral wanted an orange.

Conflict:

Floral went down the street to buy an orange, but, because it was at a time when the orange shop was usually closed, the orange shop was closed.

Floral didn't like this one bit. Incidentally, neither did I.

Climax And Resolution:

Floral smashed the orange shop window with a brick and grabbed an orange.

Floral didn't do much after this, as I've grown tired of her.

The Arrival of The Black-Face Wonder Years

A logical progression, to be sure. It's full of 'em. Where once there was seven, now there is eleven — and a cover to match. Reviews have been unanimously ecstatic, as expected, and sales have already soared passed the stratosphere and into unread record books. And what of the content? Well, it ranges seamlessly from stripped-bare to overwrought and suffocating, with a few stops at Lanoir station along the way. As rumour has it, the dynamic duo might begin a tour before the year is out — let's hope they come here this time. Contrary to the critics' response, Bucket Men are reported to be less than satisfied by this effort. "It's not our best work," said the enigmatic rhythm section in an interview last night, whilst the good-natured lead dismissed it as "O.K" to the same. Personally, I find it a most remarkable recording that displays their diversity in eleven perfectly crafted tracks. A particular favourite of mine was the amazing title track that closes the album, one of the few songwriting collaborations on the record.

NME have typically jumped the gun and labeled it their 'best record to date', placing it hastily at the business end of their current top 100. And in a surprising turn of events, no singles were released for this album, with the assurance that they'd be releasing a few A-sides in December.

Though some have labeled Bucket Men — particularly the younger sibling — self-indulgent egomaniacs, I still think they are the best thing to happen to popular music in a long time. I don't find them egotistical at all. Not humble Bucket Men...

Goodbye Baby Black

Our pride and half-joy: Cokacino isn't as unique as we may have thought. It turns out that at least one other person has created the same drink with exactly the same name (pronunciation-wise) — and who knows how many more are lurking out there. It really makes you think. Firstly, about why on Earth anyone else would come up with such a disgusting drink; and secondly about the horrendous fallings of the web.

Because of its wretched accessibility, everyone who wants a few minutes of fame (everyone, in other words) now has the opportunity to do so. And with so many people attempting to find an original voice, original thoughts (remember those?) are being swallowed up by the thousands. Now, before premiering a joke, one must first pay a visit to the folks at Google to see if someone else hasn't already thought of it, and the chances are, they have. Thus it inspires the cunning among us to seek pointed refuge in the wastelands of obscurity — though now the numbers there are so great, that it, too, has turned many a never-will-be into an unintentional plagiarist.

And what can you do to contend with all these original thoughts floating around? Well, you could add self-deprecating disclaimers at the start of your posts, stating that you are fully aware that the following may rip-off something. Of course that's been done too, so then where do you turn? Post-Modernism (or Post-Somthingism). You expand upon your previous attempt by continually making your audience aware of every possible flaw that could be seen in your post, thus covering your back. A reader could, for instance, say: "This is self-indulgent rubbish." but then, after reading a postscript which states that the author also considers it self-indulgent rubbish, the reader would add "Oh, but he admits it. How clever." and such. Soon you would get sections like: "I know this isn't very original, and I know it isn't very original to say this isn't very original..." until, as an internetter would have it, the world explodes.

I've done this a lot in the past: covering my back so comprehensively, that no one could think of any criticism that I haven't already admitted to. It's a good strategy for people who can't take criticism, ironically in the shape of self-criticism. But this sort of thing opens itself to potential hostility as to its very nature, and wouldn't, in all likelihood, ever be beyond scrutiny. It's fun while it lasts.

If there's an original thought out there, I could use it right now.

Tea for Three

There we were — us — sitting in that very English tea room in Paris. Two of us were in a mood of resentment, as the third had an ulterior motive for the meeting. They mouthed "Get on with it" and I did.
"How much are the tickets for a Three Tenors concert?" I asked.
They shrugged.
"$30"
They cringed.
"And how much for a Ten Tenors concert?"
They feigned deafness.
"$100!"
Though I thought the deftly executed exclamation would make it funnier, they looked far from amused, and eventually they concentrated their annoyed glares until I stopped searching for approval.

By this time I had run out of tenor groups with numbers in their names, so I knuckled down and finished my Camomile. As I reached the dregs, I noticed, with an absent turn of my head, my muse running off down the street with a plate of truffles and a yeast bun.

The Barrel

And on went the barrel.

My Brilliant Career

The sweat from my elbows was drying under my tongue. I was in a bar. A woman (you know, one of those things with tits) was trying to think in the corner with a man who was trying to let her. High-rise filth sat lonely on a stool. I hoped he'd stay lonely for the rest of his life and I retched in my wallet so I wouldn't have to pay.

I mixed bourbon with scotch, and vice versa, and drank it from a beer mug. Most of it spilt down my neck and settled onto my crotch, but the effect was still shattering and comforting. I laughed and reached for my flask of whiskey which had dollops of freeze-dried whipped cream floating in it like snow. I blacked out.

I came to in a public toilet with vomit in my ears. Someone with a brain was screaming something at me but I couldn't hear him. I felt like groping him until I realised he wasn't a woman. I pushed him aside and made my way back into the bar. Someone was sitting on my stool. He rose from his stolen seat as I approached and began mumbling something about art. Art. What a crock. I took another long sip of bile and blacked out.

When I regained myself, I was in bed with the fat barmaid and dripping maple syrup on her thighs. She was unconscious. I tried to recall something, but couldn't and made tracks. Her fat dog buried its head in my groin as I navigated passed the junk in her garden and left an embarrassing stain that looked as if I had just returned from a liberated bookshop. I smashed my empty bottle of piss on its head and made faster tracks.

I threw up continually as I walked, so I bought another bottle and tried to dilute it somewhat — though I still had to let it go every few minutes. When at last it stopped, I made my way back to the bottle shop and bought a casket of whiskey for the journey home. At my front door, I decided I needed to make up for the latest drunk slip in my record, so I went to another bar in search of better looking stands.

She offered me some crap and I took it. She looked better this way. She thought I was an angel I thought she was a native wearing tribal gear and speaking in tongues. We got along famously. She offered me some different crap and I took it. Now she looked like an angel. We spent the night this way.

I spent the next day with bricks in my skull and sawdust in my eyes, and I spent it, despite my condition, looking for the worst bars that I could hang out in when it was darker. I found one and started early. The barmaid wasn't too fat this time, but she was disgustingly flat, so I left. I found a better one in the next street with a better looking barmaid and cheaper liquor. I went into the toilets after a while and really felt like pissing straight onto the walls. I did. I left the toilets and really felt like pissing on the barmaid.

This time it was a man behind the bar and he looked foul. He looker fouler when he handed me the glass, and fouler still when he refilled it. I hated his guts. I hated the stuff around his guts more. He looked and sounded like an advertising executive who'd lost his job but was certain he would soon get back on his feet. I wished him well; I didn't want to see him again. I went to the toilet and pissed on the walls, the floor and, accidentally, the bowl. I replenished my liver with my flask and did a runner. After that ordeal, I needed some cunt.

And then back to work on Monday.

Miss Awol and the Rubbish She Inspired

In a dreamy place of whatsoever, she sends off pride to whosoever, and removes the vowels from her typewriter. In the dreamy space of three short hours, she writes a novel of consonants, and eats the paper. At the stroke of midday, and in firm prime, she wanders like a wonderful catfish and spies a pre. So goes her prowling and her cain; so goes her gutter-call and her lack of second-thoughts (counteracting my sensual abundance). So goes the sorry woes of those who chose to read my prose.

Genesis

It was on a pale Tuesday in May that the deadly ball first found itself head over heals. A simple two-word comment landed on a thing about people, much to my surprise, and, out of obligation, I decided I would repay the favour. But alas! This was no mere compliment I had received: this was the work of two attention-seeking technophiles, for on their site I found many a person who shared my circumstances, having also received that infamous two-word salute. Yes, I uncovered their ingenious scheme and I, being me, could not sit by idly while this went on. So I sharpened my fingers and unloaded a paragraph of bile upon my captors that dared them to make their presence considerably less vague. And they did:

Buttercup and JOHN-43 said...

You are right Hugh.... you ARE irritating. Firstly, let me say, uh... well no.. can't say thanks really. Was gonna say thanks for posting a nice little comment on my blog. But since you found it apparently amusing to assume that we had some kind of dastardly machine leaving "nice blog ;)))" on people's blogs, I will tell you this. We are simply two people who met online, we are from different countries and to pass the time away while waiting for immigration to get its act together, my husband looks at other people's blogs from time to time. Since we find it nice to receive any comments, we try to do the same. Sometimes all one can say is 'nice blog' so that is all we leave. Malicious? I think you are way off. Rubbing our happiness in other people's faces? You have GOT to be kidding! ...sheesh. Good luck with your blog.

Though previously their acts had been relatively innocent, now, spurned on by my anger, they began to think up a much more damaging plan to inflict upon their whistle-blower. The machine they built to fulfill their orders was so powerful and complex that its construction took over ever aspect of their lives, leaving them no time to fondle and mouth sweet nothings. Injected into this machine was every aspect of that which defined them; in short, they were the machine. And eventually their former existence whittled away to dust, and all that was left of the two was harnessed in a grand web of machinery that convulsed away in the trans-Atlantic residence that once housed unknown lovers.

After flinging misleading advertisements into the virtual hemisphere for a time, the machine decided that expansion would lead to greater damage and thus began work on an army of robots to do its bidding. And so the plague was born in the shape of five million burnt umber servants, whose only goal was to plant seeds of anonymity in the guise of compliments.

Yes, I had a hand in creating the swarm, and for that I apologise, but it would have happened sooner or later, whether by my hand or another's. They were spawned from two infatuated persons who were just looking for an opportunity such as the one I unknowingly supplied.

Tom the Omitted

So insignificant is he, that the plague of automations/robots/machines have completely overlooked him and his three genuine posts — well, two and a half genuine posts, as the second part of his bard tale (for some reason appearing before the first and in italics) includes much of part one in its length. Thus Tom-o-Fingers remains blissfully uninfected.

And how is he spending his freedom? Well, he's writing detective-ridden screenplays and perpetually unfinished short stories in between chatting-up wallflowers at fringe-dweller parties and writing sentence-long letters to age-old pen-pals abroad.

I Thwart the Robotically Imminent

I've been overrun, the Parisian's been overrun, but Ben, being Ben (and, by rights, Yodo), is still holding them off gallantly with his marble-substitute trophy and his girly wits. A harrowing wind collapses me and I feel like a meek slice of butter and grease — and then you realise that you have wasted your opportunity to say anything — and I, me, him (to you), wonder about things and other things.

And now we've been viciously ex-patted from our homes and are both forced to seek refuge at Ben's hill, where we help out as best we can by making dinner and doing housework while our saviour fends off our foes (and his). Mother Stephan, meanwhile, looming like a God over the hillside, gazes down upon us — me in particular: his runaway son — and tempts fate and the mechanical onslaught with a dangling line of vulnerability.

Cries of cartoon creatures and dieting success stories rise from the unoiled cogs like kettle-drum-o-parking-lots and are picked up by the clever ears of our three overexposed but underdeveloped protagonists (me included), who were hitherto busying themselves with needlework; now, after I realise I just spent two and a half grand on that joke, we make a stand outside our adopted home (in the two's case) and almost succeed in failing.

While all this rubbishy stuff is steadily going on, The Tu, locked up in an unnamed state, bemoans the state of his previous full-colour starring-role rendering, and heaves a sigh into his belly as he makes his way here. Wondering where my long hair went, and where is the me he used to know, he diverts himself innocently and taps metal keys in the dark. When at last the lights return, he discovers that the inked paper result reveals undesirable dark shades in personkind, which he previously thought nonexistent, having been raised on a diet of life-affirmation.

The dreadful chunder still remains in the form of a deeply unsettling and awful smelling stain across the face, which obscures all but the letters S, T, O and X. And it was his favourite T-shaped shirt.

In a small bedroom sits Harry. His eyes are fixed with intense concentration upon his human-sized canine, who in turn has her eyes fixed upon an enticing little bin hiding in the shadows and expelling a delightful odour.

Mr. Bee breathes easy by a safe man with head in hands.

And the three have finished their (our) stand, and now they (we) stood and watched our wrinkles become more and more prominent. It was fun to say the least, but I, being the race I am, prefer to say the most: it was an enlightening, bold, brash, humbling, beautiful and long experience.

And now we chew through the heavenly stairs and gates and clouds and angels until we may stumble upon our better halves and produce better thirds or quarters — if our seeds haven't dried up, that is; and if they really are the sunshines of our lust; and if Ben really hasn't paired-off with the bloodsucking machine of yesterday.

Mother Stephan

Out of his convulsing thighs I came; a bloodied mess of mucus and flesh; and into the world I was born; borne of Mother Stephan. Unfortunately for him, this meant that his conception tool — now resembling the aftermath of a bazooka and a peeled banana combined — was now permanently out of commission, meaning that I was the last in the long line of Stephan-scented soldiers. As he clutched my infantile form to his tender breast, I began to contemplate his worthiness on Life's Ladder.

How could I rank someone so integral to my construction, without whom I wouldn't be here to write this? Actually, come to think of it, the person responsible for this here jumble of junk should be punished, not rewarded. So Ben, you can keep your title and platter and marble-substitute trophy, and, because you aimed in that direction (and for no other reason), I have decided to award you the Pulitzer Prize for your latest* post.

*Information correct at the time of writing.

Hugh the Manager

Off I go to climb the ranks after night. Wearing a most fetching blue smart-casual shirt and polished but well-worn shoes (and pants, don't forget pants), I will saunter with hewn sophistication up to the relevant personal, raise my brow and unload my most responsible and trustworthy smile upon them. Instantly impressed and possibly flattered and charmed beyond belief, they will reach for the special form in a trance-like state and say in a quavering voice: "Sign here please." They will of course offer me a pen, but me, being the embodiment of the scout motto, will already have one in my left breast pocket. A few semi-legible scribbles later, I will find my preferred hand locked firmly (at my end) in a limp priest-like shake that is much favoured by the white-collar world and often called upon in times of trouble.

And then, my dear friends, I will spend half a day with boxes in my hand and the bottom of my recently purchased shirt in my pants, after which I will be rocketed to a less hands-on position behind a desk and void of responsibility. My newfound wealth will be invested wisely into technology up until the point where I can use it to manipulate time and hire my formally unemployed and unqualified and inexperienced self. After a day's delusion, I will, for no reason given, fire myself and inform me nastily that I will never work in this town again.

The Summit of His Long Career

Ben has now reclaimed his throne — for keeps this time. So sturdy are the foundations 'neath his glistening blue circle that it will take at least 100 begging Stephans to even rattle the wind around it. Yes, Stephan, you're back on the soiled second rung. But how? I pretend I hear you cry. Well, Ben simply ignored the obvious course of action — beg for his place back — and instead launched a searing character assassination upon his rival that left no doubt of who the real winner should be. Plus, it was as funny as a non-descript pork sandwich and almost twice as enlightening. So the trophy and the marinated meat platter will be returned to Ben's eager and greasy paws, which have been entertaining themselves innocently in their absence.

And with the formalities over, Ben mounts his stage and raises the two dripping symbols of Hugh's democracy to the heavens.

Over the Hill and Far Far Far

Here sits four decades wrapped in a bitter, wrinkling shell. The room is gloomy and filled with unsuccessfully hidden magazines. The centrepiece is a second-hand over-varnished Elizabethan desk with a stylish computer on it. The decades are tapping their furious and frail fingers on a transparent keyboard and causing letter-shaped pixels to appear on the screen. No relating years or friendly years are ever seen to be in the room. On the bright side, the decades have upped their quotient to two posts a day. Today's post reads as follows:

Desolation squats above me like a ludicrous mosquito and lowers a tendril of despair into my vein. Outside, the collective world meets friends at a coffee shop and buys gifts for their adorable spouses. The day starts at morning, reaches the centre at midday and peaks at night time, yet to me this is only apparent through the light-levels in my room. I hate every wretched lung of personkind — mainly because I am part of it. There's no way to succeed in life. Not in this life. Not in this endless bowl of false fish and employment. I gaze upon my beautifully awful walls and picture myself sliding into 10 to 6 aprons. Loneliness is the only true emotion. I don't trust anyone who isn't lonely. Lonely. Yes, I'm quite lonely. I think I'll look at porn.

The decades are very proud of this addition. In celebration, they read through all the previous additions to remind themselves of how clever they are. As each giggle and exhale of awe is wrung from the text, the decades wonder how no one else appreciates it the way they do. Except maybe those loyal fans from decades ago. They've stopped posting comments, but the decades are certain they are still there. Somewhere.

Here stumbles the decades upon a 21 year old post from August. No one will notice, they think. No one will mind. So they lift the second paragraph and paste it in a much younger post.

Tarnished, But Still Lime-Green

I've been bribed by Stephan into making him No.1 again and returning his meat platter and marble-substitute trophy. How did he do this? Well, he transparently ranked me No.1 on his site and begged me to return his trophy. Naturally I obliged. So it seems Ben's stay was brief indeed; he entirely failed to notice Stephan creeping up behind him with a flask of oil, and the next thing he knew, he was airborne and heading for the rickety second rung. Unfortunately, he dropped eight whopping great hamburgers in the process and was without lunch for a week.

And now Stephan stands proud on my podium (that homo-eroticism was unintentional, I assure you) and flies paper planes at the ordinaries far below. All of them hit a bearded Information Technology teacher as he dries himself with a mobile fan.

Meanwhile I await my inevitable death at the hands of Arthur Lee and his shotgun.