Sunday, January 17, 2010
A PARTING GLASS
Well... had some grim personal news this week, and now have umpteen important things to sort out (nothing as bad as being trapped under a collapsed stairwell in Haiti, but it still sucks). Thanks a lot,'redundancy consultations'. Wouldn't mind but I actually really liked working there. Best team I was ever in. We fucking ruled.
Anyway, I'm gonna bury this blog for a while. I might come back when I get shit sorted. But who knows... I'm not 100% either way, to be honest. Last couple of months, me and the blog have been eyeing each other warily every time I log in; its black, white and orange visage starting to display the pixellated ghost of a scowl, where once there was only a beamer. I could swear that, the last time I clicked PUBLISH POST, the blog and I simultaneously gawped at each other, groaning, How did it ever come to this?
Did hear an amusing rumour that we might be offered jobs in Paris. I think they have to tell employees that though, for legal reasons. Hmmm... moving to France. Sounds quite exciting, but I'd probably get homesick in two weeks. French people hate Brit accents, so I'd be paranoid about cafe'-owners spitting on my bread du pain. Did your school ever have a French pupil exchange scheme? Ours did. I know exactly why everyone wanted to sign up to it - sex. The allure of steamy first-time sex with a chain-smoking foreign 'other', to be precise. I never did go through with it, though; couldn't imagine how the hell I'd run it past my parents. I could imagine spending a balmy week with a French family; being escorted around landmarks and eating rare beef and pastries; my 'foreign correspondent' letting me smoke his dad's Gitannes; and then falling in love with his foxy cousin on the last evening. Didn't see how I could repay such a halcyon experience by condemning some French tyke to a week in Luton, my dad probably accusing him of being a homosexual or something...
Then again, my brother went on one of those French exchange trips in the '70s, and apparently the family confiscated the bottle of cider he'd rolled up in his bag, hardly spoke to him for the entire time he was there, and only took him out once, to see a 4th division football match where half the home fans spent the game farting and punching each other.
Look, reader - I know, I know: what are you going to do without me?? Well, I've been educating you for the past 5 years and 8 months. I've told you most of what I know about this crazy, fucked-up world, and how I reckon you should approach it. I've taught you to curse, rant and cuss with the best of 'em. Or at least I hope I have. It's time to stand on your own two feet, seize the bull by the glass houses, rob Peter to save nine! I've given you the gift of TRUTH, and you can't say fairer than that.
And, IF I never come back... and it's a big 'if'... ((BTi Blog's like an ex-g/f I can't shake - oh, and there was meant to be a KID SHIRT interview on here too, soon - oh yeah, and I'm still on for doing bits for WOOFAH 5, if it goes ahead)), a few last words, to take with you as you will.
* All furious raging aside: if you meet a genuinely nice person, be genuinely nice to them. Then they'll be more likely to be genuinely nice to someone else, and so the whole thing goes around, like a whirlpool, til we wake up in a world without YouTube / CiF comments. Do try to deter people from wearing shorts and sandals in summer, though. If hugs and reason don't work... shoot them. Estate agents can still go and fuck themselves, the pricks.
* ALWAYS speak well of Patti Smith. I know she hasn't done anything to match Horses, Radio Ethiopia and Easter since 1978, but she invented Anarcho-Punk, for fuck's sake.
* Or, as Mark Pownall once put it: "Every office uses typewriter correction fluids which are useful when wiping out a mistake, but which can be deadly when wiping out reality in a sniffing session".
* If you're canoodling with your honey, and a MINOTAUR bursts out of the trees, wielding a knife: just run away. I've seen too many young have-a-go hero(in)es end up badly gored to take a 'hard nut' stance on this problem anymore. Unless you're in a labyrinth, just leg it to safety and let the cops sort it out ((if you're in a labyrinth, it's easy; unravel a ball of wool as you walk around, and wait for the minotaur to trip over a strand and knock itself out)).
Oh, and a little secret between you and me: that magickal summoning up demons stuff? It doesn't really work...shhh, some occultists have just logged on.
Anyway, ta, adios, ciao, cheers, buh-buh-buh bye, for now or whenever. Hang loose.
Anyway, I'm gonna bury this blog for a while. I might come back when I get shit sorted. But who knows... I'm not 100% either way, to be honest. Last couple of months, me and the blog have been eyeing each other warily every time I log in; its black, white and orange visage starting to display the pixellated ghost of a scowl, where once there was only a beamer. I could swear that, the last time I clicked PUBLISH POST, the blog and I simultaneously gawped at each other, groaning, How did it ever come to this?
Did hear an amusing rumour that we might be offered jobs in Paris. I think they have to tell employees that though, for legal reasons. Hmmm... moving to France. Sounds quite exciting, but I'd probably get homesick in two weeks. French people hate Brit accents, so I'd be paranoid about cafe'-owners spitting on my bread du pain. Did your school ever have a French pupil exchange scheme? Ours did. I know exactly why everyone wanted to sign up to it - sex. The allure of steamy first-time sex with a chain-smoking foreign 'other', to be precise. I never did go through with it, though; couldn't imagine how the hell I'd run it past my parents. I could imagine spending a balmy week with a French family; being escorted around landmarks and eating rare beef and pastries; my 'foreign correspondent' letting me smoke his dad's Gitannes; and then falling in love with his foxy cousin on the last evening. Didn't see how I could repay such a halcyon experience by condemning some French tyke to a week in Luton, my dad probably accusing him of being a homosexual or something...
Then again, my brother went on one of those French exchange trips in the '70s, and apparently the family confiscated the bottle of cider he'd rolled up in his bag, hardly spoke to him for the entire time he was there, and only took him out once, to see a 4th division football match where half the home fans spent the game farting and punching each other.
Look, reader - I know, I know: what are you going to do without me?? Well, I've been educating you for the past 5 years and 8 months. I've told you most of what I know about this crazy, fucked-up world, and how I reckon you should approach it. I've taught you to curse, rant and cuss with the best of 'em. Or at least I hope I have. It's time to stand on your own two feet, seize the bull by the glass houses, rob Peter to save nine! I've given you the gift of TRUTH, and you can't say fairer than that.
And, IF I never come back... and it's a big 'if'... ((BTi Blog's like an ex-g/f I can't shake - oh, and there was meant to be a KID SHIRT interview on here too, soon - oh yeah, and I'm still on for doing bits for WOOFAH 5, if it goes ahead)), a few last words, to take with you as you will.
* All furious raging aside: if you meet a genuinely nice person, be genuinely nice to them. Then they'll be more likely to be genuinely nice to someone else, and so the whole thing goes around, like a whirlpool, til we wake up in a world without YouTube / CiF comments. Do try to deter people from wearing shorts and sandals in summer, though. If hugs and reason don't work... shoot them. Estate agents can still go and fuck themselves, the pricks.
* ALWAYS speak well of Patti Smith. I know she hasn't done anything to match Horses, Radio Ethiopia and Easter since 1978, but she invented Anarcho-Punk, for fuck's sake.
* Or, as Mark Pownall once put it: "Every office uses typewriter correction fluids which are useful when wiping out a mistake, but which can be deadly when wiping out reality in a sniffing session".
* If you're canoodling with your honey, and a MINOTAUR bursts out of the trees, wielding a knife: just run away. I've seen too many young have-a-go hero(in)es end up badly gored to take a 'hard nut' stance on this problem anymore. Unless you're in a labyrinth, just leg it to safety and let the cops sort it out ((if you're in a labyrinth, it's easy; unravel a ball of wool as you walk around, and wait for the minotaur to trip over a strand and knock itself out)).
Oh, and a little secret between you and me: that magickal summoning up demons stuff? It doesn't really work...shhh, some occultists have just logged on.
Anyway, ta, adios, ciao, cheers, buh-buh-buh bye, for now or whenever. Hang loose.
# posted by Martin : 7:25 PM <%=MakeComment("6282781898459541906","beyond the implode:A PARTING GLASS","http://seagullscreamingkillherkillher.blogspot.com/2010/01/parting-glass.html")%>
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No one believes you won't be back. Hissy Fit yerself away for a few weeks / wheals and then get back on the horse...
I assume that you're leaving to pursue the fortune that Captain Kidd has bestowed upon you (I wish you'd had this fortune when it came to paying that bloody taxi driver). I can only wish I'd been so blessed. I believe John Eden fell down the stairs at the Foundry recently, having been pushed by the ghost of Harry the Dog, though what fortunes this will confer upon him I know not.
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