Sometimes you don't know how bad you felt until you have an eggy in the basket the next morning.
I've been doing an experiment involving cheese and bad dreams, and it's working. The fact I know about the experiment is probably throwing off the accuracy somewhat, and some would question why I'd want to have a bad dream, but to hell with it. Every dreamless sleep is, in my opinion, a missed opportunity. I'm at a stage where I'm using Red Leicester to trip and egg in a basket to come down again, and if that doesn't make me the envy of Englishmen everywhere, then nothing will.
Halfway through my breakfast I was reminded of V For Vendetta. I've recently re-read it, having had all happy memories bludgeoned out of me by the film version. And it's actually as good as it ever was. I'm not going to wax lyrical on how Alan Moore is the Thomas Pynchon of comic books, but, as everyone and his dog knows by now, he's a beast and a half.
Perhaps, though, I was a bit mean to the film the first time around. It did have Stephen Fry. It did have John Hurt. It did have Stephen Rea, if I remember correctly. It did have a man in a Guy Fawkes mask doing in a party of fascists. It did influence Anonymous. And it did piss off religious groups and homophobes.
Here's a runthrough of what I said about it the first time:
"The Wachowskis sink their fat jaws into the neck of Alan Moore's story and suck all the interest out of it, leaving a corpse of a film for McTeigue to put a mask and a silly wig on. If you're sad enough to have read the graphic novel then my complaints become clear.
Originally the story was a commentary on Thatcherism. Very British, very meaningful, very poetic even in its politics. It was about anarchism vs fascism, two awful ideals battling over Britain's future and leaving the reader unsure who to root for. The film is intended as a criticism on W. Bush's less libertarian policies such as the Patriot Act. It's about a freedom fighter vs the Nazis: totally uninteresting. Even when V resorts to more extreme methods (putting Evey in jail) he comes across as no more psychotic as a parent playing a prank on a child.
It's truly a testament to the mollycoddled, easily-offended sensibilities of the Baby Boomer generation that such a watered-down, unimportant film like this created such an uproar in certain circles. Portman's acting is dreadful, and while "cool" action sequences have their place, you can't approach subject matter intended to be taken seriously with such a cartoonish feel. It's not quite as dreadful as the other adaptations of Moore's work, but that's not saying a lot."
Hmm...nah, actually, I can stick by that. The book has a power undeniable to anyone who is English and, with the sinking feeling of one slipping into a nightmare, doesn't dare switch off the news; whereas the film was basically an American liberal wetdream represented by a cartoon. This outright rejection probably has something to do with my being a philosophical anarchist as well, I suppose. Though, I think even if I wasn't I would have thought the film was a pile.
But then... Stephen Fry. Making eggy in a basket.
I'll give it another watch just for that.
Monday 28 April 2008
Friday 25 April 2008
Only Skin
Bored, I smoked a vial of 20X salvia and made my way across town to the ‘Sk-Interface’ exhibition I’d seen advertised at FACT. I tried to picture the person who’d come up with the name ‘Sk-Interface,’ but my imagination failed me after ‘dropped out of college in second year to explore east Asia.’
What first struck me wasn’t the darkness, or the fear of the unknown. It was the feeling I’d arrived somewhere.
I walked past two students crouched together on the floor. They were laughing about something.
Sometimes it’s difficult to imagine I’m a student too. They all fit so many stereotypes in that they’re trying to escape stereotypes. Autumn-coloured scarves, long or spiked hair, satchels, Converses. Proud avatars being washed unwittingly away in a sea of conformity. They might as well be wearing uniforms. Maybe the next dictator will let people choose what they conform into forever.
I approached the first exhibit. To say it was repulsive would be akin to calling the Eiffel Tower tall: in the right area but nowhere near the right word. They were what appeared to be threads of skin hanging in round glass jars. My guidebook informed me they were ‘semi-living’ sculptures in the form of miniature jackets. ‘Victimless leather.’ I knew somewhere someone was celebrating, but just for the moment I couldn’t imagine why.
Supposedly, due to the value of the incubators, they were still growing, and would continue to throughout the exhibition. Maybe if I came back in a week they would fit a mouse.
My way only sparsely lit, I made it over to the far wall, where a projection showed an operation taking place. Despite an eerie David Lynch-esque soundtrack and the mechanical whirring of a nearby 3D clinostat providing the only narration, I quickly got the picture: a man was having an artificial ear inserted into the inside of his forearm. This, I later discovered, was an ear with Internet and Bluetooth capability. Again, I’m quite sure I missed the point.
It reminded me of an Australian I’d once met who’d had rare earth magnets installed under his fingertips. When asked what was the point, he told a long-winded story about being able to distinguish between different types of catfood tins. He claimed he was able to amuse himself for hours on end simply going through his girlfriend’s cupboards and handling her cat’s meals for the week. I had to ask whether there was any practical benefit (besides becoming a serial molester and connoisseur of tin cans) before he told me it had saved his life. Once, whilst working on a construction site, he had very nearly laid his hand on an unlabelled electric cable before a sensory phenomenon in his fingertips warned him not to. He learned not soon after that the cable contained a voltage charge of around 1,000. Consider, he told me, that it would only take about 60-100 volts to kill a man of his size through atrial fibrillation. When I asked him why he hadn’t been wearing gloves the conversation quickly dissipated.
Other exhibitions were equally ‘alternative.’ A magnetic resonance scan of an artist’s brain filled out with luminescent moss. A patchwork quilt of animal cells, both human and non-human. A collection of vaginal cells with a shape cut into them, designed to symbolically ‘re-virginize’ continually.
After that I needed a bit of a breather, so I knelt in a corner before the surgical video. Hopefully, this made me look mysterious. By the minimal light I read through what exhibits I had not yet visited. They were located in Gallery 2, which I knew was upstairs by the bar. Simply thinking of going back out into the light, away from the vacant faces of artsy students and the comforting sound of the Random Positioning Machine, felt akin to having to get out of bed too early in the morning. My sense of ‘arriving’ had been replaced by one of belonging. As little as I liked it, this gallery of grotesqueries had briefly become my world.
A girl stood by me staring in my direction. She was dressed like an art chick; boots, tied back hair, glasses, scarf, overcoat, fingerless gloves. I’m sure I’d never seen someone stand so still before. I thought she was looking at me, but as I came to my senses somewhat, I realised she was looking above me, reading the description of the ear man’s surgical procedure. From her face beneath her bifocals, I imagined she got the point far better than I did. But it was only imagining.
She left me crouching beneath a 50 x 50 photo of white-gloved hands scissoring through someone’s skin. Soon after, I too stepped out into the light.
The light, and two other exhibits. One, above me, was a series of national flags made out of leathered skin. They repulsed me until it dawned on me that that was the desired effect. Beside me was a corridor of coloured fabrics, painted with ‘thermochronic inks.’ A troupe of teenage girls were having fun pushing their hands and faces into the fabric, then recoiling to see the perfect white imprints they had left behind. Aware that people were watching me deface this work of art, my slightly-trembling hand likewise pushed hard against a strip of bright purple, and made a similar impression in the ink. I put it back on again slightly skewed, so it looked like I had ten fingers.
Upstairs held perhaps the most unnerving exhibit. A small, out-of-the-way area was bathed apathetically in a white light that, while pale, was enough of a contrast to the rest of the gallery to make it seem like a twisted, metallic version of the corridor promised us when we near death. I had to squint.
Slightly thrown by a feeling of uncertainty (perhaps mirroring the comfort this white semi-corridor seemed to have with itself), all I could register was writing on the far wall, and a woman sitting perfectly still to my right. I wondered if she was part of the effect, or even whether I should be there. I didn’t look at her but I could feel her stare in my temples.
I began to read. The piece read like a confession, or a manifesto. It told me things about Randy, things I wish I could remember. All I know is that Randy is not like you or me. He’s a concept, a clown, something to be feared and pitied, a dark spokesman. I don’t know why I remember this but I do. The light was too bright.
You can go through there if you like, the woman said to me.
Where?
There’s a door. There.
She pointed to the end of the corridor. Stepping forward, I saw a white outline of a doorway. I thanked her and, after a brief hesitation, gingerly pushed my way through.
I immediately wished I hadn’t. The tiny, badly-lit room I found myself in struck my brain hard through the salvia. I thought of war bunkers and clanking steel and the Ministry of Love. Worse, there was a noise I found infuriating. Supposedly, it was the same wavelength interrogators use in sensory deprivation torture.
There was furniture in the room. A desk, a cabinet, and a television table. On the television was something’s face: a round mass of curly black hair with a foam ball for a nose, wearing dark sunglasses. This, I fancied, was Randy. The film treated me to his face and body from a series of angles. The psychological effect was undeniable. I wanted out but I couldn’t help stay. My feeling of curiosity was undulled by drug-and-audio-assisted fear.
In a drawer of the cabinet I found a portable television showing the same film of Randy. I left, only catching the other exhibits briefly on the way out.
Techo-advanced gimp suits. The effect of napalm on human cells. Through door, sunlight. Streets and streets of vacant faces all branches in the hive. If you're looking for a good time. Vomit on Seel Street and a drone becomes a queen briefly before losing itself in the crowd once more. Honey for the children.
What first struck me wasn’t the darkness, or the fear of the unknown. It was the feeling I’d arrived somewhere.
I walked past two students crouched together on the floor. They were laughing about something.
Sometimes it’s difficult to imagine I’m a student too. They all fit so many stereotypes in that they’re trying to escape stereotypes. Autumn-coloured scarves, long or spiked hair, satchels, Converses. Proud avatars being washed unwittingly away in a sea of conformity. They might as well be wearing uniforms. Maybe the next dictator will let people choose what they conform into forever.
I approached the first exhibit. To say it was repulsive would be akin to calling the Eiffel Tower tall: in the right area but nowhere near the right word. They were what appeared to be threads of skin hanging in round glass jars. My guidebook informed me they were ‘semi-living’ sculptures in the form of miniature jackets. ‘Victimless leather.’ I knew somewhere someone was celebrating, but just for the moment I couldn’t imagine why.
Supposedly, due to the value of the incubators, they were still growing, and would continue to throughout the exhibition. Maybe if I came back in a week they would fit a mouse.
My way only sparsely lit, I made it over to the far wall, where a projection showed an operation taking place. Despite an eerie David Lynch-esque soundtrack and the mechanical whirring of a nearby 3D clinostat providing the only narration, I quickly got the picture: a man was having an artificial ear inserted into the inside of his forearm. This, I later discovered, was an ear with Internet and Bluetooth capability. Again, I’m quite sure I missed the point.
It reminded me of an Australian I’d once met who’d had rare earth magnets installed under his fingertips. When asked what was the point, he told a long-winded story about being able to distinguish between different types of catfood tins. He claimed he was able to amuse himself for hours on end simply going through his girlfriend’s cupboards and handling her cat’s meals for the week. I had to ask whether there was any practical benefit (besides becoming a serial molester and connoisseur of tin cans) before he told me it had saved his life. Once, whilst working on a construction site, he had very nearly laid his hand on an unlabelled electric cable before a sensory phenomenon in his fingertips warned him not to. He learned not soon after that the cable contained a voltage charge of around 1,000. Consider, he told me, that it would only take about 60-100 volts to kill a man of his size through atrial fibrillation. When I asked him why he hadn’t been wearing gloves the conversation quickly dissipated.
Other exhibitions were equally ‘alternative.’ A magnetic resonance scan of an artist’s brain filled out with luminescent moss. A patchwork quilt of animal cells, both human and non-human. A collection of vaginal cells with a shape cut into them, designed to symbolically ‘re-virginize’ continually.
After that I needed a bit of a breather, so I knelt in a corner before the surgical video. Hopefully, this made me look mysterious. By the minimal light I read through what exhibits I had not yet visited. They were located in Gallery 2, which I knew was upstairs by the bar. Simply thinking of going back out into the light, away from the vacant faces of artsy students and the comforting sound of the Random Positioning Machine, felt akin to having to get out of bed too early in the morning. My sense of ‘arriving’ had been replaced by one of belonging. As little as I liked it, this gallery of grotesqueries had briefly become my world.
A girl stood by me staring in my direction. She was dressed like an art chick; boots, tied back hair, glasses, scarf, overcoat, fingerless gloves. I’m sure I’d never seen someone stand so still before. I thought she was looking at me, but as I came to my senses somewhat, I realised she was looking above me, reading the description of the ear man’s surgical procedure. From her face beneath her bifocals, I imagined she got the point far better than I did. But it was only imagining.
She left me crouching beneath a 50 x 50 photo of white-gloved hands scissoring through someone’s skin. Soon after, I too stepped out into the light.
The light, and two other exhibits. One, above me, was a series of national flags made out of leathered skin. They repulsed me until it dawned on me that that was the desired effect. Beside me was a corridor of coloured fabrics, painted with ‘thermochronic inks.’ A troupe of teenage girls were having fun pushing their hands and faces into the fabric, then recoiling to see the perfect white imprints they had left behind. Aware that people were watching me deface this work of art, my slightly-trembling hand likewise pushed hard against a strip of bright purple, and made a similar impression in the ink. I put it back on again slightly skewed, so it looked like I had ten fingers.
Upstairs held perhaps the most unnerving exhibit. A small, out-of-the-way area was bathed apathetically in a white light that, while pale, was enough of a contrast to the rest of the gallery to make it seem like a twisted, metallic version of the corridor promised us when we near death. I had to squint.
Slightly thrown by a feeling of uncertainty (perhaps mirroring the comfort this white semi-corridor seemed to have with itself), all I could register was writing on the far wall, and a woman sitting perfectly still to my right. I wondered if she was part of the effect, or even whether I should be there. I didn’t look at her but I could feel her stare in my temples.
I began to read. The piece read like a confession, or a manifesto. It told me things about Randy, things I wish I could remember. All I know is that Randy is not like you or me. He’s a concept, a clown, something to be feared and pitied, a dark spokesman. I don’t know why I remember this but I do. The light was too bright.
You can go through there if you like, the woman said to me.
Where?
There’s a door. There.
She pointed to the end of the corridor. Stepping forward, I saw a white outline of a doorway. I thanked her and, after a brief hesitation, gingerly pushed my way through.
I immediately wished I hadn’t. The tiny, badly-lit room I found myself in struck my brain hard through the salvia. I thought of war bunkers and clanking steel and the Ministry of Love. Worse, there was a noise I found infuriating. Supposedly, it was the same wavelength interrogators use in sensory deprivation torture.
There was furniture in the room. A desk, a cabinet, and a television table. On the television was something’s face: a round mass of curly black hair with a foam ball for a nose, wearing dark sunglasses. This, I fancied, was Randy. The film treated me to his face and body from a series of angles. The psychological effect was undeniable. I wanted out but I couldn’t help stay. My feeling of curiosity was undulled by drug-and-audio-assisted fear.
In a drawer of the cabinet I found a portable television showing the same film of Randy. I left, only catching the other exhibits briefly on the way out.
Techo-advanced gimp suits. The effect of napalm on human cells. Through door, sunlight. Streets and streets of vacant faces all branches in the hive. If you're looking for a good time. Vomit on Seel Street and a drone becomes a queen briefly before losing itself in the crowd once more. Honey for the children.
Culture
This year, I've had the opportunity to attend lectures by Slavoj Zizek, Terry Eagleton and, conversely, Richard Dawkins (who very kindly signed my copy of The Selfish Gene). Unfortunately, for two of them I was pretty slaughtered (the Zizek lecture was St Patrick's Day), but that's not the point. The point is that we can now name another thing the Capital of Culture award has brought to Liverpool: world-renowned philosophers, social critics and... well, I can't bring myself to call Dawkins anything other than a biologist. Even more importantly, I got to listen to Zizek natter away excitedly about They Live with his incredible, life-changingly-awesome lisp.
Because you're jealous, here is the great man ranting about love and the universe. Imagine him going on about a Rowdy Roddy Piper film.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJPhA9TGRls
Because you're jealous, here is the great man ranting about love and the universe. Imagine him going on about a Rowdy Roddy Piper film.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJPhA9TGRls
Thursday 24 April 2008
The Triangle Man
There he was at last, the Triangle Man come to take from me what was mine. He was a child's sketch of a child's sketch, a thinly-veiled attempt at striking the world a new angle, conceived in rage and confusion. I laughed at my defeated defences, a set of traps I'd dreamt up while high (or was that low? or sideways?) on stilnox. All that was between us now was silence, a silence thick with almost sexual anticipation of the battle to come. I thought of an axe, an energy drink, and a pink door closing, and how darn-right good it would feel to rid the Triangle Man of that slack smile he wore across his all-two dimensional, all-too isoceles existence. How right Einstein was when he said e=mc2, what delicious sense it all made to me now.
I decided it was high time I showed the cut of my jib. I gave the Triangle Man enough of a clop on the head to wobble his id, just to let him know I wasn't messing around. I think it was then that he faltered, all too early. Still grinning, he felt his reality bend within him: you could see it in his face. I took ahold of the strands that made up his hypoteneuse and tugged. The air around him tasted like battery acid all of a sudden, a sure sign of victory. I tugged harder and he screamed in my brain and bled dark matter from his cookie eyes. He wasn't a triangle anymore, more of a rhombus made of space and matted animal fur. One last attack, directed at my throat. I'd gotten overconfident as soon as he'd started to sweat, and he knew it. A fearsome thought raced across my mind like a news highlight: what if none of it - my payments on my car, Pythagoras, spell-checks, my neighbour's noisy dog, Tiscali broadband for fourteen ninety-nine a month - what if none of it mattered?
Jolity, pure hilarious nonsense. A tutted at my foolishness as I took the fight to the alley and ended it there. His equilibrium was shot, I didn't even have to prise his electric talons from my neck. They just fell off like so much razor dust. How now, brown cow! I exclaimed as I walked away. I felt his scream, the refuge of the defeated, anger at my childish taunts, and I chuckled to myself, lighting a cigarette on my boot. I knew I'd have to hide the corpse later, but now was time for baloons. I reached into my mouth and cracked out one of my broken teeth, a crunching reminder that nothing is certain. Chuckling, I flicked it at him, seeing the fleck of gummy flesh all too late. Had I underestimated the Velvet Squad from the very beginning?
I decided it was high time I showed the cut of my jib. I gave the Triangle Man enough of a clop on the head to wobble his id, just to let him know I wasn't messing around. I think it was then that he faltered, all too early. Still grinning, he felt his reality bend within him: you could see it in his face. I took ahold of the strands that made up his hypoteneuse and tugged. The air around him tasted like battery acid all of a sudden, a sure sign of victory. I tugged harder and he screamed in my brain and bled dark matter from his cookie eyes. He wasn't a triangle anymore, more of a rhombus made of space and matted animal fur. One last attack, directed at my throat. I'd gotten overconfident as soon as he'd started to sweat, and he knew it. A fearsome thought raced across my mind like a news highlight: what if none of it - my payments on my car, Pythagoras, spell-checks, my neighbour's noisy dog, Tiscali broadband for fourteen ninety-nine a month - what if none of it mattered?
Jolity, pure hilarious nonsense. A tutted at my foolishness as I took the fight to the alley and ended it there. His equilibrium was shot, I didn't even have to prise his electric talons from my neck. They just fell off like so much razor dust. How now, brown cow! I exclaimed as I walked away. I felt his scream, the refuge of the defeated, anger at my childish taunts, and I chuckled to myself, lighting a cigarette on my boot. I knew I'd have to hide the corpse later, but now was time for baloons. I reached into my mouth and cracked out one of my broken teeth, a crunching reminder that nothing is certain. Chuckling, I flicked it at him, seeing the fleck of gummy flesh all too late. Had I underestimated the Velvet Squad from the very beginning?
Wednesday 23 April 2008
Manifesto
THOMPSON FOR SHERIFF OF BIRKENHEAD
- Legalisation of mescaline, LSD, DMT, peyote, psilocybian mushrooms and marijuana on a recreational basis but fierce punishments for profiteering drug dealers
- Legalisation of prostitution, but fierce punishments for pimps
- Introduction of rehabilitation centres for heroin addicts
- Legalisation of graffiti on public property
- Parking lots and other concrete areas to be torn up and replaced with grassy areas
Those fucking stupid bastard chainlink railings outside of Stairways to be removed before any other poor fucker falls over them
- Fierce ON THE SPOT punishments for anyone assaulting, stealing from, harassing or otherwise BULLYING anyone weaker or in fewer number than them, to be doled out by the Sheriff or one of his handpicked Deputies. Sheriff and Deputies to carry any non-lethal weapons for these purposes, including but not limited to pepper spray and rounded-off Buford Pusser-esque 2x4s
- Birkenhead to now be officially called "Birkenvegas"
- Bam Buddha and the Latin Quarter to now carry the signs "Birkenvegas: European Capital of Culture"
- Introduction of "Twattin’ Centres" wherein disputes are settled in a boxing ring after participants petition the Sheriff’s Office. Resulting fights will be public events and under Marquess of Queensbury rules. Participants must shake hands after fights.
- More youth clubs
- Anyone caught wearing a hooded top, a polo shirt, hoops, trackie-bottoms, or any of these in combination with tacky jewellery, Burberry and/or trainers must also wear a top hat with a carnation in it, pink eyeliner and pince-nez
- Complete reform of public transport. The bus will be free for under 16s, students and pensioners. There will be at least one authority figure on each bus other than the driver to sort out any problems. This will be paid for by selling those expensive Merseytravel pieces of shit with high-tech LCD screens reading "BUS STOPPING" and fancy plastic poles, and reverting to cheap but functional ones. Taxis to grassy areas are free of charge
- Legalisation of smoking in public areas. Smoking in privately-run enclosed areas, such as workplaces, pubs, clubs etc. to be left up to the discretion of owner/s.
- Freedom of speech and expression, including the freedom to criticise on the grounds of race, class, gender, sexuality, religion and authority, to be held as an unalienable right. Calling the police "pigs" will not only be tolerated, but encouraged.
- Fierce punishments for perpetrators of domestic violence or sexually/racially-motivated attacks, including arse-kickings and losing all alcohol privileges.
- Enforcement of Lenin’s principle of He who does not work, neither shall he eat. The able-bodied and unemployed will be employed within the authority or down the docks in some capacity. No more slacker welfare culture
- Enforcement of Parry’s principle of Where there be grass, there be football permitted. Rain, snow, sleet or shine, bitches.
- Prosecution as stalkers of the fucking cunts who follow around tramps and Stephanie the tranny with their mobile phones and taking videos to be put on YouTube
- Skating and rollerblading to be legal everywhere
- Over 18s will be given an "alcohol licence" which they can then use to buy alcohol anonymously. Anyone found guilty of committing crimes under the influence of alcohol will have their licence revoked on a three-strike basis, to be replaced with a provisional licence allowing them to only drink alcohol in their own homes. None of this applies to alcohol fermented in the home: brewing your own booze FOR YOURSELF is an unalienable right
- Introduction of Bastard Tax, which will target anyone found guilty of any aforementioned crimes until they have stopped committing them. Repeated offenders will be subject to a Fucking Bastard Tax, which will work on the same principle but on a larger scale
- Legalisation of prostitution, but fierce punishments for pimps
- Introduction of rehabilitation centres for heroin addicts
- Legalisation of graffiti on public property
- Parking lots and other concrete areas to be torn up and replaced with grassy areas
Those fucking stupid bastard chainlink railings outside of Stairways to be removed before any other poor fucker falls over them
- Fierce ON THE SPOT punishments for anyone assaulting, stealing from, harassing or otherwise BULLYING anyone weaker or in fewer number than them, to be doled out by the Sheriff or one of his handpicked Deputies. Sheriff and Deputies to carry any non-lethal weapons for these purposes, including but not limited to pepper spray and rounded-off Buford Pusser-esque 2x4s
- Birkenhead to now be officially called "Birkenvegas"
- Bam Buddha and the Latin Quarter to now carry the signs "Birkenvegas: European Capital of Culture"
- Introduction of "Twattin’ Centres" wherein disputes are settled in a boxing ring after participants petition the Sheriff’s Office. Resulting fights will be public events and under Marquess of Queensbury rules. Participants must shake hands after fights.
- More youth clubs
- Anyone caught wearing a hooded top, a polo shirt, hoops, trackie-bottoms, or any of these in combination with tacky jewellery, Burberry and/or trainers must also wear a top hat with a carnation in it, pink eyeliner and pince-nez
- Complete reform of public transport. The bus will be free for under 16s, students and pensioners. There will be at least one authority figure on each bus other than the driver to sort out any problems. This will be paid for by selling those expensive Merseytravel pieces of shit with high-tech LCD screens reading "BUS STOPPING" and fancy plastic poles, and reverting to cheap but functional ones. Taxis to grassy areas are free of charge
- Legalisation of smoking in public areas. Smoking in privately-run enclosed areas, such as workplaces, pubs, clubs etc. to be left up to the discretion of owner/s.
- Freedom of speech and expression, including the freedom to criticise on the grounds of race, class, gender, sexuality, religion and authority, to be held as an unalienable right. Calling the police "pigs" will not only be tolerated, but encouraged.
- Fierce punishments for perpetrators of domestic violence or sexually/racially-motivated attacks, including arse-kickings and losing all alcohol privileges.
- Enforcement of Lenin’s principle of He who does not work, neither shall he eat. The able-bodied and unemployed will be employed within the authority or down the docks in some capacity. No more slacker welfare culture
- Enforcement of Parry’s principle of Where there be grass, there be football permitted. Rain, snow, sleet or shine, bitches.
- Prosecution as stalkers of the fucking cunts who follow around tramps and Stephanie the tranny with their mobile phones and taking videos to be put on YouTube
- Skating and rollerblading to be legal everywhere
- Over 18s will be given an "alcohol licence" which they can then use to buy alcohol anonymously. Anyone found guilty of committing crimes under the influence of alcohol will have their licence revoked on a three-strike basis, to be replaced with a provisional licence allowing them to only drink alcohol in their own homes. None of this applies to alcohol fermented in the home: brewing your own booze FOR YOURSELF is an unalienable right
- Introduction of Bastard Tax, which will target anyone found guilty of any aforementioned crimes until they have stopped committing them. Repeated offenders will be subject to a Fucking Bastard Tax, which will work on the same principle but on a larger scale
Hospitals are for joeys
I'll tell you what, Arrowe Park may be a big brick pile of Woolly shit. But the nurses there are the nicest people on the whole Wirral, which really is saying something when you think of all the smackheads they have to put up with on a daily basis. And if you need your stomach pumped, there's no better place.
I didn’t exactly get my stomach pumped, it was just an endoscopy. Or, roughly probe you with a camera until you choke, more like. The thing is, I started laughing before it was halfway down my throat. Fit of the giggles, I guess. Laughed my arse off, damn near. This happens whenever some shit is going down and I can picture myself as someone else. This is why I never get any sympathy; but then, who wants sympathy when you can laugh yourself half to death?
Plus, my mate got a camera shoved up his backside when they had to take pictures of his insides. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't find this shit funny, too.
I didn’t exactly get my stomach pumped, it was just an endoscopy. Or, roughly probe you with a camera until you choke, more like. The thing is, I started laughing before it was halfway down my throat. Fit of the giggles, I guess. Laughed my arse off, damn near. This happens whenever some shit is going down and I can picture myself as someone else. This is why I never get any sympathy; but then, who wants sympathy when you can laugh yourself half to death?
Plus, my mate got a camera shoved up his backside when they had to take pictures of his insides. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't find this shit funny, too.
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