Since I'm moving away soon, I handed in my notice for my previous employer, and so had this month free to become addicted to day-time television and extreme pornography. What I've realised is that as a result of not working, my brain has not been as stimulated, the weekends not appreciated as much, and as a result, nothing really to blog about.
Sunday night, in Bamboo's hip-hop room, at the bar ordering 20 sambuca, I was confronted by a gentleman and a scholar, who informed me that he really quite enjoyed my blog. I decided at that point, that before I embark upon my DMT trip, that I will NEED to write something. I'm doing this for you all, not me. As usual, this is a selfless act. When I could be oot pumpin aw the burds, im instead sat by a fire...NAKED, quill in hand, pondering my existence and battling with writer's block. Which reminds me, I've written something inspired by Descartes before. So, I'm cheating a little bit, as I'm simply going to now copy and paste from something I'd written last Christmas time on the Buff Club PRs facebook group when I worked there. It's relevant, so why re-write in different words? That would be wasteful in these times of austerity.
Basically, the Buff's facebook group became abandoned, and I wanted to inject some life into it; like the quantitative easing equivalent of social media, perhaps. Here it is:
Cogito Ergo Sum
"It has come to my attention as of late, and I think its fairly obvious anyway, that this group is destined to become yet another desolate/baron/bleak/austere...DEPRESSING waste of cyber-space.
Something so disenchanting about neglected forums, where an antique, or fossilized comment is left unnoticed ad infinitum. There may as well be three dots after the name of this facebook group, or a figure of 8.
In denial, and being a natural optimist, I had hoped this group would be exciting, with lots of user generated content. Alas, for you can't kid a kidder, and here I am having to save the day again, unappreciated, just like the Buff's birthday night out (a single teardrop has just issued from my right eye and landed on my nipple).
As I lay here at 6 in the morning, naked, physically exhausted, yet mentally as discerning as I've ever been (think Stephen Hawkings in bed naked, but with a MacBook and a massive erection), I pondered, as Descartes once had, "do I really exist?" and if so, "how can I be sure?". My conclusion differs some what from Rene's however in that I believe:
"I PR, therefore I am".
Unable to sleep, and I see blue liquid swirls when I close my eyes anyway, I thought I'd do what I enjoy most, and that is generating heated debate and stimulating primitive sexual emotions over things that either don't exist, or are pointless :). And, also, why keep my thoughts to myself?
As I lay here at 6 in the morning, naked, physically exhausted, yet mentally as discerning as I've ever been (think Stephen Hawkings in bed naked, but with a MacBook and a massive erection), I pondered, as Descartes once had, "do I really exist?" and if so, "how can I be sure?". My conclusion differs some what from Rene's however in that I believe:
"I PR, therefore I am".
Unable to sleep, and I see blue liquid swirls when I close my eyes anyway, I thought I'd do what I enjoy most, and that is generating heated debate and stimulating primitive sexual emotions over things that either don't exist, or are pointless :). And, also, why keep my thoughts to myself?
I hate tragedy and there's simply no need for loss of potential."
So, it's relevant, as it relates to themes of neglected cyber space, tragedy and my aim in life, which is always remained true - to stimulate sexual arousal. It's always there, just needs to be tapped.
At this point, I'm not sure what happened next, but I recall...recalling, a hymn at school, from the classic "Songs of Praise" book, with the line "I was cold I was naked were you there". None of you were there. Perhaps if I'd been more God fearing, such terrible runs of luck wouldn't happen to me. What made matters worse was the fact that I discovered, to my embarrassment, that my fellow Buffers had in fact not dingeyed me, but rather I'd drank too much Guinness and essentially dingeyed myself. The girl of my dreams I'd been planning for ages to meet also arrived and apparently came over to talk to me. I gave her the victory sign and left. Only she must know what I said to her. I don't want to know. I certainly ain't gonna call her and find out.
Was a low point of my life, let alone my week. It was shortly after graduating with a Masters Degree. Five years of studying, and I was naked in snow covered in curry sauce. Once I came to the next morning, I used the pita bread to sheath my penis and managed to break back into my own bedroom to safety.
Thankfully, things are looking up at the moment. Well at least It's not snowing.
So what causes it to snow? What creates a storm, directs waves and determines temperatures? I don't have fucking clue. But, I know that for waves, they are affected by the gravitational forces of the moon and sun. A wave isn't a wave of water, as water particles move in small circular motions, but rather an actual wave of energy, which is pretty kool. I'm trying to find ways of talking about the moon, so I can get onto the subject of outerspace and quantum mechanics, time and fascinating sciency shit like that.
The reason is, I hate things that are mundane. The idea of hanging up wet socks to dry (oooohhhh that reminds me. Got in a taxi the other day, was trying to relate you know, tried to sound a little less posh, tried to talk about Greggs sausage rolls and Irn-Bru and shit like that. I was heading S Side to visit the fam, and as usual, I had a bin bad full of stuff that I was needing to take back. And, as usual, I got asked the same question:
"This you takin' yer washin' hame aye, heh heh heh?"
"Ahh, ye cannae beat it, hame cooked meal and washin' done by yer mammy"
It's perfectly friendly chit chat, and I like it. I agree! But, I took it too far. I went on about how much I just hate washin'. Naively, I mentioned briefly that I hate hanging up wet socks individually. I may as well have head butted a bee hive. Like a lightening bolt; as if it were on the front of his mind or had been niggling at him for years.
"I fuckin' hate soaks. Goat a big basket aw em. I just buy soaks, I can't be fucked washin' them, I just buy them"
By this point he takes both hands of the steering wheel to describe the immense size of these multi packs, which seemingly cost a mere poun'.
"The big fuckin' multi-packs o' soaks." Before I knew it, I was joining in the conversation about "wumin" and how there's no need for a washing machine or dishwashurr, cuz "that's wit a wumin's fur".)
or being that guy on Buchanan Street that pretends to be a statue, when we are all floating in space, and have no idea where we came from or why we are here, or anything. It's stranger than any fiction ever imagined, and possible are things we can never imagine. Really, what is life? This is the kind of question I'd like to dedicate my life to solving, as opposed to dealing with most of the questions I deal with in life, such as which kebab, or should I get a pint or switch to spirits now? Wish I was an astrophysicist or something.
Life's just so tragic, in the literal sense of wasted potential. Everywhere you look, people could be doing better, could be far happier. It's just so injust, like the timer switch in the toilet of the hotel lobby in barcelona. It basically persecutes those who are taking a shit. Timer switch lasts about 30 seconds. Sitting there on the red leather sofa's at the kinky hotel I was at, and frequently I'd see guests waddling out of the gents into the hotel lobby, chinos down by their ankles, an arm outstretched, the other rubbing their eyes, bellowing: "I've gone blind! I've gone blind" only to realise they're now in the hotel lobby, humiliated in front of their children, wife, friends and general public. I suspect the hotel staff set the timer switch accordingly for their own amusement. There should be some sort of siren and flashing light, with a hotel porter ready with a medal to award them as their "100th today!".
Whilst in Barcelona, I was looking at the moon quite a lot. Namely because after a while I mistook it for my cigarette lighter, but it was far more prominent in the clear night's sky; as were the stars. I was thinking though, whilst I was there, how the moon and sun and stars have been behaving the same way for millions of years (all in all), consistently orbiting in the correct way, and following the correct patterns. Jesus looked at the same moon we look at, as did Galileo, and all of your ancestors. It will be there long after we are gone too.
AHHH, i'm getting pissed off. I neeeed to be semi-pissed to write shit that makes sense. Too rigid when I'm completely sober. This is all boring. Nothing in the news amuses me, and I don't have any one off events to write about. Nothing strange has happened to me recently. I'm also scared my new employers get a hold of this and I'll be sacked. Well, there is one thing I could write about. The REAL reason I was in Barcelona. I loved Factor 50, Thunder Disco are definitely causing a storm and will continue to into the foreseeable future. But, although that was a bonus to see them, it's not why I was there.
A week before I went to Barcelona you see, I was in Cafe India (default location circa 4am any night of the week) and I didn't have enough cash to pay for my donner kebab (they don't accept American Express). I may be their best customer, but in the world of doner, it's all business. You can't fuck about, there's no tick, and people get shot, no questions asked. So I had to strike a deal.
So after hours of torture and interrogation - "who sent you?" slap slap, "who are you working for?!" electric shock to my nipple, they knew I was innocent. I had no knowledge of any of the main doner meat gangs or distributors, so I couldn't make the torture stop from admitting anything.
I still had a debt to pay however.
All I could hear was the squeek of what sounded like an un-oiled wheel. I was correct. The men in Cafe India wheeled out the God Father of Doner meat from the backroom storage area. His wheel chair unglamorous, a rusty wheel squeaking every 10 seconds as 15 men grappled to push him out. It took hours. The old man was so decrepit and bent double that his face was literally in his groin. They had to all strip naked to reduce weight and enable them to force him out on to the passage way between the doner meat skewer and the display cabinet. The reason it was so tough was not because the old man was heavy (as he was not) but because the wheels to his wheel chair so badly damaged.
The old man spoke, but I could understand nothing as he was merely grumbling to his own testicles. One of the doner lords translated for me. Basically, I needed to smuggle three skewers of doner meat into Barca, and deliver to his three brother's outlets. Once I deliver, I have to take a photograph as evidence, and send it back. The following three images make it look easy, but boy was it difficult:
OKAY. Let me continue writing drivel later you unappreciative cunts! I wanna watch the tennis on my last day before I go. But I will continue later, so stay tuned.
Toppsy
x
