Peter Pan

Got my hair cut the other day. Don't pretend you hadn't noticed. Walked in off the street, no appointment, uninvited because that's how I roll. I asked if anyone could deal with my hair, there and then, right now.
A sleeping polar bear, or Ben, as it turned out, was awoken from his snoring slumber by the receptionist that we'll name Candy for fun's sake. An alarmed Ben jumped to his feet, the magazine that was bobbing up and down on his sleeping belly now hits the floor but remains standing, just as I sit to receive my shampoo and massage. A little while later and big Ben is cutting my hair, nervously, asking me for tips, instilling no confidence in me at all that he is competent, or up to the cut. It was a hairy situation to say the least.

I remarked, perhaps stupidly I now realise with hindsight: "New premises eh, you used to be in a smaller retailer unit. This new big store is much nicer, better location too".

"Aye", he retorts. "That's Max so it is, full a ideas, that Max, with his ideas."

"FUCK!" I screamed in my head as I see the flash of an evil face in the mirror. I know, instinctively somehow, to look outside. To my horror, yet slight curiosity and benevolence all the same, what I will refer to as the riddler, grinning from ear to ear, draped in hooded dark brown garments, a wooden cane, beard - medieval looking, you know. He's holding a little box and he gives it a big shake.

All I could focus on was the single beating subwoofer as it pulsated away to Gino Soccio's Human Nature (Fen Acid Nature Edit) in a dark underground bar with red velvet and gold everywhere. A disco ball, dancing shadows, coloured streamers littered all over. An empty stage with a brass poll it's only act. A gun to my head I'm forced to place high stakes bets on which fat naked man on a space hopper will cross the line first. At this very moment, a flared, afro'd Hendricks doppelganger whips out a pistol and says in a long slow accent: "you gotta focusssss...."

Overjoyed, floating saxophones playing themselves appear. I catch a glance of the fat man I placed a bet on as he licks his lips aggressively, the sweat from his brow reflecting the disco light.

I then wake up in Lawrence Street in a cold sweat with the meaning of life firmly realised.

It's a Friday, let's do thisssss.

ZZ Top

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Toppoblog's Christmas Special: George Michael and Me.

I know this is late, the height of Christmas has passed and we are all focusing on the new year, but Christmas is my time of year and the Christmas tree is still up. I STILL have tinsel and scented Christmas decorations in my bed room...from Christmas 2006.

I just really want to have Christmas Special in the title. I apologise in advance for terrible spelling and punctuation. I also apologise in advance for starting so many sentences with "I" and "It's".

It's uncertain what really happened, but a logical explanation would be that I was removed from the Corinthian at Hogmanay. I can remember conversing with some of the finest dressed and most powerful people in Glasgow whilst the Drive soundtrack played on repeat from someone's black iPhone 4s 16GB that was connected to the Karaoke machine. I am pretty certain it was the same iPod I used to frape the owner, posting on a girl's timeline something like: "Hey im in Glasgw whre are you?!". The spelling mistakes were accidental and due to my nerves at having this vital 5 second window which I had managed to clamber in, a joyeous expression on my face, my tongue dangling from my mouth's corner, the dibelief that I'd managed to breach security, realising I was getting away with it, realising the spelling mistakes made it seem like he was drunk and thus more authentic. All these thoughts flowing through my incredible mind. In other words, I was in my element participating in pointless meaningless pish on the sidelines whilst everyone else enjoys life.

Then, somehow, I was shirtless and pantless, stumbling and staggering down a nameless lane somewhere near the Clyde River. On the back of my mind a voice suggesting perhaps it'd be best if I just went for a little swim, catch up with some Salmon. Bouncing from wall-to-wall down this nameless lane I picked up momentum. With the winds of Hurricane Bawbag behind me I was picking up speeds at an aggressive pace. Before I knew what was happening I had been ejected out of the lane like a stone ball shot from an Edwardian cannon, it's only purpose to reek havoc and to destroy. To smash-up and decimate. To tear apart and split. Expecting to have a wall to bounce off of again I staggered at an awkward diagonal, but there was no lane wall to cradle me this time. My speed slowed abruptly and I remember desperately trying to maintain balance as I crossed the street dodging cars as they honked their noisy horns and headed toward the brambles and shrubbery opposite. 

Reaching for a tree branch I fainted. A leaf fell landing gently on my bosom, turning itself over, as the bells from a distant church rang out for the New Year.

I've still to pick up my muddied white Versace suit from the dry-cleaners.

I blame George Michael for the fact I am never fully satisfied with life. He has been my inspiration and has set the benchmark for many of my life's aspirations which I have just not really been able to meet yet. But you've got to have faith. When I started to write this shitty post I was in the mood for writing about George Michael in more detail, but like all real things that are close to one's heart they are often hard to talk about. Hard to express and hard to deal with head on. How can I possibly put it into words? To put a long story short, in the eighties George represents a zest for life and being in your prime. The last Christmas Video, Club Tropicana, Careless Whisper....I want to experience it all.

It's a Sunday, it's 12:37PM and I'm laying in my cradle. Veridis Quo is communicating with me through my mono loudspeaker. In the background I can here a friend conversing with my flatmate. I am still fully clothed from Bamboo last night minus my socks. Like all socks they are probably now gone forever. This cup of coffee is going down soooo well and through my curtains I can see a teal-blue sky and the occasional hoodlum being evicted from Adele's party flat. It's perhaps foolish of me to give away clues to my current location as the death threats have been more aggressive recently. Gaddafi supporters still believe I was a significant coil in the Arab Spring. They're correct.

In front of me, by my television I have just spotted a miniature sized bottle of Grey Goose that friend brought round last night. It looks so self-contained, lonely and innocent but makes me want to go back to last night. I have a love hate relationship with Sundays. It's a day to enjoy being hungover and lazing about but means that the Weekend is firmly over. I've just now realised that it's important to enjoy your job as I have no feelings of dread for tomorrow morning. In fact, I am looking forward to starting the working week.

On that note I'm going to wash and get something to eat. 

Over and Out...

Tappy Jnr

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On Toppo' the World - Tenerife

In this edition, toppoblog writes to you from the tropical, distant and uncharted island that is Tenerife.

Tenerife is located off the North West coast of Africa, but is populated by nearly one million persons who regard themselves as Spanish since it was conquered by Spain in the 90s. That's the 1490s. The only invading peoples in the most recent 90s, have been the British who have been invading the island each and every year, despite having already conquered the territory in the 70s. As if it weren't enough to have a British pub on every corner, the Brits will cease to stop their hegemony until the flag of Tenerife is simply a photograph of a plate of egg and chips, made in a caff somewhere in East London.

Argentina, however, claim the island is theirs and rumours are spreading that they lay claim to the Isle of Arran as well.

Let's start with the fantasy.

Day 4, Toppo's Log.

I etch another line into the stone wall with piece of flint from my lighter. It's been four full days now, or so I believe, that I have been held hostage in this God forsaken prison cell.

My plane crashed somewhere when trying to cross the Atlantic to reach the Kingdom of Fife. I drifted for days, running low on supplies. Luckily I remembered my SAS training that says the most important thing to have when stranded at sea, in a rubber dingy, with no food or water, is a shaving mirror. After having a shave I had the most lovely smooth-to-touch skin. Other than feeling more self-confident and  

The Sun, once a friend, now a torturer

sexy, I failed to find the benefit of my increased sexiness when potentially thousands of miles from land. The only use I found with having it, was looking at myself. I looked at myself, and I looked at myself. I guess I didn't feel so alone, as I could talk to myself for hours and hours. Like all seasoned sex tourists I had multiple packets of condoms on my person, which I used to fractionally distil the sea water to gather salt. The salt, I thought, would come in handy for preserving any fish that I may catch until I could make fire to cook it with. With my bare hands I wrestled with many a fish, but their slippery bodies were too difficult to grasp. My fish-cooking plans never materialized. I must have dozed off for some time, as I awoke to shouts in some discernible language. Men with Kalashnikov rifles approached in a black rubber dingy, akin to the type associated with Somali pirates. I reached for my mirror instantly, and reflected the sunlight, killing two of them. The other two, fired warning shots, and I put down my powerful laser shooting mirror immediately. I was forced to board their dingy. I was embarrassed, because my dingy was a child's Sponge Bob Square-pants one, which I managed to steal from a child passenger just minutes before our plane impacted into the ocean. The embarrassment was overshadowed by my shame however. Only I survived the crash, and did I deserve such luck?

I was hit with the bud of a rifle and knocked unconscious. When I came to, I found myself naked on a tiled floor. A prisoner. If not a prisoner of war, then perhaps of love. The first thing I noticed was a blue tag around my wrist. Some sort of identification I assumed. Here, it would seem, I'm just another number.

All inclusive...whatever that meant

 Through the bars of my cell, I could only safely see the sky with the sun beating down. I could hear the sound of children screaming, lots of splashing and what could only be the sick laughter of their torturers. "Animals!", I wanted yell. I needed to look through the bars to get the bearings of my surroundings, but I feared the guard at the watchtower directly opposite may see me, and I did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself at this stage. Announcements were made throughout the day via a loudspeaker over the same repetitive surrealist dance music. It sounded like Japanese Rape Techno. When night fell the situation was not much better, as the guards sat in a shack throughout the evening drinking liquor and playing Russian roulette.

On day II, I had a snap-opportunity to take a prolonged peak out through the bars to see what took place whilst the Japanese Rape Techno played. My worst fears had been answered. It was some sort of labour camp, perhaps a Re-education through Labour program as used historically by totalitarian regimes such as 70s Cambodia and present day North Korea. What alarmed me the most was it was the elderly who were picked on. The lyrics of the music must be filled with propaganda, this country's national anthem, perhaps.  With shaken hand I managed to capture some footage first hand. 








Before watching: 

Note at 00:16s in, the man by the base of the tree in the pool starts to frantically rejoice. I can only suppose this was for one, or perhaps all three of the following reasons:

a) he had been successfully brain washed;
b) he was begging for his life, and hopes that by praising his masters he would be freed; or
c) he completely lost his mind and was acting out of delirium. 

I point this incident out, because at 00:43s into the footage, those sick torturing bastards then throw his wife into the pool as punishment for his stepping out of line.

Now watch:

For some reason the guards never bothered to confiscate my electrical equipment, so this is how I am able to keep a log and take some photographs. They must have assumed I'd have no source of electricity to charge my belongings. Yes, I could use my laptop to keep track of the date and time rather than use tally marks on the wall, but my source of energy for my electricals is finite. This is because I am using a potato that I found in the corner of my cell. The potato must have been left by whoever inhabited this cell before me. Next to the vegetable, on the wall, were tally marks and a most peculiar tri-colour, rectangular symbol of some sort, with the colours green, white and orange. I wonder what the previous inmate was like, and where they were from? It is perhaps impossible to ever know the answer to this mystery.

The Reality 

Let us be honest. When it comes to toppoblog, the reality is likely to be far more bizarre than the fantasy.

I'll cut to the chase. I spent the whole time basking in the sun, enjoying the free food and drink, listening to music and reading books, one of which, was an erotica book, called The Eye. It was so erotic in fact, that I decided to go by myself...twice. At first, this seemed a rather daunting and strange challenge, but one which I managed to do successfully (relative to most challenges I face) and I now think going out alone abroad is brilliant fun. First night I went out alone I wandered round the corner from my hotel to the first club I could hear/see. When I walked in, it was pretty empty and the steward said I should come back around 1am when things get busier.

So, back to my hotel I went and got tanked up at the bar by myself. At about 12.30, I stood outside the hotel brandishing a packet of cigarettes, in the hope that someone would ask me for one. Two guys were nearby, I asked if they wanted a cigarette, one agreed. I said my phrase, the only thing I can say in Spanish "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish", and would then explain by saying "solo" and pointing at myself that I was alone. The guy who took the cigarette then suggested I hang around with him, his mate, and their two girl friends, and to the club around the corner we all went, joyfully, singing and dancing. They were very friendly, they bought me drinks, I returned the favor, we talked about football, they gave me sleazy Spanish phrases to say to groups of girls in the club for their entertainment, etc etc. Just a normal night out really. The only issue, however, is that they asked me if I had a girlfriend. By this point, I was firmly on my way, having tried my best to live up to the romanticized alcohol-immune Scottish stereotype they had in their heads, and that they were so fond of. I didn't want to disappoint. Anyway, I said sarcastically that I did indeed have a girlfriend, but that she was dead. My next sentence was going to be something silly like we were bungee jumping on our honeymoon and the rope snapped, or something equally dark and unfunny like that. But, before I could get to that sentence, I was already in the strong emotional embrace of the two Spanish couples, and it was too late for me to say that I was joking. So, I had to play along, and pretend to be very, very sad.

That is my last memory of that evening. I woke up the next morning fully clothed bar my shirt, at a 45 degree angle with my legs off of the corner of the bed, my toes bearing the brunt of my body weight.

A successful night all round I'd say. I wish I had their details, as they took lots of photos, but perhaps it is all for the best.

Night out numero 2. 

Biggie Smalls R.I.P.

Using the same ingenious system that I devised, I went to the same club the following evening, on the Saturday, and stood outside at peak time, brandishing a crisp, unopened packet of Marlboro. After a few minutes, two girls approached me, asking for a cigarette. I gave the same line: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish". I was quite tanned by this point, and they did not believe that I was Scottish. Fortunately, they had both lived in London before, and so were happy to speak in English. When they realized I was alone, they said I should hang about with them. Naturally I did. We bought drinks, we danced, we had a laugh, and it just made me confused. Two girls, what to do. It's like splitting an atom. We ended up leaving that club, and drove around in one of the girl's car at 5am looking for a party. I was excited. But, their excitment started to fade, and eventually they said there were no parties on and that they will take me home to my hotel. I still think it must have been something I said or did. Maybe they saw me in the light?

Toppsy

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I Wonder

Let's refresh.

AMEN

Blogging to me is a safety valve outlet. It allows me to clear the slate, and summarise my past week or month in a coded way. Technically, it's my diary. I don't like the word blogging though. I'm not sure why, but it seems too buzzwordy. Buzzwords (buzzword is a buzzword in itself!) irritate me because they make me feel stupid, like I'm just using this word that is in fashion. Take for instance, current affairs. You hear people say "current economic climate" a lot in a bid to sound clever and as though they have a dissertation to back up the ridiculously bull-shit statement they've just made. Also, I think it excites them to use a word generally associated with the weather in a different context. And in the "political sphere" those left and right of centre have their own core phrases and words that they use over and over and over and over and over again. Eventually, we all become obsessed with re-using these buzz words to sound knowledgeable about subjects we know fuck all about.  Take the riots for instance. How many times did you hear "televisions" and "trainers", or "children as young as ten" in news reports. True it may be, but why tell us the same things constantly as if it we are hearing it for the first time. After the 12th time I'm bored. I mean, it's not as though they are trying to manipulate our thoughts or anything.

Blogging is a recent hobby of mine and I like it. it's nice that I have a humble core of people who seem to enjoy it. In fact, I love you people who read it and understand it...you are rare. You share that passion for dark surrealist humor as much as I do, and what is key is your understanding of irony. Can you imagine that people didn't know this blog was for comic value?! Can you imagine people read my blog, and called me a "cunt" because of it, advised to me close it down, or thought me arrogant as a result?! Apparently I'm "creepy" "egotistical" and "weeeeeeiiiiirrrrrdddddd". Somehow, the blog has projected an image of narcissism. Somehow, I love myself and some people have taken from it that I think that I am great with women??? Yes, from reading my blog, people think that I am showing off how great I am with women...??? And, dear followers, can you imagine I'd be so much of a bitch to be affected by this and temporarily not write blogs?! I am sorry. I can't apologise enough for having let you all down these past few months. So, next time you are brushing your teeth, I want you to pause for a moment, look at yourself in the mirror, and whisper loud enough for it to be just barely audible... "you're special". Try to make a sort of gentle whistley sound.


I know at least one of you will actually do this. You have my personal thanks <3.

The worst part is, these people are correct. How on Earth did they break my code. I do love myself - LOADS!

Golly gosh oh golly.

Anyway, "Shazam - Pool Party" has just come on my iTunes - I had to check iTunes to see what was playing. Never heard of this song, or remember hearing it either for that matter. When had I gone to the effort of purchasing this song? It's making me wish I was somewhere more glamorous.

Perhaps I downloaded it that time I was involved in a foursome with those three Scandinavian girls who read my blog about dona kebabs, deciphered the code, and realised I was really writing about Kama Sutra positions and all of my loving experiences, chartered a flight to Glasgow and broke in through my bedroom window.

By the way...when brushing your teeth, try not to get froth on your clothes as a controversial stain reappears later on in the day. This stain can lead to break ups bust ups and resignations. All this paranoia because of a little bit of toothpaste. It's just a little patch of toothpaste that has landed on your groin area. It's only a white stain by the fly of your black trousers. You go to the toilet, wet a tissue and scrub vigorously until it disappears. But, does it really disappear? Oh no, it comes back....with vengeance. You then find yourself walking around with not only a controversial white stain all over your groin area, but a moist white stain. Yes, a moist, white, controversial stain, just beside your fly. You frequent the toilet to scrub vigorously with dampened cloth. You are seen leaving the toilet each hour with a moist white controversial stain by your groin. This happens every day. You never learn. Every morning you are so tired you spit and miss the sink, and thus the vicious cycle of moist white controversial stain begins again. It is like a biblical curse/plague. Let's put an end to it. Let's raise awareness.


Let's catchup.

When I touched down in Gatwick airport a funny thing happened.  Waiting for my luggage, I saw a group of elderly people, let's say seven or eight of them, trying to conquer the conveyor belt and get their bags back. They were officially elderly because they were all beige, white and cream from their hair to their shoes. What was interesting however was their behaviour. It was very collective. They were focused heavily on the task in hand: OPERATION BAGGAGE RECLAIM. I suspect this collective thinking comes from the London Blitz. The elderly men were on the front line, YES, I am making WWII references, but they were literally on the yellow line; not a step beyond it. Confused and perplexed they stood, shuffling around and trying to remember why they were there, scoping out for some beige luggage, through their chunky transparent plastic spectacles. Bless them.

Gift from the Queen on your 75th Birthday

After a few minutes, a beige bag was on the radar. Alfred shuffled frantically. As he shuffled his eyebrow hairs tickled the elderly fellow on his left, causing him to turn his head, subsequently tickling Alfred with the white hairs protruding from his ears. This tickling went on repeatedly until the real action started.

I know his name because "Alfred, no! your back" was shouted by a confused, concerned yet adoring wife from the sideline.

Alfred had mobilised. He breached the line, and with two hands he grabbed the beaten beige leather handle of his luggage, and two-step shuffled in parallel with the bag down the straight of the conveyor belt. In the confusion, Alfred's pal had dropped his walking cane, now half rested on the conveyor belt and making its way round the track. He looked on, not knowing where he was. All he wanted was a scone, he hadn't asked for this.

The rest of the mob slowly but surely made it over towards Alfred to give him a hand. It was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead. It was a middle-aged businessman on the phone that lifted the bag up for him in the end, and Alfred had to take a little while to recover and get his breath back. Proudly he lifted his wife's bag up on to the trolley and the whole group just stood there trying to figure out where the exit was.

Such events are becoming rarer as this generation's story draws to a close.

The Hol Royd Arms

Don't be fooled by this picture

So, lucky me. Arrived in Surrey, it was a beautiful day and I was in an optimistic mood. All was swell until I arrived at my highly recommended accommodation. A beautiful, cosey little bed and breakfast in the heart of Guildford. Free WiFi, television in room et cetera.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, he did something that I know was difficult for him to do. He cared for the welfare of his passenger. With the engine still running, he hopped out of the red Skoda, jogged to the back of the car, opened the boot, got my suitcase out, opened my door, said: "ten quid mate" gave me his taxi card and said: "look, if you need to leave here, just call this taxi number and ask for Steve. I should be taxiing around this area tonight and I'll be able to pick you up quickly". He drove off in a hurry.


I turned around and started towards the Hol Royd Arms. Sat outside were two fat lads in Red England jerseys from the 90s. I was wearing purple skinny jeans. I was also Scottish...

I need to go buy toothpaste. I will continue later... 


Toppsy


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