This is for me lovely mate Rhishiart, who brings reds and sends hot-beverage kits. May your cellar never run dry, toots! Look-see! The return of the Stolen Goodies. Some more of that nonsense forged from borrowed & reprocessed clipart I’m becoming so fond of. Here we can see Mistah MuchaVista, the ocular sharpshooter, preaching to the wildlife that populates the delta of the mighty Urook. He’s cast his sharp eye around the p’litical scene and now dispenses an equally sharp brand of rough-rough-and-ready wisdom to whosoever wants to listen. Or to the fresh air, if nobody wants to listen, it’s all the same to him. His real name is Chindasvinto Malatesta Jones. Of decidedly mixed ancestry, he hails from Reus, of all places. The wonders of uncontrolled migration, I dare say. Long may it live! -be it only to aggravate the likes of Nigel Farrago and the Trumper* -or Agent Orange, as my other good pal David calls him. The verses quoted by Chindy are from Martin Fierro. And because I can’t be arsed to give a good translation, you’ll have to make do with this:
Don’t tell me your woes because I live in grief myself. And don’t get cocky even if your foot is on the stirrup. The best of riders often finds himself with his ass flat on the ground.
*To trump. v.intr. Games: To get the better of (an adversary or competitor, for example) by using a crucial, often hidden resource. In this Trumper’s case Homer Simpson and his tribe; a crucial, often hidden, vastly ignored, regularly abused by the soi-disant liberal elites, and definitely neglected resource. Think twice before you engage in ritual humiliation, folks. It tends to backfire spectacularly. Think Germany and Versailles and what came 20 years later. Hell, think Israel, if you feel like living dangerously.
You know what it’s like. You’re sitting at home, quietly minding your business, when a Random Morphogenetic Event drops in out of the blue and next thing you know you have become an effing monster. Oh, well…
Crossroads. Recently, and not for the first time, some clever clogs tried to tell me how I should or shouldn’t speak, and how I should not use “bad” language and so on. I retorted that a): there is no such thing as bad language. There’s bad grammar and bad syntax and bloody awful spelling, not to mention sadly misguided folks that say “nukular” instead of nuclear. End of. And b): that I’ll be buggered if I let anyone tell me how to speak. Ever. Why, they’ll be telling me how to think, next; and then how to behave, and then that I have to fall flat on my face and worship them because their fucking angry sky gods have put then at the top of the feeding manger and so on. That’ ll be the day…:-)
In addition to its Rage of the Gorgon spirit, today’s pic and its blue companion are the first in a random mini-series marking the 100th anniversary of the Russian Revolution.
Let’s make one thing clear: I have no romantic beliefs in this specific Revolution in and of itself, as it all ended in floods of Stalinist tears and further rivers of Blood of the Proletariat. But it happened, and, for a while, it worked. What once was could be again. And it could be better. Or better done. Or better managed. Or better something. Any road, it’s worth keeping in mind.
Up the Potemkin!
AntiValentine2017. So here we are again; another round of consumer frenzy’s in the air –not to mention the telly. And while the general public are busy contracting the pseudo-organic roses and the soi-disant fair trade chocolates our little corner of South Hackney boils and bubbles with the traditional Anti-Valentine knees-up., which will begin officially tomorrow and may last, easily, until the end of next week.
This year’s MC duties have been allocated to the capable and ever-cheerful Big Beata, a third cousin twice removed of the delightful Venus of Willendorf. See her here, carrying the Cantankerous Wheel of Fortune, assisted by that hardy perennial awkward git, Emiliano, a veteran of several successful insurrections, three young Shub-Niggureths on furlough, a devious Flying Fish and, as a link to last year’s card, our old pals the defecting Lloigor, Rhys and Rhodri.
The entertainment will be unsurpassably groovy, if I say so myself. As well as the usual tableaux vivants (and mourants), Bach concerts, poetry recitals and bulk waltz-ins, this year we also have a few seminars on Post US Election Mass & Meedja Hysteria and discussion groups on the many health benefits of schadenfreude.
As ever, entrance is free and all are welcome, even fifth columnists and agent provocateurs, since the Shub-Niggurath herself will be attending -and she simply adores agent provocateurs, especially if sautéed in a light batter and served in a bed of Lilloorian salad with some allioli.
This year we have taken over the whole borough and there’ ll be room aplenty, so there’ s no need to book either. The usual free kit is available at the designated dead drops: de-stressed ice cream, real Chinese meals, subversive T-shirts, universal de-hypnotizers, all–gauge bamboozlers, Guardian Sludge antidotes, I Love Rosa rucksacks and so on. And because 2017 is the 100th anniversary of the Russian Revolution we’re also giving away gloriously proletarian caps and high definition repros of my top ten favourite Rodckenkos.
Happy Non Valentine Day me old hearties!
And here be the B&W version. Bon profit, nens.