Category: Uncategorized

Lotta Continua

Faces2. Thoughts can, sometimes, with a bit of luck and the right conditions (and sometimes the wrong ones, alas), become actions. Let us think the correct ones and see what happens. The tide seems to be turning and although toothless and probably ephemeral it’s better than the proverbial wet kipper.
PS. Manolito, the Hardy Perennial Alien, has temporarily emerged from his anchorite retreat to endorse and encourage the two little Croydonian fellows in their endeavour. He’s aided and abated by the Perpetual Peon wielding the Sacred Crikkitt Bat for good measure. Have a spiffing week
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Crushing Pain

Crumpled. No comment necessary. As for the rant…I’ve nothing to say that hasn’t been said already, often better than I could say it. Not that many people seem to be listening or even giving a toss, worse luck. I do have a couple of thoughts hatched out of this whole horrid business but I don’t feel like uploading them today. Perhaps later, in a couple of days, when I feel less wobbly.
Have a good rest of the week and spare a thought for the victims of all the ghastly lies that politicians and their enslaved minions, the MSM, keep on feeding us, relentlessly and ruthlessly.


Another Year, Another Gripe

Squiggly Garden. And so another birthday looms, descends and pouff! it’s gone. (77 is not a boring number but it’s perilously close to 80.) The Family insists that I have a good one but the prevailing winds are not auspicious and the atmospheric conditions are pretty crappy. Too many bad news personal and political. Too much stupidity in the air and too many deaths or impending deaths all around. Still, a girl tries, doesn’t she? Be it only to please my wee monsters.


Bloody Jokers

Boo3. A slightly belated April’s Fool doodah. For all the ghastly genocidal clowns wot rule this crappy Grand Guignol and their gruesome jokes that leave thousands and thousands of dead innocents behind, from Gaza to the Outback. May you all get shingles.


I’ve Got A Touch Of The Dooms.

Hostiles. I hate you. I hate you more. You are green. You are blue. You are different. No, you are. You eat animals. You are a sodding vegetarian. You worship the wrong god. It’s the right god, it’s you that is wrong. I’m right. You’re wrong. You speak funny. You talk rubbish…
The list goes on. It’s endless. Is repetitive and static and stupid and brain-petrifying and criminally tedious and it goes nowhere except to the bottomless pit via a downward spiral of doom.
Come ye bugs and tardigrades and inherit a planet gloriously void of crack-brained WeThePeoples wot tolerate Netanyahus and Bravermans and Musks and Bezoes and Blair Witches and Bojos and Abascals. All the infinite variety of comedians, dangerous clowns that will bring about ArmaFuckingGeddon whilst repeating, like dumb zombies: “Capitalism is the Way, the only Way, the Holy Way!”.
And: “Capitalism has lifted thousands of people out of poverty!” (but never, ever admitting to the hundreds of thousands that it has plunged into abject destitution..).
They will bleat: “Repent, oh sinners, and embrace the true Doctrine…or else!” (Whatsoever the doctrine might be, in whichever colour it might bedeck itself, no matter how implausible its gospel…).
They will shriek loathsome metaphors like: “Israel has a right to defend itself!” which is shorthand for “We shan’t stop until the last Palestinian is dead or exiled!” (But preferably dead, for the dead don’t come back to demand accounts, reparations or, god forbid, a place to love and live a decent life.)
They will throw wobblies worth of a spoilt infant and demand more tanks, more drones, more money, more flattery, more luuuurve, more…more…more…
They will throw their bloodstained hands high up in the air and claim that their very existence is under threat and call it the “crisis of masculinity” and they will use this as an excuse to go out and murder a few more women to reassert their god-given privilege.
And so on…and on…and on…
Dearie me.


Drifters

Lone Trees. The lone trees in the lonely wood on the free-floating itinerant islet are charmed by the slow, stately passage of a school of wandering flying sardines. “Don’t leave! Stay! Bide here a while and play with us and have tea!” they plead. But the celestial fish are restless and cannot stop. Theirs is a mysterious itinerary and the reason they follow it is not revealed even to them. They must go where their unknown impulse takes them, poor buggers. The trees are desolate, their island also following an inscrutable course marked by fuck knows who or what, let alone why. See, not all is always fluffy and merry in the Uncertain Zones. There’s also a moderate deal of heartbreak. Ah, well…


Fantasy Evolution League

Dawn. So time went on. And on. And centuries went by followed by millennia and those by aeons. Eventually, after a decent period of time had elapsed, and the bugs and the tardigrades had settled, the Mother of All Frogs decided it was time to have another go at diversity on the planet. So She emerged from Her private singularity and brought forth a couple of tadpoles, just to try and see what would happen. The tadpoles initially were very confused, poor mites. The bugs were delighted; they thought that the tadpoles were dead cute and whattahell, the more the merrier. The tardigrades were not quite so sure. “Well, at least they are not mammals…” they concluded. We wish them all great happiness and prosperity and endless grooviness. Also, better luck, and, above all, a vastly higher degree of soundness of judgement than we evidenced, obviously.


Me & My Circumstances

Reptilian Tittle-Tattle. De perdidos, al río. (From lost, to the river -in English, In for a penny, in for a pound.)
That’s how things are these days: crappy beyond belief, as one of the iguanas has rightly appraised. Faced with such massive heap-a-caca, the options aren’t all that many. One can throw in the towel and do away with oneself, in varying degrees of gracefulness, or let oneself die of rage, disgust and boredom. Or a body can decide to carry on regardless. Having survived that long under such in utterly intolerable conditions, one might as well hang around a little longer and see what happens next. The means to take the first option are always available, innit? The river isn’t going anywhere…
Have a splendiferous new week-soon-come and be thankful you’re not a Palestinian, or in Port Au Prince right now, or a First Australian, come to think of it. Or, Bumba forfend, dependent on the NHS demi-gods’ vagaries for your wellbeing.


Paths of Shame

Tangled Grub. aka Masters of the Universe: The Kingdom and the Power but not the Glory. (Again, For ZBSH. Gone but by no means forgotten)
Long time no rant… Here’s Kabbalist harangue, then.
Driven by the primaeval hungers of Malkhut they have stormed Yesod and there they have built their petrified fastness and constructed their constantly changing but never evolving personae. Snug, smug, compliant, self-sanctioned, fashionable, safe and impenetrable, there they defend their impeccable splendid isolation tooth and claw. Wrapped in the robes of self-willed blindness there they breed and brood. Nothing comes in and nothing but their waste matter ever comes out of that meretricious coop. The flimsiest, most nebulous, tiny thought -let alone a flash glimpse- of Tiferet would fill their polymer-clad brains (or what passes for brains) with terror. So they eat and drink and pontificate their vapid lies and evangelize their fatuous Disneyotic fantasies and look down in scorn and anger (and fear) at anything that might dare hint at a higher something-or-other.
They are the almighty master puppeteers and their very mighty meat puppets; and the merely powerful but still on the alrightnik side of the hierarchy; and the just-about-powerful, desperately scuffling up the fragile, fickle ladder. And the slaves-in-all-but-name, half crazed with their thirst for power and their fear of impotence, ever-willing to do the meat puppets’ bidding in case it brings them even a tiny step up the greasy pole; and the wretched slaves who sell their grandmothers and, often, their own grandchildren, for just a shred of reflected clout.
They are the obscenely rich and the very rich and the simply wealthy and the well off and the nicely comfortable and the not-so-comfortable but determinately aspirational. They are both the lost sheep and the good shepherds. The cattle and the drovers. They are the salt of the Earth and they shall inherit it … until they blow it up to smithereens or they poison it with aerosolized hot air and crushing misery.
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
Matthew 5:13 Meanwhile, back at the reality ranch, the poor wee grub is left wondering what the fuck all this shit has to do with her and her kin and her friends and her neighbours. My heart aches for you, little one.


For All Who Say Nay

The Messenger. aka Bleak House. aka. The Shape of Things As They Are, given the astronomical all-pervading levels of sheepishness and laziness. And may Bumba have mercy upon our wretched tired souls.