I was told that the wheels of fate have been set in motion.
I wonder if that is a human rights violation that goes as high as it is possible to go?
Does this mean that the next choice that I make has already been made and written in the fabrics of time?
What if I don't agree with them?
Has that already been thought of?
Is this just someone who believes the meaning of fate is set in stone?
Are they telling everyone, to make them think that everything they do is pointless?
Can fate be beaten?
Showing posts with label gibberish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gibberish. Show all posts
Friday, 21 December 2012
Friday, 16 March 2012
Unwarranted Conspiracy Theory
With the advent a good few years ago about the theory behind Global Warming, the melting ice caps and average temperatures around the world on the increase, everybody started talking about the elimination of fossil fuels or at least the reduction in the use of fossil fuels.
Coming to the forefront of conversations, in an attempt to cope with the reduction in power output, is an increase in nuclear power stations, solar power and wind power. Attempts are being made to push through the committees and activists a plan to build more nuclear power stations and obviously this has had a fair amount of backlash from people regarding the stability and safety of such actions. Solar power is appearing on the roofs of more and more houses and wind turbines are being built out to sea and in rural areas to help with the increase in power consumption that the modern world is going to require, not just now but in the future too.
But what if this is all just a global smoke screen to hide something a little more serious, what if all of the governments of the world are all working together to help a bigger problem and one that, more than likely, will cause everyone to panic about. Maybe the world's rotation is slowing down and all the solar panels and nuclear energy is going to go towards powering something to help keep this rotation going at the rate we require to stop the polar ice caps from melting and temperatures to stabilise back to their climatic norm.
What if wind farms are not actually wind turbines put into the fields and on top of building to generate electricity but really they are very big propellers to blow not to be blown. These as a collective whole could prevent the countries of the world from falling further into disarray and bring the British public back to Briddlington and Skegness rather than opting to go to Benidorm or Fuengirola.
I leave this with you.
Coming to the forefront of conversations, in an attempt to cope with the reduction in power output, is an increase in nuclear power stations, solar power and wind power. Attempts are being made to push through the committees and activists a plan to build more nuclear power stations and obviously this has had a fair amount of backlash from people regarding the stability and safety of such actions. Solar power is appearing on the roofs of more and more houses and wind turbines are being built out to sea and in rural areas to help with the increase in power consumption that the modern world is going to require, not just now but in the future too.
But what if this is all just a global smoke screen to hide something a little more serious, what if all of the governments of the world are all working together to help a bigger problem and one that, more than likely, will cause everyone to panic about. Maybe the world's rotation is slowing down and all the solar panels and nuclear energy is going to go towards powering something to help keep this rotation going at the rate we require to stop the polar ice caps from melting and temperatures to stabilise back to their climatic norm.What if wind farms are not actually wind turbines put into the fields and on top of building to generate electricity but really they are very big propellers to blow not to be blown. These as a collective whole could prevent the countries of the world from falling further into disarray and bring the British public back to Briddlington and Skegness rather than opting to go to Benidorm or Fuengirola.
I leave this with you.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Maybe its Room 101
"Owwww" is my exclamation waking up here. But where is here not only is my eyesight vignetted by grey clouds but through the visual pin pricks that are almost in focus all I can see white, looking around is white and more white.
I am in a white room with no visual means for me to enter or exit but I can still breathe. Is this the rabbit hole that Carrol so wunderfully wrote about, am I really going to hit the bottom hard and be faced with the ultimate choice to Drink me or Eat me. Mmmm food, maybe that is it, my blood sugar is low and I just need a good meal in my stomach.
After thinking that I am stood still I decide that I am not falling but stuck in a white room, or is it a fetal state and I am really awaiting birth, No can't be that I have memories I remember my mother, sitting by her bed for days in a hospice, my brother no longer riding his motor bike. OK I must be dead too, if this is death then I am a little disappointed there are no pearly gates, St Peter is a figment of every ones overactive religious beliefs. But what if I am not dead and this is what is the result of the large amount of drugs I haven't taken and I am being given the ability to have a pre look so I don't do it.
Maybe if I look around a little more I can find a solution in not what is here but in what should be here. If this is my imagination then I need to imagine myself some sand and surf, wet suit clad women walking boards into the sea. If I close my eyes and reopen them will they suddenly appear and all will be well? Nope still white and still cloudy. I will have to work on my imagination it has to be better than this, oOOo what was that it felt like something long is moving around the floor, can't see any rubbish so that rules out jumping into the trash compactor with Chewbacca and the others on the Deathstar but on closer inspection I see no Cinnamon rolls.
Aha finally, a table, a white table with something on it, it is a white model of a white high rise building. A man leaning over a balcony on the 20th floor holding both cheeks in obvious horror and a baby crying lying on the ground directly below him, a woman goes up to the baby and picks it up and gives it a big cuddle. It is obvious to all that the baby has fallen and is OK, but how?. A sigh of relief emitted itself from me, it is a model can't be real as this must be a dream. If I wake up and Paul Mckenna is stood over me with an audience full of clucking chickens I will probably not be so surprised and I hope I am holding a hangmans noose and some sealing wax.
I am in a white room with no visual means for me to enter or exit but I can still breathe. Is this the rabbit hole that Carrol so wunderfully wrote about, am I really going to hit the bottom hard and be faced with the ultimate choice to Drink me or Eat me. Mmmm food, maybe that is it, my blood sugar is low and I just need a good meal in my stomach.
After thinking that I am stood still I decide that I am not falling but stuck in a white room, or is it a fetal state and I am really awaiting birth, No can't be that I have memories I remember my mother, sitting by her bed for days in a hospice, my brother no longer riding his motor bike. OK I must be dead too, if this is death then I am a little disappointed there are no pearly gates, St Peter is a figment of every ones overactive religious beliefs. But what if I am not dead and this is what is the result of the large amount of drugs I haven't taken and I am being given the ability to have a pre look so I don't do it.
Maybe if I look around a little more I can find a solution in not what is here but in what should be here. If this is my imagination then I need to imagine myself some sand and surf, wet suit clad women walking boards into the sea. If I close my eyes and reopen them will they suddenly appear and all will be well? Nope still white and still cloudy. I will have to work on my imagination it has to be better than this, oOOo what was that it felt like something long is moving around the floor, can't see any rubbish so that rules out jumping into the trash compactor with Chewbacca and the others on the Deathstar but on closer inspection I see no Cinnamon rolls.
Aha finally, a table, a white table with something on it, it is a white model of a white high rise building. A man leaning over a balcony on the 20th floor holding both cheeks in obvious horror and a baby crying lying on the ground directly below him, a woman goes up to the baby and picks it up and gives it a big cuddle. It is obvious to all that the baby has fallen and is OK, but how?. A sigh of relief emitted itself from me, it is a model can't be real as this must be a dream. If I wake up and Paul Mckenna is stood over me with an audience full of clucking chickens I will probably not be so surprised and I hope I am holding a hangmans noose and some sealing wax.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Mr Hester the Purple Faced Jester
The purple-faced Jester commonly known as Mister Hester,
Blasts through a red light after his pester,
There is a little burden the one of proof,
He wears like a shoe thrown from his hoof,
For the bejewelled cock he has in pocket,
He knows he will never be able to hock it,
Those on his heals the ones packing heat,
Shoot first ask later a cold piece of meat,
Will pull vital bits of flesh and of bones,
For You Tube videos taken mp4 on their new iPhones,
He managed to lose those shoes that were giving him hell,
A red one with yellow, a blue with green both with a bell.
Still right behind him as he turns the corner,
Almost on two wheels, tyres screeching, tooting his horner.
“Get out of my way” he shouts at the folk,
That could probably get trapped under his spoke,
This is no good Mr Hester starts to think,
I need to dump this clown car with paint work in pink.
For he really does believe he can be seen from outer space,
Retasked satellites that the CIA are putting in place,
The cock in his pocket was taken from someone of merit,
Something to be left to a museum not to inherit,
He mounts the sidewalk and kills a newsstand,
Whilst avoiding traffic following a map stencilled onto his hand.
People jump up and scatter both to the left and the right,
The news helicopter temporarily out of sight,
He goes straight through the next intersection his foot hard down,
Cars skid away from this uncaring speedy clown,
He shouts out loud just to confirm,
“I am a jester!” and all look on to squirm,
Now the people chasing him way back behind,
Are not the police but friends that are blind,
The thought would be nice to be followed by police,
Whilst getting changed he puts on a jacket of fleece,
For the police will ask questions and not point a shooter,
A blahhhh on his horn sounds like a hooter,
Gun shots are heard they bounce off the ground,
Deliberately fired at the wheels of this hound,
His friends they want what they all have stole,
Mr Hester took from them and escaped down the hole,
He took a sharp left speeding on right,
Passed a train over the tracks gosh that was tight,
His pals they were left behind after that move,
He hit the brakes heavy and turns on the groove,
He slowed down a little, enough just to change,
His trousers and hair now don’t look strange,
A wool suit he adorns as he gets out of his steed,
In the car park he can salute his excessive greed,
He walks onto the platform and into a train,
On his way to a place that will never rain,
For he has no fence but a reward was his aim,
I found this on the road just outside that is his claim.
Blasts through a red light after his pester,
There is a little burden the one of proof,
He wears like a shoe thrown from his hoof,
For the bejewelled cock he has in pocket,
He knows he will never be able to hock it,
Those on his heals the ones packing heat,
Shoot first ask later a cold piece of meat,
Will pull vital bits of flesh and of bones,
For You Tube videos taken mp4 on their new iPhones,
He managed to lose those shoes that were giving him hell,
A red one with yellow, a blue with green both with a bell.
Still right behind him as he turns the corner,
Almost on two wheels, tyres screeching, tooting his horner.
“Get out of my way” he shouts at the folk,
That could probably get trapped under his spoke,
This is no good Mr Hester starts to think,
I need to dump this clown car with paint work in pink.
For he really does believe he can be seen from outer space,
Retasked satellites that the CIA are putting in place,
The cock in his pocket was taken from someone of merit,
Something to be left to a museum not to inherit,
He mounts the sidewalk and kills a newsstand,
Whilst avoiding traffic following a map stencilled onto his hand.
People jump up and scatter both to the left and the right,
The news helicopter temporarily out of sight,
He goes straight through the next intersection his foot hard down,
Cars skid away from this uncaring speedy clown,
He shouts out loud just to confirm,
“I am a jester!” and all look on to squirm,
Now the people chasing him way back behind,
Are not the police but friends that are blind,
The thought would be nice to be followed by police,
Whilst getting changed he puts on a jacket of fleece,
For the police will ask questions and not point a shooter,
A blahhhh on his horn sounds like a hooter,
Gun shots are heard they bounce off the ground,
Deliberately fired at the wheels of this hound,
His friends they want what they all have stole,
Mr Hester took from them and escaped down the hole,
He took a sharp left speeding on right,
Passed a train over the tracks gosh that was tight,
His pals they were left behind after that move,
He hit the brakes heavy and turns on the groove,
He slowed down a little, enough just to change,
His trousers and hair now don’t look strange,
A wool suit he adorns as he gets out of his steed,
In the car park he can salute his excessive greed,
He walks onto the platform and into a train,
On his way to a place that will never rain,
For he has no fence but a reward was his aim,
I found this on the road just outside that is his claim.
Gladstone Ferry, Party 'til it's 1899
The station announcer spoke to all the New Year listeners of the top rated RAAT radio news corporation, “Now it is the long-awaited New Year’s eve show coming live from the modern 7 story party venue that will wow the world for 30 years to come, World it is my pleasure, and my wife can verify that, to introduce you to Gladstone Ferry and the man the women want and their husbands want to kill, Haaaaank Mingefield.”
As the station switch over took a short time to link up, the silent static filled the homes of millions of Hank fans and even more fans of modern radio music, the static crackle hissed and snapped to the Live Broadcast, “Welcome all you groovy listeners out there on the modern virtual air waves, this is Hank Mingefield your guide through to next year and the next big thing. It is December thirty-first in the year eighteen hundred and sixty-nine and I am here for the inaugural trip on the Gladstone Ferry. Firstly and because I am being paid more than fifteen dollars to be your MC at tonight’s ceremony I need to say a thank you to our sponsors and the owners of Gladstone Ferry – Party until 1899, Gladstone Hooter. Now a word from the man himself, Mr Hooter, what inspired you to sink a great deal of your fortune into the extremely large paddle steamer with a deck for every musical taste. I can even see you have set up a deck completely for one of your other major businesses, Hooters bar and gentleman’s lounge in every major city for every gentleman’s needs. Tell me Mr Hooter how did this all come about?” Hank finished his monologue and looked at Gladstone Hooter and nodded, Gladstone looked down towards the Microphone and lowered his head to it and said, “Firstly Hank, can you not say the word sink in context with my boat again she might get a little nervous. As for my reason why, well my wife is the reason why, god rest her soul, she made my life such a misery for so many years, bitch, when she passed on I thought what better way to take her family fortune than to piss it all up the wall. I accidentally knocked a spittoon over bent over to pick it up, on my way back to my almost standing position, I banged my head on the bar I was perching against and presto The Hooters brand was born. Something special happened to me after having a Hooters Gentleman’s Lounge in every state, I wanted to have something new, something never seen before so I dreamed up the Gladstone Ferry Music Festival. Sitting on the water and travelling around, the weather can’t harm it. Most up to date bands, new emerging talent and a lot of stuff you wouldn’t expect and only seeing it is believing it.”
Hank continued, “Thank you Gladstone, the man behind the Hooters Gentleman’s Lounge” Gladstone replied, “Thank you Hank.” Hank walked towards the boat and continued with the broadcast, “Follow me now as we climb on board the paddle steamer that will, I am sure, become what the future can only describe it as simply the best and most advanced music festival of all time. As we climb the ramp from the dock on this very cool and clear night I thank Gladstone Hooter for putting this floating boat of excitement on the Mississippi and not somewhere a lot colder at this time of year. First thing that greets you is your staff, giving you notice and advice when needed, thank you sailor. Ooooh that is important, a big flashing red neon sign stating Please DO NOT fire your guns when there is a ceiling above your head. That is comforting For all you listeners out there in the comfort of your own home all I can say is seeing is believing, Yeeeha; Just so I will keep you tuned in and listening to your number one rated radio station in the world, coming up before midnight we have an interview with not one but two of the top bands around I will be talking to Stroke Gently from the Skin Bashers and I will be taking five with the five from Bar Fighters. We will be back after this word from our sponsors.”
Many radios all over the nation cracked and awaiting the jingling chimes of washing soda adverts, the buzzing beeps of telegraphic companies who have the budgets to purchase twenty-second jingles on the most sought after radio show that can be heard adorning the modern technical airwaves. The radio crackled again the static pricked the ears of every listener and Hank kicked in again, “Welcome back all you lovely listeners, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you half the things this amazing boat has to offer the New Year revellers. But now with me I have Stroke Gently who is the lead stick master with Skin Bashers Hello Stroke”
Stroke said, “Hello Hank, before we start, have you been to the toilets here?” And Hank shook his head, “And for all the listeners out there in Radio land Hank shook his head ever the professional, well you should go and see the toilet Hank because did you know that when you put your hands under the taps they come on automatically, water shoots out onto your hands and when you move away they turn themselves off.” Hank then chirped in saying, “Listeners I did shake my head to you all on live radio but Stroke caught me off guard with his less than rock and roll question about the toilets on a paddle steamer on the most party of party nights. Stroke it is almost the eighteen seventies you know everything is moving on. Digression has meant we need to move on now the midnight hour is almost upon us and I think you are a little dull for our listeners out there, Stroke Gently from the Skin Bashers it has been your pleasure. Ladies and gentleman let me walk you around the bits of the steamer that lie between here and my next interview. We are still on the middle deck, below us there are two decks one where the lighting is dim the wheels of steel are spun by none other than the Unsocial Techno Wrangler, the happening sounds and underground breaks are played and people dance around very quick and look like they are stacking the shelves in your local twenty-four hour supermarket with cardboard boxes. The other of the two has something that I have never heard of and don’t particularly want to hear about, it is the tribute stage all about fakers singing the songs of the groups they most admire. Playing right now and I can hear them are ZZ Toppers, figure that out. We climb the stairs to the live triangle stage where I can see my next interviewees just getting ready for the performance. Ladies and Gentleman I am side stage with Dave Growls and the Bar Fighters.”
Hank:
Dave it is a new venue that only has the future to blame, how does it feel for you and the group to be playing this event?
Dave:
Hank this is the bomb, I am so happy to headline the pre midnight crowd and seeing in the new year and the new decade, as you can see this deck is full and there are people trying to fit through the tiny windows.
Hank:
How much are you switching up the set lists for tonight?
Dave:
Well Hank we have these new electrical guitars so some blasting solos and duelling between two of us and every night is different. It’s really about reading an audience. I think it’s important that they understand that it’s not like a Broadway show or a video game, it’s human and it’s real.
Hank:
We have only one minute left before you start and the audience go mental, what does the next decade have in store for you and your team?
Dave (With a growl):
We are touring for three years and a new CD coming out in January and I think we are just going to get the stage from gig to gig and enjoy what the audience gives us.
Hank:
Your last word?
Dave:
Visit our website for updates @ www.barfighters.com for all the latest updates and a regular podcast, come to the show your money will be well spent.
Hank:
Guys if only we had more time but you have two songs from your set before midnight and then I will on stage with you to count down the New Year and you will continue afterwards, best of luck to you all.
Dave:
Hank a pleasure and see you in ten minutes.
“As you all can hear, now the audience for the Bar Fighters are making a noise that can’t be mistaken, you can listen to the next two songs with me hear and the New Year will then be upon us. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bar Fighters.” Hank announced and held out his microphone to the stage so the audience in the radio land could get the music directly into their homes live for the very first time ever. Every now and again Hank brought the microphone back to his mouth to show how excited he really is. As the second song was coming to the end and the stroke of midnight is looming Hank walked on stage, “Dave can you help me with the New Year countdown, Ladies and Gentlemen we have fifteen seconds” the guitars played to the countdown flitting from one to the other, the 10 second point came and everyone followed the big screen as the number ten appeared and turned to nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, the guitars built up to the point when Hank was in hysterics, “TWO, ONE” Hank launched himself into the air and over the audience as they carried him from the front and he said, “Happy New Year world in it now 1870 here on the Mississippi, you have been brilliant. ” the guitars thrashing loudly in the back ground and from one to another the audience passed Hank Mingefield to the back of the room away from the stage as he still shouted, “Happy New Year, 1870. I have been Hank Mingefield for RAAT News Corporation in association with Hooters Gentleman’s Lounge, gentlemen lounge all over the world. I will now pass over to my personal friend and colleague who will guide you through the rest of the night, Fearne Cottonpicker, the painted goddess. Fearne” the last words echoed throughout the radio waves all over the world as the crowd threw Hank to the floor at the back of the room whilst the Bar Fighters started their hard-core new year’s set.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Life subscriber
I will never have the gumption to be an unsocial high hitter,
Whether it would be on Facebook or on twitter,
There are other places to sign your replies “Unsocially Yours”
Get up, turn off your TV set talk to a real person you technical whores,
For there is a wide world out there with natural fibres,
No processed, pre packaged add hot water youtube prescribers,
People who are not biologically plugged into the misinformation wiki highways,
Using doors with a key and a handle plodding along reality byways,
For I like to breathe in a good old fashioned gulp of fresh air,
Feel that wind blow through my clean and washed hair.
I am a life subscriber.
Get this and more on the Kindle.
Whether it would be on Facebook or on twitter,
There are other places to sign your replies “Unsocially Yours”
Get up, turn off your TV set talk to a real person you technical whores,
For there is a wide world out there with natural fibres,
No processed, pre packaged add hot water youtube prescribers,
People who are not biologically plugged into the misinformation wiki highways,
Using doors with a key and a handle plodding along reality byways,
For I like to breathe in a good old fashioned gulp of fresh air,
Feel that wind blow through my clean and washed hair.
I am a life subscriber.
Get this and more on the Kindle.
Monday, 12 September 2011
I have finally lost it
Maxmind Nimbus
Trapped my head inside flopfus
My goodness never realised what scoop
Never realised black goop
Jespot marmaduke
Blast bomb
Sliver tongue
Flipped over stick
Hick wick flick stick
Flump bump moon dust
Wonderingly release
Blast past my mast fast
Twist in tale no blue
Yep that was the last
Thing to hip hop
No glue pot
Liver pong no taste
Last time in the light
Pull the cord
Let it go
Bang slam flim flam
Nice time galore
What next yip nire
I wait
Want somt rep jump
Nine hoop left by redtread
Shoot me
Trapped my head inside flopfus
My goodness never realised what scoop
Never realised black goop
Jespot marmaduke
Blast bomb
Sliver tongue
Flipped over stick
Hick wick flick stick
Flump bump moon dust
Wonderingly release
Blast past my mast fast
Twist in tale no blue
Yep that was the last
Thing to hip hop
No glue pot
Liver pong no taste
Last time in the light
Pull the cord
Let it go
Bang slam flim flam
Nice time galore
What next yip nire
I wait
Want somt rep jump
Nine hoop left by redtread
Shoot me
Friday, 2 September 2011
International Velvet, Catatonia
Deffrwch Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gan,
Dwfn yw'r gwendid bychan yw y fflam
creulon yw'r cynhaeaf, ond per yw'r don
daw alaw'r alarch unig yn fy mron
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Gwledd o fedd gynhyrfodd Cymraes swil
Pan darganfyddais gwir paradwys Rhyl
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
Welsh
Deffrwch Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gan,
Dwfn yw'r gwendid bychan yw y fflam
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
Welsh
The above are lyrics from International Velvet by Catatonia and all copyright information is with them, I cant find out how to credit them properly and hope this will do it.
Dwfn yw'r gwendid bychan yw y fflam
creulon yw'r cynhaeaf, ond per yw'r don
daw alaw'r alarch unig yn fy mron
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Gwledd o fedd gynhyrfodd Cymraes swil
Pan darganfyddais gwir paradwys Rhyl
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
Welsh
Deffrwch Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gan,
Dwfn yw'r gwendid bychan yw y fflam
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm Welsh
Every day when I wake up I thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
thank the lord I'm
Welsh
The above are lyrics from International Velvet by Catatonia and all copyright information is with them, I cant find out how to credit them properly and hope this will do it.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Journal Entry No. 1
I have been in this horribly amazing land for three weeks and five days. Just yesterday I was given this almost empty journal after two people here said it would be to my benefit.
As I have never written in a journal before how am I supposed to know what to write. At the best of times I can think a complete load of rubbish.
On the very first page it has written in some beautiful old school script, “Stars always shine brightest at night.” And underneath I have been told is the same thing written in the old language. Anyway it looks very nice. The book itself is made from leather and is hand made by my grandmother. Not sure how she made the paper but it is stitched into the leather from and back with some big leather stitches.
My grandmother is one that told me to keep one and said she always used to keep one and wrote in it everyday. However the Polyphant told me that I would be unable to take my Journal home. Apparently that doesn’t matter though, seems a bit pointless to me. But, on the brightside he did also tell me that a journal is a way to put on paper what is already stored safely in your head, so if I need to remember anything all I have to do is think hard.
Everything seems to be hard.
Anyway, this is the Land of the Dead, this is where some of the dead, retire is as good a word as any, retire to. It took me a couple of weeks to be covinced that I am not dead. They did eventually convince me, but I am not sure. They said to me, “So Seren are you dead?” I said, “No” and they said, “Well there you go then” This is the some total of their argument, oh yes and the little bit where they added as if it was an after thought, “You would know if you were dead, trust us on this”
I will reserve judgement. I think that is enough for entry number one of probably one.
As I have never written in a journal before how am I supposed to know what to write. At the best of times I can think a complete load of rubbish.
On the very first page it has written in some beautiful old school script, “Stars always shine brightest at night.” And underneath I have been told is the same thing written in the old language. Anyway it looks very nice. The book itself is made from leather and is hand made by my grandmother. Not sure how she made the paper but it is stitched into the leather from and back with some big leather stitches.
My grandmother is one that told me to keep one and said she always used to keep one and wrote in it everyday. However the Polyphant told me that I would be unable to take my Journal home. Apparently that doesn’t matter though, seems a bit pointless to me. But, on the brightside he did also tell me that a journal is a way to put on paper what is already stored safely in your head, so if I need to remember anything all I have to do is think hard.
Everything seems to be hard.
Anyway, this is the Land of the Dead, this is where some of the dead, retire is as good a word as any, retire to. It took me a couple of weeks to be covinced that I am not dead. They did eventually convince me, but I am not sure. They said to me, “So Seren are you dead?” I said, “No” and they said, “Well there you go then” This is the some total of their argument, oh yes and the little bit where they added as if it was an after thought, “You would know if you were dead, trust us on this”
I will reserve judgement. I think that is enough for entry number one of probably one.
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Three Fourteen am
If it is at all possible to be plagued by a time i think I am, 3.14am the time I seem to wake most mornings. I say wake, what actually happens is I am awake and this time seems to be the single minute in the dark I look at the time.
Shall we investigate a few possibilities for this one time, for example, Am I being drawn to 3.14am because I was wronged or have wronged at this time and my subconscious is reminding me of it. Or maybe Plasfort the defender of Arcadia has a laser pointed at this time through the aeon's of space, time and Caesar, the laser can only penetrate our reality at 3.14am to communicate its SOS or disgust to us, I will try to communicate back next time.
Is my head trying to help me with the things I can write about as I don’t seem to get any time recently to continue with writing my Pulitzer prize winning novel all about Faeries. However 3.14am is allowing me to write complete crap like this and keeps my brain firmly wired into whatever it is that makes, or allows, this drivel to be written.
Is it to be a biblical reference, the book of Job 3:14 in basic English says, “With the Kings and the wise one of the earth, who put up great houses for themselves.” Still looking for a theological explanation the book of revelation 3;14 says, “…These things saith the Amen, the faithful and the true witness, the beginning of the creation of god.” What a trip.
If you google 3.14am, all the results appear to be the times at which things have been posted on various blogs, You Tube and or anything else apart from the glaringly obvious, Vagina* Suicide at 3.14am.
Let me tell what I think it is and you can quote me on this, “it is a pain in the arse”.
Shall we investigate a few possibilities for this one time, for example, Am I being drawn to 3.14am because I was wronged or have wronged at this time and my subconscious is reminding me of it. Or maybe Plasfort the defender of Arcadia has a laser pointed at this time through the aeon's of space, time and Caesar, the laser can only penetrate our reality at 3.14am to communicate its SOS or disgust to us, I will try to communicate back next time.
Is my head trying to help me with the things I can write about as I don’t seem to get any time recently to continue with writing my Pulitzer prize winning novel all about Faeries. However 3.14am is allowing me to write complete crap like this and keeps my brain firmly wired into whatever it is that makes, or allows, this drivel to be written.
Is it to be a biblical reference, the book of Job 3:14 in basic English says, “With the Kings and the wise one of the earth, who put up great houses for themselves.” Still looking for a theological explanation the book of revelation 3;14 says, “…These things saith the Amen, the faithful and the true witness, the beginning of the creation of god.” What a trip.
If you google 3.14am, all the results appear to be the times at which things have been posted on various blogs, You Tube and or anything else apart from the glaringly obvious, Vagina* Suicide at 3.14am.
Let me tell what I think it is and you can quote me on this, “it is a pain in the arse”.
Friday, 26 August 2011
Unsocial Techno Wrangler
jest, blessed the beef strangler wrangling thief
mite might plight his flight
the high plains drifter ran the yellow bella fella through the sifter
warm storm just beform
my chief wig wam nice tent
arrow furrows sat a hat
below the mobile mast
giving bars of 3G high speed data feed
the strangler the drifter and the chief are unsocial pals
very sterry on their black droid pod iBerry
theres no app for me
mite might plight his flight
the high plains drifter ran the yellow bella fella through the sifter
warm storm just beform
my chief wig wam nice tent
arrow furrows sat a hat
below the mobile mast
giving bars of 3G high speed data feed
the strangler the drifter and the chief are unsocial pals
very sterry on their black droid pod iBerry
theres no app for me
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Is Reality TV Real?
What with the modern enhancements they have with voice tuning and Lycra, tofu and paramedics skills at ice skating rinks, who needs an imagination.
Gone are the days of trying to figure out that the butler did it and small pieces of paper wrapped around your fingers. Angela Lansbury lasted for years, Agatha Christie managed to have a Murder wherever Poirot or Marple were drinking tea out of fine china.
I blame Eric Arthur Blair who in 1948 managed to redesign Television programming for 60 years in the future. Big Brother is watching, George you may be a genius in the literacy department and an all round good egg, according to the Always Correct Wikipedia, but I blame you.
However I could quite as easily blame Delia Smith for Cant Cook Wont Cook, in that case don't cook. Mr Hilton billionaire hotelier with a pug for a daughter, I blame you for three in a bed, booooooo. Not to mention Chris Torville and Jane Dean for winning British gold medal a million years ago at the Olympics, I blame you for Singing to the stars on ice. However bringing it back to bare bones John Logie Baird, I think we can actually blame you, all of the above is your fault.
Media types, those people who commission this stuff have now be grabbing onto the smallest idea, Reality, for years and years. “I have an Idea for a TV programme, lets stick a camera on the end of a ferrets nose and follow it wherever it goes.” A hit on some obscure little Mongolian subscription based cabellite TV station” Bonuses all around and then lets syndicate it to the rest of the planet, granted America will buy anything, except Cheryl Cole, I have a stick up my hole.
In answer to the question, Is Reality TV Real, No. Unless you think The Only Way Is Essex is a fly on the wall.
Rant over.
Gone are the days of trying to figure out that the butler did it and small pieces of paper wrapped around your fingers. Angela Lansbury lasted for years, Agatha Christie managed to have a Murder wherever Poirot or Marple were drinking tea out of fine china.
I blame Eric Arthur Blair who in 1948 managed to redesign Television programming for 60 years in the future. Big Brother is watching, George you may be a genius in the literacy department and an all round good egg, according to the Always Correct Wikipedia, but I blame you.
However I could quite as easily blame Delia Smith for Cant Cook Wont Cook, in that case don't cook. Mr Hilton billionaire hotelier with a pug for a daughter, I blame you for three in a bed, booooooo. Not to mention Chris Torville and Jane Dean for winning British gold medal a million years ago at the Olympics, I blame you for Singing to the stars on ice. However bringing it back to bare bones John Logie Baird, I think we can actually blame you, all of the above is your fault.
Media types, those people who commission this stuff have now be grabbing onto the smallest idea, Reality, for years and years. “I have an Idea for a TV programme, lets stick a camera on the end of a ferrets nose and follow it wherever it goes.” A hit on some obscure little Mongolian subscription based cabellite TV station” Bonuses all around and then lets syndicate it to the rest of the planet, granted America will buy anything, except Cheryl Cole, I have a stick up my hole.
In answer to the question, Is Reality TV Real, No. Unless you think The Only Way Is Essex is a fly on the wall.
Rant over.
Gibberish Yellow Fish
More indepth definition
Gibberish Yellow Fish nonsense, commonly made up by me to illustrate nothing. When seen from space it is very small, predominantly brown in colour with a speckled underside. You know which part is the underside because it is speckled.
If you talk to the Yellow Fish it will allow you to answer your questions without it even moving it’s metaphoric pouting lips. This is just as well because you would be stupid if you thought a fish could talk. Fish can’t even breathe the air in our own little atmosphere.
However if you are aware of the Little Golden Fish from the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm you may get confused as they reference a golden yellow fish. Not the same thing by a long shot, the Brothers Grimm Yellow Fish never talked gibberish it only had the power to grant you a wish, from a fish, get real, the fish belongs in a dish.
When you are on a bus or train tightly packed into the persons next to you and have the unpleasant odour of unclean rotting human flesh waft it’s way from somewhere to that place it doesn’t belong, you always speak to yourself. You believe it is a conversation you are having with yourself but in almost reality you are talking to the Gibberish Yellow Fish. And if you recall the conversation you are having, have had or know you will have with yourself, you get answers.
The Yellow Fish.
Gibberish Yellow Fish nonsense, commonly made up by me to illustrate nothing. When seen from space it is very small, predominantly brown in colour with a speckled underside. You know which part is the underside because it is speckled.
If you talk to the Yellow Fish it will allow you to answer your questions without it even moving it’s metaphoric pouting lips. This is just as well because you would be stupid if you thought a fish could talk. Fish can’t even breathe the air in our own little atmosphere.
However if you are aware of the Little Golden Fish from the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm you may get confused as they reference a golden yellow fish. Not the same thing by a long shot, the Brothers Grimm Yellow Fish never talked gibberish it only had the power to grant you a wish, from a fish, get real, the fish belongs in a dish.
When you are on a bus or train tightly packed into the persons next to you and have the unpleasant odour of unclean rotting human flesh waft it’s way from somewhere to that place it doesn’t belong, you always speak to yourself. You believe it is a conversation you are having with yourself but in almost reality you are talking to the Gibberish Yellow Fish. And if you recall the conversation you are having, have had or know you will have with yourself, you get answers.
The Yellow Fish.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
I got thoroughly pissed off the other night when I left the house,
I turned to the right and then to the left and then into a mouse,
Dear me it was like a trip in the sixties,
Pink elephants, champagne foutains and surfing pixies,
Blind in my mist a complete mind fog,
My mouse, my house now have a bullfrog,
Billy by name and an all round ringer,
A baratone voice my frog is a singer,
Dont get down and dont feel like, you know, sad,
Baratone maybe, but sings like my dad,
All well and good if your dad is Robbie,
But no he isn’t and singing isn’t even a hobby,
But glitz and glamour Billy will need,
Until the trip subsides and my eyes bleed,
For the sixties and stuff made everything hurt
Kill more cells makes me just as thick as Albert,
Black rain, white noise listen to the air,
Faerie dust, red baboons bums no hair,
Change the channel to porn and sleaze,
Want to sleep and catch some zee’s.
I turned to the right and then to the left and then into a mouse,
Dear me it was like a trip in the sixties,
Pink elephants, champagne foutains and surfing pixies,
Blind in my mist a complete mind fog,
My mouse, my house now have a bullfrog,
Billy by name and an all round ringer,
A baratone voice my frog is a singer,
Dont get down and dont feel like, you know, sad,
Baratone maybe, but sings like my dad,
All well and good if your dad is Robbie,
But no he isn’t and singing isn’t even a hobby,
But glitz and glamour Billy will need,
Until the trip subsides and my eyes bleed,
For the sixties and stuff made everything hurt
Kill more cells makes me just as thick as Albert,
Black rain, white noise listen to the air,
Faerie dust, red baboons bums no hair,
Change the channel to porn and sleaze,
Want to sleep and catch some zee’s.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Scenic Beauty and Song
The dyke a boy once pulled his finger out
On realising his mistake he started to shout
Run like the wind if your wind is quick
Stopped by a local who told him he was thick
Offa made this dyke oh but many years ago
Maybe to keep out the Welsh no one will know
For Offa managed to separate England from Wales
A mammoth feat all heard the local hales
Because he put beauty, poetry and song
In a land that true people belong
On the other he put all who have been thrown away
England, its people are still separate today
To glance over the pathetic mound
And dream about the scenic beauty and sound
On realising his mistake he started to shout
Run like the wind if your wind is quick
Stopped by a local who told him he was thick
Offa made this dyke oh but many years ago
Maybe to keep out the Welsh no one will know
For Offa managed to separate England from Wales
A mammoth feat all heard the local hales
Because he put beauty, poetry and song
In a land that true people belong
On the other he put all who have been thrown away
England, its people are still separate today
To glance over the pathetic mound
And dream about the scenic beauty and sound
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Character BBQ
Banshee Faerie, Mildly Scary opted for the Lamb
Delemere Smythe, Dancing to the Jive wanted scorched ham
Mr Hester, Purple Faced Jester acted a little edgy
Big Fat Dave, Emerging from his cave unusually was a veggie
Buster Merryweed, Drug enduced greed wanted a plate of thirds
Master Two Tails, Listened to the wails swolled whole the herds
Techno Wrangler, Beef Stangler ate his own stakes
Whilst Chief Wig Wam, Opted for the ham didn’t eat fakes
Dyke Boy, King Offa’s Toy munched on some salad
Sister Poy, religious toy was looking for a mallard
Life Subscribed, Best Decscibed the bloke doing the hand jive
All have had, except for chad a party finishing at five.
Thank you me
Delemere Smythe, Dancing to the Jive wanted scorched ham
Mr Hester, Purple Faced Jester acted a little edgy
Big Fat Dave, Emerging from his cave unusually was a veggie
Buster Merryweed, Drug enduced greed wanted a plate of thirds
Master Two Tails, Listened to the wails swolled whole the herds
Techno Wrangler, Beef Stangler ate his own stakes
Whilst Chief Wig Wam, Opted for the ham didn’t eat fakes
Dyke Boy, King Offa’s Toy munched on some salad
Sister Poy, religious toy was looking for a mallard
Life Subscribed, Best Decscibed the bloke doing the hand jive
All have had, except for chad a party finishing at five.
Thank you me
Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch
One of my favourite films is Full Metal Jacket, I especially liked the line in it that bit where the Sargeant says, “Your days of finger banging Mary Jane Rottencrotch behind ….” Genius. And I believe the phrase Mary Jane Rottencrotch is probably a global thing relating to that girl a young and sexually inexperienced soon to be solider has just before he gets shipped off to basic training to become a real man.
Just to put it into context, get an Action Man and call him Hank, Hank will naturally have no rank because he is just about to leave for war. Get a Barbie doll and rename her Mary Jane, dress her up really slutty and then take away some clothes. Take Hank in one and Mary in the other bang them together give them a fake cigarette and Hank will walk off to war.
As a well respected investigative journalist I decided to sell the idea, “Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and all my superiors came down on me hard saying that she doesn’t exist she is an Urban Myth and I will just waste a lot of time and money. Two security guards helped me and my belongings out into the streets and forcefully threw me to the concrete sidwalk. I am no longer well respected and in theory I can still call myself a journalist. All things being weighed up there is nothing to stop me looking for Mary Jane.
I google the phrase, “Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and google says, “About 25500 results in 0.31 seconds” and number 1 result says, “Urban Dictionary: Mary Jane Rottencrotch, The girl next door.” I look out of my window and the girl living to the right of my house is not what I would describe as a girl she is 76 years old and the thought of finger banging her just makes me so sick. The house to the left of me does actually have a rather nice twenty something there and I have heard the name Mary batted around. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Well no it isn’t that easy, found out just a few minutes ago that the Mary next door is a drag queen called Quite Contrary Mary. Pre operative and looking to post but he is already looking as though she would pass until you do actually get up close and he doesn’t shave too often so a good shadow and rouge dont really go together. On to the next line of enquiry, or am I going to leave it at what I have already done and accept the offer I have just received from a thriller writer to research books for them.
Bored
Just to put it into context, get an Action Man and call him Hank, Hank will naturally have no rank because he is just about to leave for war. Get a Barbie doll and rename her Mary Jane, dress her up really slutty and then take away some clothes. Take Hank in one and Mary in the other bang them together give them a fake cigarette and Hank will walk off to war.
As a well respected investigative journalist I decided to sell the idea, “Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and all my superiors came down on me hard saying that she doesn’t exist she is an Urban Myth and I will just waste a lot of time and money. Two security guards helped me and my belongings out into the streets and forcefully threw me to the concrete sidwalk. I am no longer well respected and in theory I can still call myself a journalist. All things being weighed up there is nothing to stop me looking for Mary Jane.
I google the phrase, “Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and google says, “About 25500 results in 0.31 seconds” and number 1 result says, “Urban Dictionary: Mary Jane Rottencrotch, The girl next door.” I look out of my window and the girl living to the right of my house is not what I would describe as a girl she is 76 years old and the thought of finger banging her just makes me so sick. The house to the left of me does actually have a rather nice twenty something there and I have heard the name Mary batted around. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Well no it isn’t that easy, found out just a few minutes ago that the Mary next door is a drag queen called Quite Contrary Mary. Pre operative and looking to post but he is already looking as though she would pass until you do actually get up close and he doesn’t shave too often so a good shadow and rouge dont really go together. On to the next line of enquiry, or am I going to leave it at what I have already done and accept the offer I have just received from a thriller writer to research books for them.
Bored
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Going against the grain
It is very apt to have the Raconteurs, Top Yourself in glorious stereo being pumped directly into my ears. Between being on the 19th floor of Westminster Halls in London and then walking to Euston railway station at 7.30 in the morning I could come up with quite a few sure ways to do it, However.
Between jumping 19 stories to the unfortunate roofs below the bijou room, walking under the cliche bus, black cab, car or rickshaw that would be fairly secure. Going against the grain; stomping the pavements to the station would probably do it too. However armed with a coffee out in front of me people just move to the side and give me a wide aisle to have a little bit of simple time.
Watching as the automated hustle of these assembly line commuters moving left and right, stopping and starting. They press the button and wait for the red man to turn green, some jump the starting whistle and make it safely to the other side. Others just jump and stop when the warning horn from the big white van powering, but not willing to stop, towards them. They take that step back to safety to await their next encounter with the bustling metropolis.
The distant sirens from the emergency services get closer and closer, all rubber neck each way to see where it is coming from. The shear magnitude of the buildings and dull grey concrete everywhere makes it difficult to see where the noise is coming from and when you find it you notice the traffic all around are relatively oblivious to it. You shout to your Gibberish Yellow Fish about the idiotic drivers to get the F**k out of the way and all is calm and serene in the world.
Hustle bustle tick tock, old father time dictates when he wants you to attack the morning with your Monday to Friday disregard for everyone you pass en-croute. Never knowing what cards are being dealt to that person you unknowingly walk with everyday. That person who could quite easily live relatively close to you and maybe works within minutes of where you work. The impersonal nature by which your life is run by the bureaucratic hierarchic bean counters that require your targets to be met or you lose your house. That person who on a Monday could be walking ten feet behind you or on a Wednesday is ten feet in front. This is a person who could go out drinking wine spritzers with the lady who walks your dogs whilst you run the rat race. That person who more than lives your exact grey hair producing life.
Go against the grain talk to them not your yellow fish. Mismatch your socks and wear them with comfortable shoes, put your clothes on in the dark and pinch yourself in the morning, don't look in the mirror shouting at yourself, “You are the king of your own story. Argggghhhhh” It is in fact complete mind washing bollocks, your destiny is in the hands of Mr Taxman, Miss Bank Manager, your line supervisor, his or her line supervisor the board of directors of the company you do the mind numbing trudge for.
Stand up and look around, the world is a big place, it is not black and white but if you look close enough you will see shades of grey.
Between jumping 19 stories to the unfortunate roofs below the bijou room, walking under the cliche bus, black cab, car or rickshaw that would be fairly secure. Going against the grain; stomping the pavements to the station would probably do it too. However armed with a coffee out in front of me people just move to the side and give me a wide aisle to have a little bit of simple time.
Watching as the automated hustle of these assembly line commuters moving left and right, stopping and starting. They press the button and wait for the red man to turn green, some jump the starting whistle and make it safely to the other side. Others just jump and stop when the warning horn from the big white van powering, but not willing to stop, towards them. They take that step back to safety to await their next encounter with the bustling metropolis.
The distant sirens from the emergency services get closer and closer, all rubber neck each way to see where it is coming from. The shear magnitude of the buildings and dull grey concrete everywhere makes it difficult to see where the noise is coming from and when you find it you notice the traffic all around are relatively oblivious to it. You shout to your Gibberish Yellow Fish about the idiotic drivers to get the F**k out of the way and all is calm and serene in the world.
Hustle bustle tick tock, old father time dictates when he wants you to attack the morning with your Monday to Friday disregard for everyone you pass en-croute. Never knowing what cards are being dealt to that person you unknowingly walk with everyday. That person who could quite easily live relatively close to you and maybe works within minutes of where you work. The impersonal nature by which your life is run by the bureaucratic hierarchic bean counters that require your targets to be met or you lose your house. That person who on a Monday could be walking ten feet behind you or on a Wednesday is ten feet in front. This is a person who could go out drinking wine spritzers with the lady who walks your dogs whilst you run the rat race. That person who more than lives your exact grey hair producing life.
Go against the grain talk to them not your yellow fish. Mismatch your socks and wear them with comfortable shoes, put your clothes on in the dark and pinch yourself in the morning, don't look in the mirror shouting at yourself, “You are the king of your own story. Argggghhhhh” It is in fact complete mind washing bollocks, your destiny is in the hands of Mr Taxman, Miss Bank Manager, your line supervisor, his or her line supervisor the board of directors of the company you do the mind numbing trudge for.
Stand up and look around, the world is a big place, it is not black and white but if you look close enough you will see shades of grey.
I have never
I have never written a poem that contains the word F**k
I have never enjoyed a film with the character Friar Tuck
I have never felt the fancy to wear womans underwear
I have never wanted to apply colour to my hair
I have never needed to say anything to the almight god
I have never enjoyed the fishy taste of cod
I have never really enjoyed reality television
I have never believed is pin point precision
I have never disliked a taste so sweet
I have never opened a copy of the magazine Heat
I have never wanted anything for myself
I have never enjoyed a film with the character Friar Tuck
I have never felt the fancy to wear womans underwear
I have never wanted to apply colour to my hair
I have never needed to say anything to the almight god
I have never enjoyed the fishy taste of cod
I have never really enjoyed reality television
I have never believed is pin point precision
I have never disliked a taste so sweet
I have never opened a copy of the magazine Heat
I have never wanted anything for myself
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