The Bloody Apprentice

This, from Cassetteboy, has been doing the rounds recently (seen most recently at zenbullets). For those who haven’t seen it, here it is.

Warning there are swears and it is rather smutty.

I’m Not One Of Those There Racialists

Tim Ireland from the Bloggerheads has done an impressive thing.

Upon viewing the BNP’s “Billy Brit” video, designed to big up the white race to the kids,  it became apparent that the BNP had just bought some puppet from a shop, and were now presenting it as an original character.

His response was to get hold of an identical puppet, and produce a different interpretation.

Mr Ireland, this Billy salutes you.

Sometimes I Wish I Was A Pretty Girl

The main disadvantage to shaving off an extensive beard in its entirety is that suddenly your face becomes visible again.

• Ugh, my chin looks a bit weird.
• I seem to have a lot of spots.
• I have nothing to twirl menacingly
• Or stroke incredulously.

On the plus side, I hope to be rather cooler when the scorching summer arrives.

Fish Pie With Ketchup

I have recently been reading Charlotte Roche’s novel Wetlands.

The back of the book describes it as being similar to The Catcher in the Rye, which it resembles only in the narrative “tone”. Despite the narrator being female, it’s definately closed to Catcher than it’s supposed female equivalent, The Bell Jar.

The other comparison made is the work of Chuck Palahniuk, mainly due to the visceral content. The only body “product” not heavily mentioned is belly button fluff. Why is menstrual blood so much more transgressive than belly button fluff? The sheer lengthy and ocassionally stomach-churning descriptions put me in mind of Palahniuk’s short story Guts, which can be summerised as a series of violent incidents involving masturbation.

(My personal favourite has to be the semen bon-bons. To make one simply allow semen to dry under the fingernail and then pick out and eat the crusty remains. Yum, I guess)

It would be better if  it had more of plot, but no matter.

My problem was, during the whole thing, I kept wondering what her mum must make of the book. I must be getting old.

I’ve never written a work of transgressive fiction exploring hygeine, bodily fluids and sex, but I did once watch Dead Ringers with my mum. That was uncomfortable, although I suppose it could have been worse, it could have been Ma mere.

Confirmed Bachelor

One of the more vile code-words for those of the gay persuasion is “confirmed bachelor” often combined with “love of musical theatre”.

But it hit me the other day, as I languished on my sofa, reading Ivy Compton-Burnett and listening to Judy Garland preparing to watch an arts showcase television programme that if you take such stereotypes annoyingly literally, I fit that stereotype.

Other than being an alleged heterosexual of course.

(Which reminds me of when I went to a gay bar and a friend of mine said “Aren’t you worried about them coming on to you?” to which I replied, “I know they won’t. They know I’m a heterosexual. Look at me for goodness sake. It’s only idiot paranoid self-obsessed ‘breeders’* who assume that every gay man can’t wait to penetrate them.” Well I said the first sentence anyway. And maybe the second and third.)

Which is why stereotypes are stupid. Okay, they do have their uses: cheap laughs for people who can’t be bothered to think of anything witty, an excellent methodology for dehumanisation and so on, but generally they’re annoying.

I once had a plan to be the campest straight man in the world, but this plan fell at the first hurdle when I realised I wasn’t even the campest straight man in the office where I worked. So that plan quickly fell down by the wayside. To paraphrase that remark about Ringo, I’m not even the campest person in my head.

Maybe I need to start manscaping and drinking appletinis instead of beer and I’ll be well in for a life of confusing people.

On a similar samesexing theme, there’s some new lesbian cake available to see.

* One of my favourite words. I learnt it from a Poppy Z Brite novel.

Sometimes Linking To Someone Else Is Enough

Charlie Brooker:-

Nick Griffin’s first line is “Don’t turn it off!”, which in terms of opening gambits is about as enticing as hearing someone shout “Try not to be sick!” immediately prior to intercourse.

Also, on a similar theme, from Anton Vowl:-

But no. People – ironically, it’s often the exact kind of people who would be deliberately simplistic about issues like crime, claiming that kids who nick a penny chew from the pick’n'mix are ‘feral’ and so on – like to get all complicated about the reasons why people vote BNP.

I’d put in my pennyworth, but it won’t be as good as either of those. Besides which, I’m working on a thing about graffiti.

Our Reporter Made His Excuses And Left

I used to, in my younger days, read the News of the World on a Sunday. I told myself it was for research purposes, but really it was because I liked laughing at the headlines and I got a kind of vicarious thrill from slumming it with my reading material.

There are some words you’ll see in the News of the World (and other similar papers as well) that you will never, ever see anywhere else. Here are some of my favourites, and what I think of when I see them.

1. Romp – see also Fling,

2. Boffin

3. Riddle, see also quiz

4. Outrage

What’s your favourite tabloidism?

UPDATE: Forgot to mention the delicious new slice of lesbian cake available for viewing.

UPDATE: This is the kind of thing I’m talking about.

The Pink Feather Boa Of Destiny

When your flatmate has been away in the East Midlands for a stag weekend, the last thing you expect to see as you walk in is a pink feather boa.

Aren’t stag nights associated with such bloke-ish pursuits as: strip clubs, thumping tables in unison whilst someone attempts to down a pint of lager, shouting “Phwoar!” talking about football and such like.

Certainly not the capturing and bringing home of pink feather boas.

I like the way it sits on the door there, it allows me to pretend that the lounge  is actually backstage at some appropriately debauched theatre. This is not some kind of dreary wank fantasy, by the way, I like it because it just allows for a bit of character in the room that the Guardian wall charts of animals cannot provide. Of course a glittery one would have been better, but no matter.

Turning the lava lamp and the anglepoise lamp (pointed downwards) on instead of the main light only enhances this impression.

The helium-filled Happy 30th Birthday balloon sitting forlornly in a light fitting helps.

All I need to complete this image is some appropriate reading material to be left scattered around on the coffee table. Any ideas?

Laminate List

I don’t have any paraphilias, at least not any I’m aware of, which frankly I should be by now, but I have some bizarre obsessions.

Chief amongst this is a strange love of ears sticking through hair. I’m not the kind of person who’d go into a frenzy, falling to the floor, frothing at the mouth. In fact, I wouldn’t even cross the room if I saw one, but I do quite like them.

Which is making me very conflicted when I see the publicity material for this film:-

There’s only one thing for it, in the style of the film, I must replace my eyes with buttons.

So much better than the brooches, the Theban alternative especially with this Arts and Crafts revival supposedly raging all around us.

UPDATE: The first ever slice from the mighty lesbian cake is available. Please check it out.

Once His Hellenism Captivated Me

Oops… I’ve done it again.

Create another blog that is.

Sorry.

Check it out…