http://capetrio.blogspot.com/
How cool is that?
When I’m on Oprah and I’ve got tons a money, I’ll look back on all this with a wry smile playing on my enigmatic lips.
These are drills.
This is a borer.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Waiting for Beckett.
AAApparently, it’s all a life metaphor. Each day repeats. We’re passive. We’re waiting.
But then, and this is where Samuel Beckett’s (see below) play shows such genius. Life IS a bit of a life metaphor, isn’t it?
How very true that is.
AAApparently, it’s all a life metaphor. Each day repeats. We’re passive. We’re waiting.
But then, and this is where Samuel Beckett’s (see below) play shows such genius. Life IS a bit of a life metaphor, isn’t it?
How very true that is.
So here is my theory:
Blogging’s the same.
OK it’s brief but am I right or am I right?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Part Fourteen
The maze of passageways somehow returned me to the door of our suite. With a slight hesitation, I looked in to see how things now stood.
Bananas had Ayres in a chair with a towel over his head and a brandy in his hand, calming him, while the butler still had his finger in the wall, and was holding the cloth to his eye where Ayres had viciously punched him.
“Did you find anyone Maroon?” Asked Bananas as I entered.
“Not yet GB, This place is a warren.” I explained.
“How are you Ayres?” I enquired.
“Oh, I’m fine, just dandy me! Damned idiot that you are Maroon!” he spluttered.
“I’m not sure I like your tone Ayres,” I replied, not a little put out. We had probably saved his soul from who knew what, and his gratitude was definitely on the thin side.
“Try upstairs Doctor.” shouted the butler from the lavatory, “If you would sir, only my finger’s gone numb.”
Gorilla Bananas nodded in agreement, and as I stood to go, added quietly:
“Maroon, when you do find someone, there’s no need to explain that we were carrying out a hydropathic exorcism and nearly drowned our friend. We must spare Ayres that indignity.”
Once again I marvelled at the altruism of that great ape.
Sure enough, on the next floor I found Doctor Evil in discussion with a group dressed in white coats.
Remembering Bananas’ injunction to keep the facts to ourselves, I beckoned him over, so that the others would not hear.
“A word if I may, Doctor Evil.”
“Yes Doctor?”
“There’s been ‘an occurrence’ in our bathroom.”
“Just open a window.”
“You don’t understand, It’s bigger than that.”
“Indeed?”
“I think we need a plumber.”
“Was it Mr Bananas? His diet - all that fruit?”
“No it was Ayres.”
“Travel upsets the strongest constitution.”
“It wasn’t the travel that upset him.”
“A chop maybe? You have to be careful with pork.”
“No, it’s my fault. All the gurgling, I ignored it.”
“The warning signs, Dr Maroon.”
“He made so much noise.”
“Did he by Jove? How awful.”
“I’m afraid he has done considerable damage.”
“I’ll give you some ointment for him.”
“It was such a struggle you see.”
“Dear me, the poor fellow.”
“It loosened the plaster off the bathroom wall.”
“My God!”
“That’s what Eater said when he saw it.”
“My butler is involved?"
“Your butler has his finger in the orifice now.”
“That sounds like Eater.”
"He’s stopping further leakage."
“Good gracious!”
“He took one in the eye as well I’m afraid.”
“How vile!”
“I think Ayres was aiming for me.”
“Merciful heavens!”
Doctor Evil leant back and took a deep breath.
“Right,” he said, “you return to your suite, and I shall see if I can find anyone willing, I mean qualified, to come and investigate these remarkable circumstances.”
For the first time that day, I was of light heart, and could return to my associates in the knowledge of a job well done.
The maze of passageways somehow returned me to the door of our suite. With a slight hesitation, I looked in to see how things now stood.
Bananas had Ayres in a chair with a towel over his head and a brandy in his hand, calming him, while the butler still had his finger in the wall, and was holding the cloth to his eye where Ayres had viciously punched him.
“Did you find anyone Maroon?” Asked Bananas as I entered.
“Not yet GB, This place is a warren.” I explained.
“How are you Ayres?” I enquired.
“Oh, I’m fine, just dandy me! Damned idiot that you are Maroon!” he spluttered.
“I’m not sure I like your tone Ayres,” I replied, not a little put out. We had probably saved his soul from who knew what, and his gratitude was definitely on the thin side.
“Try upstairs Doctor.” shouted the butler from the lavatory, “If you would sir, only my finger’s gone numb.”
Gorilla Bananas nodded in agreement, and as I stood to go, added quietly:
“Maroon, when you do find someone, there’s no need to explain that we were carrying out a hydropathic exorcism and nearly drowned our friend. We must spare Ayres that indignity.”
Once again I marvelled at the altruism of that great ape.
Sure enough, on the next floor I found Doctor Evil in discussion with a group dressed in white coats.
Remembering Bananas’ injunction to keep the facts to ourselves, I beckoned him over, so that the others would not hear.
“A word if I may, Doctor Evil.”
“Yes Doctor?”
“There’s been ‘an occurrence’ in our bathroom.”
“Just open a window.”
“You don’t understand, It’s bigger than that.”
“Indeed?”
“I think we need a plumber.”
“Was it Mr Bananas? His diet - all that fruit?”
“No it was Ayres.”
“Travel upsets the strongest constitution.”
“It wasn’t the travel that upset him.”
“A chop maybe? You have to be careful with pork.”
“No, it’s my fault. All the gurgling, I ignored it.”
“The warning signs, Dr Maroon.”
“He made so much noise.”
“Did he by Jove? How awful.”
“I’m afraid he has done considerable damage.”
“I’ll give you some ointment for him.”
“It was such a struggle you see.”
“Dear me, the poor fellow.”
“It loosened the plaster off the bathroom wall.”
“My God!”
“That’s what Eater said when he saw it.”
“My butler is involved?"
“Your butler has his finger in the orifice now.”
“That sounds like Eater.”
"He’s stopping further leakage."
“Good gracious!”
“He took one in the eye as well I’m afraid.”
“How vile!”
“I think Ayres was aiming for me.”
“Merciful heavens!”
Doctor Evil leant back and took a deep breath.
“Right,” he said, “you return to your suite, and I shall see if I can find anyone willing, I mean qualified, to come and investigate these remarkable circumstances.”
For the first time that day, I was of light heart, and could return to my associates in the knowledge of a job well done.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Part Thirteen
Previously, on Gothic….
As I wandered that labyrinth for assistance, the momentous meeting in the library of those two giants, came back to me yet again…..
….Ayres stood and turned suddenly; “Miss Redhead! How do you do?” he said, extending his hand to an obscene statue of Pan.
In theatrical delight, Miss Redhead took it and what’s more, pinched his cheek in a startling display of familiarity.
Ayres, always the broken reed in the presence of the fair sect, fawned and chuckled.
Oblivious to all, Evil and Bananas stood regarding each other for the first time in the flesh.
“Ah, Mister Bananas, we meet at last!”…..
After a brief pause, Doctor Evil made for Bananas, taking his hand in friendly grasp, while Miss Lilly Redhead arranged herself on a chaise longue, indicating to Ayres that he should take the small pouffe at her side, which he did with lapdog enthusiasm. A small brown lapdog, it seemed to me, with liquid eyes, glossy coat and damp snout.
To my shame, the smallest barb of jealousy rent my heart asunder.
I now know that the wanton seductress had specifically chosen the unworldly Ayres as target for her charms, since he was obviously the most susceptible of our company to her mesmerising feminine deceit.
That shameful Salome, plying her blandishments, enticing poor honest Ayres to the very rim of an abyss of carnality, Byzantine in its splendour, and he, the innocent fool, eager to throw himself onto those full red lips, like a lost soul cast into the gaping maw of appalling pleasures unending…
As I say, it was only a momentary prick of envy, quickly forgotten.
Like a photographic plate, each the antithesis of the other, Evil and Mr Gorilla Bananas stood in silent mortal struggle, striving for mastery, the welfare of all mankind in the balance.
“Ghastly weather gentlemen,” said Doctor Evil, “doesn’t it ever let up in this godforsaken burg?”
"But we thought that you had somehow brewed up…" began Ayres, momentarily distracted from his unseemly tête-à-tête.
“…this weather? No. My powers do not extend that far…Yet!” Said the mad scientist, still holding Bananas’ hand in greeting and in which he now contrived to wiggle his middle finger, much to the dishevelment of my dear friend, the greatest of detectives.
"We find it bracing, actually." Said Bananas. “Perhaps, if I may have my hand back…” he continued, pulling free and wiping his hand unconsciously on his waistcoat, “…you would be so good as to have your butler show us to our accommodation.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my hairy friend,” replied the great but flawed scientific genius, “that pleasure should be mine,” he concluded ambiguously, a malign smirk now playing upon his suave face.
Behind him, Miss Redhead and Ayres giggled at something. I was sure that the devilish Delilah had passed something into Ayres’ silly sweaty schoolboy palm.
“Oh I can’t wait to show you what I‘ve done with the rooms,” said the eager doctor. “I have placed you all together in a suite, three bachelors gay.”
“I’m not a bachelor gay,” I protested, “there’s Mrs Maroon.”
“Of course you’re not” replied the excited necromancer with a wink and a pursing of his lips.
Behind him, Miss Redhead whispered something close in Ayres ear, at which he sniggered, slapping his knee.
As a juvenile hysteria now gripped Ayres, he kicked his small Gladstone over, spilling its contents at the feet of Evil.
“Save us mighty Mithras!” wailed the fiend, as he cowered back from the crucifix the bottle of holy water and the garlic, pulling his cloak over his eyes with a flourish.
"Did you ever see anything so hideous?" He asked after a moment, stooping to pick up the crucifix. “I mean there’s something to be said for realism, but my word this is awful…” he paused, "is that Tuscan garlic? Oh please tell me it is, you know, you just can’t get anything like that round here. Peasants the lot of ‘em, and just try asking for olive oil…" he paused again “what‘s in the bottle?”
“Holy…” began Ayres.
“…Gin.” finished Bananas.
“Holy gin eh? You rogue Sir Kim! Must try that some night! Come, I’ll show you your rooms.”
But before he could, one more curious incident springs into my memory among the hundreds of that terrible adventure. We stepped from the library in time to witness the arrival of a Scotch noblewoman, Lady Samovar, the renowned Lady of the Isles. Some staff were lined up to greet the great highland personage, among them the flame haired comedian in the loud suit. She was led in by Mister McShae, whose purpose as piper on the battlements was now clear to us.
Mister McShae it had to be said, had suffered some terrible physical and mental anguish. His clothes were smouldering yet and in his arms he carried the charred remains of some faithful gun dog.
The loud checked japester threw a pail of water over him.
“Thanks Jokey.” said McShae.
Doctor Evil watched in silence, shook his head slowly, then turned to conduct the introductions.
“May I present a lady from your part of the world Dr Maroon. She sailed yesterday by steamer.”
“Oh,” I encapsulated, "did you come by Barra?"
“No, McBraynes.” she replied.
“Badoom tish!” Exclaimed the ginger Jester.
Mr McShae flinched.
“Struck by lightnin’," he said, “if it wasnae fur mah apparatus, I’d be deid!”
“Oh well, that was lucky,” said Ayres.
“Lucky? Whit waas lucky about it? Ma bag iss in tatters! Ma chanter is shot and ma drones are reekin’!”
“I thought he was walking funny,” I hypothesized.
“Ay thang yew” exclaimed the red haired vaudevillian needlessly.
At last we came to our quarters. While Ayres stayed in close confab with the Lady in Red and I took the opportunity to pour some welcome refreshments, Doctor Evil took Gorilla Bananas on a tour of our sleeping arrangements.
I could see on their return that my remarkable friend was far from pleased.
“Good, good.” smiled Dr Evil, “I knew you’d appreciate my efforts Mr Gorilla Bananas. I like to make everyone feel at home, here at Castle Alucard.”
When they had gone, and we three were at last alone, it was Bananas, not the evil doctor, who appointed us our rooms.
“The nerve of the man” he stuttered in a tight lipped fury.
“Maybe he’s just trying to be a good host,” I replied in confusion. "He is American after all."
“No Maroon, he’s insulting us, trying to upset my faculties with his foolish little stratagems.” stated that master of deduction.
“Anyway, you’re in that room Maroon.” he said, indicating the relevant door.
I must say, I was rather pleased with it. Dr Evil had indeed done his homework. It had a low hammock covered in zebra skins slung among a bamboo climbing frame. There was also a trapeze and a pneumatic tyre suspended from a roof beam. Two gigantic bunches of bananas (my favourite fruit) and a colourful African mural on the far wall, finished off the splendid billet.
When I expressed my delight to Gorilla Bananas, he merely snorted, momentarily baring his teeth.
Not for the first time, was I confused by the superior workings of my remarkable friend’s intellect, but I held my peace and joined him and Ayres in our little drawing room for a tincture or two before we dressed for dinner.
I found my associates discussing the charms of Miss Lilly Redhead.
“Simply enchanting.” said Ayres.
“She’s certainly something.” said Bananas.
“You’ve changed your tune Ayres, what was all that vampire rot you were spouting in Baker Street?” I contested.
“Maroon, Maroon,” smiled Ayres, waving my challenge away with his hand, “A sophisticated lady like that can have an effect on a man far beyond reason. I was momentarily unhinged by her presence, her allure, her charisma, her…”
“Cleavage” said Bananas unkindly, “be careful of the Red Lady, Ayres. You could fall under her spell.”
“Yes,” I added glibly, “we wouldn’t want her biting your neck.”
“She can bite my neck if she wants to,” mumbled Ayres with a dreamy smile.
“What was that?” demanded the amazing ape, a shadow of concern falling across his noble visage.
“In fact, she can bite me anywhere she wants,” Ayres continued, with an unpleasant little laugh.
“I don’t like the look of this, Maroon” said Bananas seriously.
“I might bite her back,” muttered Ayres, ignoring us.
“Her back? Really Ayres, I don‘t think…” I remonstrated.
“He means ‘in return‘.” explained the astounding ape. “What did the Lady pass to you in the library Ayres?” he continued, “some trinket, some occult amulet perhaps, yes?”
“Why, nothing…I don’t know what you mean Bananas…can’t a fellow….it’s mine…and you can’t have it!” shouted the indignant Ayres, his hand moving to his jacket pocket.
“Follow my lead Maroon,” hissed Bananas, “ and be prepared to offer any assistance. This is worse than I thought. We may already be too late!”
Gorilla Bananas now stood to his full imposing height and stretched out his palm.
“Give it to me.” He commanded.
Ayres stamped his foot and withdrawing his hand from his pocket, threw the object straight at Bananas.
“Take it then, you beast” he ejaculated.
With a shrieking jungle lunge, the primate pounced on protesting Ayres and dragged him in a flail of arms to the en-suite facilities, the only hope of salvation for Ayres now, was that a thorough hydropathic douching would douse the infernal flames that threatened to take hold of his weak debauched mind.
Before I followed, I stopped to look at the thing now resting on the rug.
It was a small tin disc fastened to a pin.
It read ‘I heart Lilly‘.
“How curious.” I thought, as I rolled my sleeves and headed for the washroom.
Thus then were the antecedents set for the fracas in the lavatory.
Previously, on Gothic….
As I wandered that labyrinth for assistance, the momentous meeting in the library of those two giants, came back to me yet again…..
….Ayres stood and turned suddenly; “Miss Redhead! How do you do?” he said, extending his hand to an obscene statue of Pan.
In theatrical delight, Miss Redhead took it and what’s more, pinched his cheek in a startling display of familiarity.
Ayres, always the broken reed in the presence of the fair sect, fawned and chuckled.
Oblivious to all, Evil and Bananas stood regarding each other for the first time in the flesh.
“Ah, Mister Bananas, we meet at last!”…..
After a brief pause, Doctor Evil made for Bananas, taking his hand in friendly grasp, while Miss Lilly Redhead arranged herself on a chaise longue, indicating to Ayres that he should take the small pouffe at her side, which he did with lapdog enthusiasm. A small brown lapdog, it seemed to me, with liquid eyes, glossy coat and damp snout.
To my shame, the smallest barb of jealousy rent my heart asunder.
I now know that the wanton seductress had specifically chosen the unworldly Ayres as target for her charms, since he was obviously the most susceptible of our company to her mesmerising feminine deceit.
That shameful Salome, plying her blandishments, enticing poor honest Ayres to the very rim of an abyss of carnality, Byzantine in its splendour, and he, the innocent fool, eager to throw himself onto those full red lips, like a lost soul cast into the gaping maw of appalling pleasures unending…
As I say, it was only a momentary prick of envy, quickly forgotten.
Like a photographic plate, each the antithesis of the other, Evil and Mr Gorilla Bananas stood in silent mortal struggle, striving for mastery, the welfare of all mankind in the balance.
“Ghastly weather gentlemen,” said Doctor Evil, “doesn’t it ever let up in this godforsaken burg?”
"But we thought that you had somehow brewed up…" began Ayres, momentarily distracted from his unseemly tête-à-tête.
“…this weather? No. My powers do not extend that far…Yet!” Said the mad scientist, still holding Bananas’ hand in greeting and in which he now contrived to wiggle his middle finger, much to the dishevelment of my dear friend, the greatest of detectives.
"We find it bracing, actually." Said Bananas. “Perhaps, if I may have my hand back…” he continued, pulling free and wiping his hand unconsciously on his waistcoat, “…you would be so good as to have your butler show us to our accommodation.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my hairy friend,” replied the great but flawed scientific genius, “that pleasure should be mine,” he concluded ambiguously, a malign smirk now playing upon his suave face.
Behind him, Miss Redhead and Ayres giggled at something. I was sure that the devilish Delilah had passed something into Ayres’ silly sweaty schoolboy palm.
“Oh I can’t wait to show you what I‘ve done with the rooms,” said the eager doctor. “I have placed you all together in a suite, three bachelors gay.”
“I’m not a bachelor gay,” I protested, “there’s Mrs Maroon.”
“Of course you’re not” replied the excited necromancer with a wink and a pursing of his lips.
Behind him, Miss Redhead whispered something close in Ayres ear, at which he sniggered, slapping his knee.
As a juvenile hysteria now gripped Ayres, he kicked his small Gladstone over, spilling its contents at the feet of Evil.
“Save us mighty Mithras!” wailed the fiend, as he cowered back from the crucifix the bottle of holy water and the garlic, pulling his cloak over his eyes with a flourish.
"Did you ever see anything so hideous?" He asked after a moment, stooping to pick up the crucifix. “I mean there’s something to be said for realism, but my word this is awful…” he paused, "is that Tuscan garlic? Oh please tell me it is, you know, you just can’t get anything like that round here. Peasants the lot of ‘em, and just try asking for olive oil…" he paused again “what‘s in the bottle?”
“Holy…” began Ayres.
“…Gin.” finished Bananas.
“Holy gin eh? You rogue Sir Kim! Must try that some night! Come, I’ll show you your rooms.”
But before he could, one more curious incident springs into my memory among the hundreds of that terrible adventure. We stepped from the library in time to witness the arrival of a Scotch noblewoman, Lady Samovar, the renowned Lady of the Isles. Some staff were lined up to greet the great highland personage, among them the flame haired comedian in the loud suit. She was led in by Mister McShae, whose purpose as piper on the battlements was now clear to us.
Mister McShae it had to be said, had suffered some terrible physical and mental anguish. His clothes were smouldering yet and in his arms he carried the charred remains of some faithful gun dog.
The loud checked japester threw a pail of water over him.
“Thanks Jokey.” said McShae.
Doctor Evil watched in silence, shook his head slowly, then turned to conduct the introductions.
“May I present a lady from your part of the world Dr Maroon. She sailed yesterday by steamer.”
“Oh,” I encapsulated, "did you come by Barra?"
“No, McBraynes.” she replied.
“Badoom tish!” Exclaimed the ginger Jester.
Mr McShae flinched.
“Struck by lightnin’," he said, “if it wasnae fur mah apparatus, I’d be deid!”
“Oh well, that was lucky,” said Ayres.
“Lucky? Whit waas lucky about it? Ma bag iss in tatters! Ma chanter is shot and ma drones are reekin’!”
“I thought he was walking funny,” I hypothesized.
“Ay thang yew” exclaimed the red haired vaudevillian needlessly.
At last we came to our quarters. While Ayres stayed in close confab with the Lady in Red and I took the opportunity to pour some welcome refreshments, Doctor Evil took Gorilla Bananas on a tour of our sleeping arrangements.
I could see on their return that my remarkable friend was far from pleased.
“Good, good.” smiled Dr Evil, “I knew you’d appreciate my efforts Mr Gorilla Bananas. I like to make everyone feel at home, here at Castle Alucard.”
When they had gone, and we three were at last alone, it was Bananas, not the evil doctor, who appointed us our rooms.
“The nerve of the man” he stuttered in a tight lipped fury.
“Maybe he’s just trying to be a good host,” I replied in confusion. "He is American after all."
“No Maroon, he’s insulting us, trying to upset my faculties with his foolish little stratagems.” stated that master of deduction.
“Anyway, you’re in that room Maroon.” he said, indicating the relevant door.
I must say, I was rather pleased with it. Dr Evil had indeed done his homework. It had a low hammock covered in zebra skins slung among a bamboo climbing frame. There was also a trapeze and a pneumatic tyre suspended from a roof beam. Two gigantic bunches of bananas (my favourite fruit) and a colourful African mural on the far wall, finished off the splendid billet.
When I expressed my delight to Gorilla Bananas, he merely snorted, momentarily baring his teeth.
Not for the first time, was I confused by the superior workings of my remarkable friend’s intellect, but I held my peace and joined him and Ayres in our little drawing room for a tincture or two before we dressed for dinner.
I found my associates discussing the charms of Miss Lilly Redhead.
“Simply enchanting.” said Ayres.
“She’s certainly something.” said Bananas.
“You’ve changed your tune Ayres, what was all that vampire rot you were spouting in Baker Street?” I contested.
“Maroon, Maroon,” smiled Ayres, waving my challenge away with his hand, “A sophisticated lady like that can have an effect on a man far beyond reason. I was momentarily unhinged by her presence, her allure, her charisma, her…”
“Cleavage” said Bananas unkindly, “be careful of the Red Lady, Ayres. You could fall under her spell.”
“Yes,” I added glibly, “we wouldn’t want her biting your neck.”
“She can bite my neck if she wants to,” mumbled Ayres with a dreamy smile.
“What was that?” demanded the amazing ape, a shadow of concern falling across his noble visage.
“In fact, she can bite me anywhere she wants,” Ayres continued, with an unpleasant little laugh.
“I don’t like the look of this, Maroon” said Bananas seriously.
“I might bite her back,” muttered Ayres, ignoring us.
“Her back? Really Ayres, I don‘t think…” I remonstrated.
“He means ‘in return‘.” explained the astounding ape. “What did the Lady pass to you in the library Ayres?” he continued, “some trinket, some occult amulet perhaps, yes?”
“Why, nothing…I don’t know what you mean Bananas…can’t a fellow….it’s mine…and you can’t have it!” shouted the indignant Ayres, his hand moving to his jacket pocket.
“Follow my lead Maroon,” hissed Bananas, “ and be prepared to offer any assistance. This is worse than I thought. We may already be too late!”
Gorilla Bananas now stood to his full imposing height and stretched out his palm.
“Give it to me.” He commanded.
Ayres stamped his foot and withdrawing his hand from his pocket, threw the object straight at Bananas.
“Take it then, you beast” he ejaculated.
With a shrieking jungle lunge, the primate pounced on protesting Ayres and dragged him in a flail of arms to the en-suite facilities, the only hope of salvation for Ayres now, was that a thorough hydropathic douching would douse the infernal flames that threatened to take hold of his weak debauched mind.
Before I followed, I stopped to look at the thing now resting on the rug.
It was a small tin disc fastened to a pin.
It read ‘I heart Lilly‘.
“How curious.” I thought, as I rolled my sleeves and headed for the washroom.
Thus then were the antecedents set for the fracas in the lavatory.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Last night
I didn’t sleep so good. Sleep so good I didn’t.
I nightmared that a hat-genteel Lady Whitegloves upturned upon the threshold step of the House of Ayres.
Stepstanding, she smile-asked for roof donations for the parish steeple-house.
Ayres, bristle-bearding, foot blocked the door and weight shifted his shoulder, a buttress doubled against feeble charity.
“Mr Ayres, so nice to meet you at last.” she implied. “Mrs Ayres around? I’m collecting for the Kirk roof. It’s been struck fourteen times by lightning, and once by blue ice…” she over-shoulder-peer-begged.
“I’m an atheist, thanks,” Ayres refuse-smirked. “Anyway, by the sounds of it, your god must think you’re doing something wrong.” he trap-fell.
“How unfortunate, I have you down for ten pounds. If there is no God as you say, then you must be as wrong as if there is a God.“ She paradoxed, shut-snapping the trap.
“A tenner? Givvus a half and half and I’ll make it twenty.”
I hot wet sweat woke.
“It was a dream” I mantra’d, all the 36 miles to Dundee.
I have not worked this day.
No change there then.
I didn’t sleep so good. Sleep so good I didn’t.
I nightmared that a hat-genteel Lady Whitegloves upturned upon the threshold step of the House of Ayres.
Stepstanding, she smile-asked for roof donations for the parish steeple-house.
Ayres, bristle-bearding, foot blocked the door and weight shifted his shoulder, a buttress doubled against feeble charity.
“Mr Ayres, so nice to meet you at last.” she implied. “Mrs Ayres around? I’m collecting for the Kirk roof. It’s been struck fourteen times by lightning, and once by blue ice…” she over-shoulder-peer-begged.
“I’m an atheist, thanks,” Ayres refuse-smirked. “Anyway, by the sounds of it, your god must think you’re doing something wrong.” he trap-fell.
“How unfortunate, I have you down for ten pounds. If there is no God as you say, then you must be as wrong as if there is a God.“ She paradoxed, shut-snapping the trap.
“A tenner? Givvus a half and half and I’ll make it twenty.”
I hot wet sweat woke.
“It was a dream” I mantra’d, all the 36 miles to Dundee.
I have not worked this day.
No change there then.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MA’AM !
80 years! It’s been swell! Thanks a lot!
Now please go and take your useless German parasite feckless family of middle class right wing nazi spongers with you into a well deserved obscurity (quite like Anne in spite of myself, but she’ll have to retire as well).
Please put the keys to the castles, palaces, treasures etc. through the letterbox. It’s time for everyone to move on now. Cheers.
DID YOU KNOW
The royal coat of arms of the united kingdom to be used in Scotland, see above, is different from the one to be used in England. See below,
Badges? Badges? We don’t need no stinkin badges!!!!!!
What a total crock of shite. It’s 2006 everyone! WAKEY WAKEY!
Monday, April 17, 2006
Synopsis:
Futuristic contemporary religious political thriller with sex.
War torn Iraq. Local Muslim man looks around at country occupied by foreign army, mercenary banditry, cheapness of life, religious slaughter. Disenchanted, heads out to dessert to cool his jets, take stock, chill.
As Ramadan is coming up, he decides to look for The Answer by fasting just a wee bit more than is strictly required.
Drinks only desert water for 40 days.
Half mad with starvation, has psychotic episodes, delusions, hears voices, sees visions.
Returns to Basra.
Claims enlightenment, chooses some followers desperate for a leader.
They (all male) go off and decide how Muslims should now live and how women especially should behave in all circumstances.
Publishes New Muslim Manifesto. Gathers support.
Sunnis and Shiites are anxious.
Falls in love with V nice westernised Iraqi girl. More hubbub.
Provisional government under Allied Occupation, proscribe his organisation as dangerous and seditious.
Sunnis and Shiites organise his assassination. Quite grisly, body removed and never seen again. End of story.
Not quite.
Reported sightings in Baghdad, etc. much mutterings.
Things die down.
Years later, non Muslim takes up the case, sees an opportunity, a big one. Says anyone can join, not just Muslims, and we’ll call it something new to avoid confusion with the other lot. (who are WRONG).
Much later, everyone ends up living to a code devised by a handful of men with some really weird ideas. You’re not allowed a view, if you speak out, you get the bullet.
Well? Whatya think? Is it a runner?
Futuristic contemporary religious political thriller with sex.
War torn Iraq. Local Muslim man looks around at country occupied by foreign army, mercenary banditry, cheapness of life, religious slaughter. Disenchanted, heads out to dessert to cool his jets, take stock, chill.
As Ramadan is coming up, he decides to look for The Answer by fasting just a wee bit more than is strictly required.
Drinks only desert water for 40 days.
Half mad with starvation, has psychotic episodes, delusions, hears voices, sees visions.
Returns to Basra.
Claims enlightenment, chooses some followers desperate for a leader.
They (all male) go off and decide how Muslims should now live and how women especially should behave in all circumstances.
Publishes New Muslim Manifesto. Gathers support.
Sunnis and Shiites are anxious.
Falls in love with V nice westernised Iraqi girl. More hubbub.
Provisional government under Allied Occupation, proscribe his organisation as dangerous and seditious.
Sunnis and Shiites organise his assassination. Quite grisly, body removed and never seen again. End of story.
Not quite.
Reported sightings in Baghdad, etc. much mutterings.
Things die down.
Years later, non Muslim takes up the case, sees an opportunity, a big one. Says anyone can join, not just Muslims, and we’ll call it something new to avoid confusion with the other lot. (who are WRONG).
Much later, everyone ends up living to a code devised by a handful of men with some really weird ideas. You’re not allowed a view, if you speak out, you get the bullet.
Well? Whatya think? Is it a runner?
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Bloggers and their books writhing to escape.
Am I so shallow and self obsessed to believe that you are remotely interested in the length of my opus? Well, yes (I am that shallow) and
NO! (you’re not that interested)
It is time to uncloak! It is my belief, firmly held, that you are all to a man harbouring books to your collective breasts! I shall now expound on their nature and type and I don’t mean typeface.
Kim and Foot Eater and Justin, have admitted as much. Should I say confessed as much?
Fatmammycat’s first book, I see as a long page turner (400 + pages) with sexy bodice ripping bits, set in rural Ireland and New York (both tremendous selling points). It makes Edna O’Brien look like Pat O’Brien.
Everyone they say, has a book in him. The Vaporiser has a six volume adventure memoir, a film (George Clooney), and TV mini series. I defy him to disagree.
The SafeTinspector IS the new Philip K Dick, the evolution of mankind into a machine form, the philosophical ramifications thereof….It’s bursting to get out of him.
Sarah’s first I see as a volume of photographic prints with enigmatic footnotes, where the actual materials of construction are selected by the author herself to enhance the overall experience. Tell me I’m a liar.
Mr Gorilla Bananas I see as a children’s author read by everyone. More Pullman than Rowling, he will use the ‘children’s author’ tag, to maximise his ability to get his ideas across to a universal readership.
Miss Redhead’s first book is a work of non fiction I think. I see it as a sort of post punk Mrs Beaton’s, a new age manual of modern housekeeping with sex or something. She will tell us.
The literary ladies. Lindy, Sam, Andraste, are tortured by their irresistible force meeting their immovable objects, but they will overcome. Soon.
SexyBeauty, I’m still thinking about. Writing/painting?
Brewski, Binty, Twenty Major, Doctor Evil, Doctor McCrumble, it’s coming out their pores.
Short term NLP target: get up to page 300.
Medium term NLP target: email rewritten manuscript to Macmillan. 250 pp. max.
Longer term NLP target: apartment Central Park East. Talk shows. Kudos.
Have I missed anyone?
Am I so shallow and self obsessed to believe that you are remotely interested in the length of my opus? Well, yes (I am that shallow) and
NO! (you’re not that interested)
It is time to uncloak! It is my belief, firmly held, that you are all to a man harbouring books to your collective breasts! I shall now expound on their nature and type and I don’t mean typeface.
Kim and Foot Eater and Justin, have admitted as much. Should I say confessed as much?
Fatmammycat’s first book, I see as a long page turner (400 + pages) with sexy bodice ripping bits, set in rural Ireland and New York (both tremendous selling points). It makes Edna O’Brien look like Pat O’Brien.
Everyone they say, has a book in him. The Vaporiser has a six volume adventure memoir, a film (George Clooney), and TV mini series. I defy him to disagree.
The SafeTinspector IS the new Philip K Dick, the evolution of mankind into a machine form, the philosophical ramifications thereof….It’s bursting to get out of him.
Sarah’s first I see as a volume of photographic prints with enigmatic footnotes, where the actual materials of construction are selected by the author herself to enhance the overall experience. Tell me I’m a liar.
Mr Gorilla Bananas I see as a children’s author read by everyone. More Pullman than Rowling, he will use the ‘children’s author’ tag, to maximise his ability to get his ideas across to a universal readership.
Miss Redhead’s first book is a work of non fiction I think. I see it as a sort of post punk Mrs Beaton’s, a new age manual of modern housekeeping with sex or something. She will tell us.
The literary ladies. Lindy, Sam, Andraste, are tortured by their irresistible force meeting their immovable objects, but they will overcome. Soon.
SexyBeauty, I’m still thinking about. Writing/painting?
Brewski, Binty, Twenty Major, Doctor Evil, Doctor McCrumble, it’s coming out their pores.
Short term NLP target: get up to page 300.
Medium term NLP target: email rewritten manuscript to Macmillan. 250 pp. max.
Longer term NLP target: apartment Central Park East. Talk shows. Kudos.
Have I missed anyone?
Friday, April 14, 2006
A Holiday! A Holiday!
I’m off till Tuesday. Hooray! Mrs maroon doesn’t get Good Friday.
She works in the public service. Fool!
She thinks I am clearing out the shed. We know better though, don’t we?
I only get today because the English get it. Presbyterian Scotland is a bit suspicious of all that idolatry, so the country grinds on.
The motorways are clogged with English heading north God bless ‘em. Six hours in the company Mondeo, kids sick in the back, granny forgot her pills and why bring that stupid boat all this way for 2 hours fishing on a loch so cold that 34 seconds is the survival record?
This weekend we get our own back for England winning the world cup etc. etc.
“Now let’s see, a lager, a white wine, a sherry (for granny), two pepsi maxes, anything else? Right that’ll be £23.87 thanks. No I‘m sorry, bar meals stopped at 13:30 PROMPT. (mutters) Bloody English. Food in a pub after 13:30! Never heard such fal de rals, truly I haven’t. Bloomin’ Ritz is what he wants.”
Good News Everyone!!!!!!
It’s all coming together!
Book Update: 73 pages! Wery pwoud yes, wery pwoud.
AND
Macmillan the publishers have an imprint for new writers!! The bloke was on the radio. They’ve had 4000 finished manuscripts to date, which is a lot but they’ve read them all. You only have to email the finished work to them!
Here’s the links.
BBC Radio 4’s Open Book. A program about, well you work it out. Go halfway down the page for the Macmillan bit.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/arts/openbook/openbook.shtml
Macmillan the publishers
http://www.macmillannewwriting.com/Contact%20Us/displayPage.asp?PageTitle=Submit%20Manuscript
The man said they get a lot of science fiction but look at everything! I see they’re going to publish an SF book later this year, so they’re obviously not fussy! The NLP said it would all work out and here I am nearly a third through already!
Note: My wonderful book is NOT science fiction. I use the example for illustrative purposes only.
I have to see a man about a dog now, but will return later for some proper blogging which will have nothing to do with my writing career which is really taking off.
I’m off till Tuesday. Hooray! Mrs maroon doesn’t get Good Friday.
She works in the public service. Fool!
She thinks I am clearing out the shed. We know better though, don’t we?
I only get today because the English get it. Presbyterian Scotland is a bit suspicious of all that idolatry, so the country grinds on.
The motorways are clogged with English heading north God bless ‘em. Six hours in the company Mondeo, kids sick in the back, granny forgot her pills and why bring that stupid boat all this way for 2 hours fishing on a loch so cold that 34 seconds is the survival record?
This weekend we get our own back for England winning the world cup etc. etc.
“Now let’s see, a lager, a white wine, a sherry (for granny), two pepsi maxes, anything else? Right that’ll be £23.87 thanks. No I‘m sorry, bar meals stopped at 13:30 PROMPT. (mutters) Bloody English. Food in a pub after 13:30! Never heard such fal de rals, truly I haven’t. Bloomin’ Ritz is what he wants.”
Good News Everyone!!!!!!
It’s all coming together!
Book Update: 73 pages! Wery pwoud yes, wery pwoud.
AND
Macmillan the publishers have an imprint for new writers!! The bloke was on the radio. They’ve had 4000 finished manuscripts to date, which is a lot but they’ve read them all. You only have to email the finished work to them!
Here’s the links.
BBC Radio 4’s Open Book. A program about, well you work it out. Go halfway down the page for the Macmillan bit.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/arts/openbook/openbook.shtml
Macmillan the publishers
http://www.macmillannewwriting.com/Contact%20Us/displayPage.asp?PageTitle=Submit%20Manuscript
The man said they get a lot of science fiction but look at everything! I see they’re going to publish an SF book later this year, so they’re obviously not fussy! The NLP said it would all work out and here I am nearly a third through already!
Note: My wonderful book is NOT science fiction. I use the example for illustrative purposes only.
I have to see a man about a dog now, but will return later for some proper blogging which will have nothing to do with my writing career which is really taking off.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
There is nothing
more depressing than looking at your own page every day to see that it has not changed. The little Brownies have not sorted it out through the night. Lazy, shiftless elfin fuckers.
Update: Cue the “Murder She Wrote” theme tune…Have now done 54 pages (60 behind schedule) and even though I says it myself, it is 54 pages of the crappiest shit what I’ve ever read so it is.
Am I bovvered? Do I look bovvered? Yeahbut do I look bovvered?
Book writing. What a lot of old fucking wank. I’ve got a life to live. Before it’s too late.
The pin the shell the door the wind…
I googled that, Mr Smartypants Baker, only to remember the comments thing. You’ll cut yourself one day, I swear to God you will.
WHERE’S FRITZ?
I found the missing episode. I was sure I posted it last Monday. I should have left it alone but I messed about with it, pissed all over it I have.
Confession: I’ve thought up another, better story featuring you all. I can’t help it!
I can’t, I tells ‘ee!
The girls are right! I can’t FINISH! Can’t close the deal.
For the Vaporiser.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
UPDATE:
The Ladies are right! And it’s no more than I deserve.
Sexy Beauty and Fatmammycat’s comments are frighteningly accurate.
It’s ME that’s the Doubting Thomas!
I was trying the diversionary tactic of transference.
Garrison Keiller warns against trying to be too smart, saying that it always backfires and leads to misunderstanding, and that it’s easy to be caught out, especially by two clever women who will double bluff you and pull your chain a bit.
I've been away looking for that other bit (the bit with Gorilla Bananas bedroom in it). Found some of it. It’s a mystery.
Gratuitous cheesecake
The Ladies are right! And it’s no more than I deserve.
Sexy Beauty and Fatmammycat’s comments are frighteningly accurate.
It’s ME that’s the Doubting Thomas!
I was trying the diversionary tactic of transference.
Garrison Keiller warns against trying to be too smart, saying that it always backfires and leads to misunderstanding, and that it’s easy to be caught out, especially by two clever women who will double bluff you and pull your chain a bit.
I've been away looking for that other bit (the bit with Gorilla Bananas bedroom in it). Found some of it. It’s a mystery.
Gratuitous cheesecake
After the highs earlier in the week,it was inevitable. Into every life a little rain must fall. I didn’t win blog of the week, but I beat the monkey.
Project bulletin in brief.
Been back to the library. Following SexyBeauty’s (and FMC and all the other Doubting Thomases) many injunctions to grow a thick skin, don’t be disappointed, take a creative writing class etc. etc. etc., (they trying to tell me something or what?) I have re-read Stephen King’s most excellent advice ‘On Writing’.
I think that’s enough formal training.
HE says that I should rattle on with the first draft and then leave it alone for SIX WEEKS,
THEN do the rewrites!
On a three-month project timetable (I’ve done the CPA [critical path analysis]), and starting April the first (coincidence only) to be finished July the first, means that the first draft must be finished by May 10th at the latest.
King reckons not to worry too much about plot, or back story, character stuff and so on, or themes, nearly forgot theme, as that will reveal itself as we go. It’s only when I’m started on my next book six weeks in, that I go back to the first and sort it out. 10 pages a day he reckons, with no excuses, seven days a week, no exceptions. That’s 340 pages! Phew! Don’t worry though, I’ll whittle it down on the re-write (s). He reckons we writers must ruthlessly avoid adverbs religiously, and “kill our darlings”, which means taking out all the good bits that we’re proud of.
He says not to write any boring bits at all, because people don’t have the time or patience to read boring bits any more. This is a bonus since working to such a tight schedule, I was worried about the boring bits. If you remember, they were the bits marked in pink highlighter. This way, I will save time.
Got some comments to write now, and I just noticed there that the Gothic part with Gorilla Banana’s room in it hasn’t been posted. I thought I posted that on Monday! I’ll have to see what happened there, and report back.
Below is a picture of "writers" on a course. Are they writing? Are they fuck.
This, is a picture of a proper writer.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Lot of old skrimshaw!
Years ago as a wide eyed graduate out to change the world and all that, I came back into the office to be told that there was a phone message for me.
Carol (for she it was) said, “oh there was a man on the phone looking for you, I’ve left the number on your desk”
“Oh aye?” I replied, for I was awaiting a call from some geezer, regards tungsten tipped cutters or some other meaningless shite, “what’s his name?”
Carol (for it was she) looked at her pad, “Mr Lyon”
Oh yeah that was him, Marconi-Invicta or something, I remember. I thought as I dialled. Spoke to him on Wednesday, should have phoned back by now. Old git!
“Can I speak to Mr Lyon?…
“No you can’t. This is Edinburgh Zoo and someone’s playing an April Fool on you.”
The funny part was the polite but slightly pissed off voice of the girl at the zoo. I must have been number 50 that day. Oh, the innocent pleasures we had back then. If it was hot, I would send the other girl (Linda) out for Mivvies and then sit about flirting while we licked them. In Scotland when it’s even just warm, people strip off. Linda used to eat a banana in such a way as would be illegal in some countries. Don’t know why I remember that. Yes I do.
UPDATES ( for clarification)
Years ago as a wide eyed graduate out to change the world and all that, I came back into the office to be told that there was a phone message for me.
Carol (for she it was) said, “oh there was a man on the phone looking for you, I’ve left the number on your desk”
“Oh aye?” I replied, for I was awaiting a call from some geezer, regards tungsten tipped cutters or some other meaningless shite, “what’s his name?”
Carol (for it was she) looked at her pad, “Mr Lyon”
Oh yeah that was him, Marconi-Invicta or something, I remember. I thought as I dialled. Spoke to him on Wednesday, should have phoned back by now. Old git!
“Can I speak to Mr Lyon?…
“No you can’t. This is Edinburgh Zoo and someone’s playing an April Fool on you.”
The funny part was the polite but slightly pissed off voice of the girl at the zoo. I must have been number 50 that day. Oh, the innocent pleasures we had back then. If it was hot, I would send the other girl (Linda) out for Mivvies and then sit about flirting while we licked them. In Scotland when it’s even just warm, people strip off. Linda used to eat a banana in such a way as would be illegal in some countries. Don’t know why I remember that. Yes I do.
UPDATES ( for clarification)
Eating a banana above. (Linda was better)
while below, a fine example of scrimshaw. I calls it sKrimshaw!
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Part 12b (i)
There we stood, four somnambulists suddenly awake, ancient statues amid the ruins of the washroom.
Eater, the whey-faced butler, angry and put upon at his unwarranted treatment.
Ayres, a Bengal tiger at bay, his eyes ablaze.
Me, my heart beating wildly and a deafening sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Bananas however, that most clearheaded of individuals, taking control, calmly turning the valves and taps, wetting a flannel, applying it to the butler’s eye, carefully placing the butler’s hand over it to keep it there, then gently taking the butler’s other hand, slowly extending the forefinger, using it to plug the water streaming from the wall.
The sound of rushing blood in my ears stopped.
Following that remarkable ape’s calm example, I reached out to remove some flakes of plaster that had lodged in Ayres’ beard, only to have my hand violently struck away.
“If you touch me again Maroon, or take just one step closer, or even look at me, I swear to God I shall…“ he said through grinding teeth, waving his fist under my nose.
“Maroon,” said Bananas, “I shall attend to Ayres, if you would be so good as to find an artisan or some such. The butler cannot stand here all day.”
It was obvious to me that our activities to date had taken a heavy toll on Ayres’ gentlemanly nature, so I forgave his intemperate passion and set out to find a domestic, using the respite to review in my mind the recent sequence of events.
* * *
At that precise minute, three floors below, El Barbudo our brave agent, was taking tea with his tormentor, Sarah, daughter of Doctor Evil and recent graduate of the Rhinegold Institute of Electro-Aversion Therapy…
“So all this was therapy?” he asked, one eye blinking.
“Aversion therapy, yes. Another fruit slice? They’re very light.”
“Thank you, no. And paid for by my, my f-f-friends?” he continued, his scalp crawling.
“That‘s right, Mr Bananas and Mr Ayres. Glark, top up Mr Barbudo’s cup.”
“I’m fine thank you,” said Barbudo, his beard crawling now too, “and I’m ‘cured’ am I ? Free to go and all that?”
“Why of course. You were always free to go. If at any time you’d wanted to stop the treatment, all you had to say was the agreed codeword.”
“The agreed codeword. Remind me.” Prompted Barbudo pleasantly.
“The one we gave to Mr Bananas.”
“And that was?” He was still smiling, but showing too many teeth.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
No, he must have overlooked that detail,” chuckled Barbudo.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. Oh dear indeed.” He said, shaking his head in amusement.
“Well he’s here now, so you can take it up with him personally.”
“He’s here? At castle Alucard?” Smiled Barbudo innocently.
“Oh yes. I expect you’ll have a lot to talk about.”
“You know, I really think we have.” His smile was different now.
“Quick test before you leave us?” Solicited sarah.
“Why not?” He took a breath, “you stupid c-c-c-clot! Why you f-f-foolish c-c-card! You c-c-cakesticking piece of chandelier barnacle…”
“O.K. good. Now try the ‘big one’…” She encouraged.
Barbudo took a deeper breath, hesitated, and in a rush, bellowed out:
“Why don’t you pluck your father’s cockerel and see if your sister has her pencil yet?”
“Excellent!” shouted Sarah, skipping round the room clapping her hands.
* * *
Casting my mind back, I remembered the meeting earlier that day, of those two giants in the library, as all the while, the ungodly turmoil of the elements raged and howled on the Moor beyond.
There we stood, four somnambulists suddenly awake, ancient statues amid the ruins of the washroom.
Eater, the whey-faced butler, angry and put upon at his unwarranted treatment.
Ayres, a Bengal tiger at bay, his eyes ablaze.
Me, my heart beating wildly and a deafening sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Bananas however, that most clearheaded of individuals, taking control, calmly turning the valves and taps, wetting a flannel, applying it to the butler’s eye, carefully placing the butler’s hand over it to keep it there, then gently taking the butler’s other hand, slowly extending the forefinger, using it to plug the water streaming from the wall.
The sound of rushing blood in my ears stopped.
Following that remarkable ape’s calm example, I reached out to remove some flakes of plaster that had lodged in Ayres’ beard, only to have my hand violently struck away.
“If you touch me again Maroon, or take just one step closer, or even look at me, I swear to God I shall…“ he said through grinding teeth, waving his fist under my nose.
“Maroon,” said Bananas, “I shall attend to Ayres, if you would be so good as to find an artisan or some such. The butler cannot stand here all day.”
It was obvious to me that our activities to date had taken a heavy toll on Ayres’ gentlemanly nature, so I forgave his intemperate passion and set out to find a domestic, using the respite to review in my mind the recent sequence of events.
* * *
At that precise minute, three floors below, El Barbudo our brave agent, was taking tea with his tormentor, Sarah, daughter of Doctor Evil and recent graduate of the Rhinegold Institute of Electro-Aversion Therapy…
“So all this was therapy?” he asked, one eye blinking.
“Aversion therapy, yes. Another fruit slice? They’re very light.”
“Thank you, no. And paid for by my, my f-f-friends?” he continued, his scalp crawling.
“That‘s right, Mr Bananas and Mr Ayres. Glark, top up Mr Barbudo’s cup.”
“I’m fine thank you,” said Barbudo, his beard crawling now too, “and I’m ‘cured’ am I ? Free to go and all that?”
“Why of course. You were always free to go. If at any time you’d wanted to stop the treatment, all you had to say was the agreed codeword.”
“The agreed codeword. Remind me.” Prompted Barbudo pleasantly.
“The one we gave to Mr Bananas.”
“And that was?” He was still smiling, but showing too many teeth.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
No, he must have overlooked that detail,” chuckled Barbudo.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. Oh dear indeed.” He said, shaking his head in amusement.
“Well he’s here now, so you can take it up with him personally.”
“He’s here? At castle Alucard?” Smiled Barbudo innocently.
“Oh yes. I expect you’ll have a lot to talk about.”
“You know, I really think we have.” His smile was different now.
“Quick test before you leave us?” Solicited sarah.
“Why not?” He took a breath, “you stupid c-c-c-clot! Why you f-f-foolish c-c-card! You c-c-cakesticking piece of chandelier barnacle…”
“O.K. good. Now try the ‘big one’…” She encouraged.
Barbudo took a deeper breath, hesitated, and in a rush, bellowed out:
“Why don’t you pluck your father’s cockerel and see if your sister has her pencil yet?”
“Excellent!” shouted Sarah, skipping round the room clapping her hands.
* * *
Casting my mind back, I remembered the meeting earlier that day, of those two giants in the library, as all the while, the ungodly turmoil of the elements raged and howled on the Moor beyond.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
I'm doin' it today. Alright?
First and foremost, a brief report on The Project.
I chose three highlighter colours. Saturn green for the good bits, (green for GO), A gay pink for the boring “Dennis Norden” bits, and a bright Jaffa orange for the bits that were plot development.
I had emptied my brain, had Best of Cream on the headphones, and had worked up to page 46.
“…born under a bad sign, I been down ever since I began to walk,…”
Tap on the shoulder.
An attractive slip of a girl was asking what I was doing.
I explained I was marking out the story as we had discussed, using a colour code of my own design.
Are those library books? she asked
I explained they were only the ‘big print’ versions.
It was not me who raised their voice first. That is important.
I pointed out the sign, which required no disruptions, or eating and that I was a ratepayer. She would not be gainsaid.
When I am wealthy, I shall have her sacked.
Another thought to clarify. I am not a writer. I have no pretensions on that score. I intend to write the book by following the formula, but if I’m aiming at the airport, holiday, by the pool market, it will need a couple of sex scenes.
Maybe not. I’ll have to think about that one. Books tend not to have sex scenes in them any more. I wonder if the time is ripe for a return to a bit of raunch?
British Army in huff
Will not set up the Scalectrix or Subutteo.
I am out of sorts today. The freed hostage didn’t thank his rescuers. So fucking what? It’s their fucking jobs, the blood thirsty CARDS.
He’s a Christian. He has bonded with his captors and thinks the army are paid killers. What’s the problem? Does the army now require a thank you letter or they stop your five pound note at Christmas? It takes the joy out it.
‘You’re free!’
‘Hurrah’
‘First thing, you better wash your hands and write that note, AND I want to see it before you post it.’
‘Ohhhh, can’t I do it later?’
‘I won’t tell you again.’
General Jackson, The Irish may remember him as the man in command of the soldiers who killed all the protesters by shooting them, said that the Special Air Service were disappointed to receive no thanks (and were staying in for the week with their Airfix kits.)
FUCK ME GENTLY!
Hey Jackson! Get your soldiers the fuck out of Dodge, and tell them to dry their fucking eyes.
A fat faced dimpled prick of a man was on the t.v. the other night saying what wonderful things our (British) service men and women were doing in Iraq.
Name me three, you fucking piece of shit dogsucker CARD.
Sorry, I said I was out of sorts. Anyway, I also wonder how the factions in the North would have appreciated a Muslim team flying in to Belfast to bring peace and harmony.
Sorry again. Don’t know what’s got into me.
UPDATE: This is he.
First and foremost, a brief report on The Project.
I chose three highlighter colours. Saturn green for the good bits, (green for GO), A gay pink for the boring “Dennis Norden” bits, and a bright Jaffa orange for the bits that were plot development.
I had emptied my brain, had Best of Cream on the headphones, and had worked up to page 46.
“…born under a bad sign, I been down ever since I began to walk,…”
Tap on the shoulder.
An attractive slip of a girl was asking what I was doing.
I explained I was marking out the story as we had discussed, using a colour code of my own design.
Are those library books? she asked
I explained they were only the ‘big print’ versions.
It was not me who raised their voice first. That is important.
I pointed out the sign, which required no disruptions, or eating and that I was a ratepayer. She would not be gainsaid.
When I am wealthy, I shall have her sacked.
Another thought to clarify. I am not a writer. I have no pretensions on that score. I intend to write the book by following the formula, but if I’m aiming at the airport, holiday, by the pool market, it will need a couple of sex scenes.
Maybe not. I’ll have to think about that one. Books tend not to have sex scenes in them any more. I wonder if the time is ripe for a return to a bit of raunch?
British Army in huff
Will not set up the Scalectrix or Subutteo.
I am out of sorts today. The freed hostage didn’t thank his rescuers. So fucking what? It’s their fucking jobs, the blood thirsty CARDS.
He’s a Christian. He has bonded with his captors and thinks the army are paid killers. What’s the problem? Does the army now require a thank you letter or they stop your five pound note at Christmas? It takes the joy out it.
‘You’re free!’
‘Hurrah’
‘First thing, you better wash your hands and write that note, AND I want to see it before you post it.’
‘Ohhhh, can’t I do it later?’
‘I won’t tell you again.’
General Jackson, The Irish may remember him as the man in command of the soldiers who killed all the protesters by shooting them, said that the Special Air Service were disappointed to receive no thanks (and were staying in for the week with their Airfix kits.)
FUCK ME GENTLY!
Hey Jackson! Get your soldiers the fuck out of Dodge, and tell them to dry their fucking eyes.
A fat faced dimpled prick of a man was on the t.v. the other night saying what wonderful things our (British) service men and women were doing in Iraq.
Name me three, you fucking piece of shit dogsucker CARD.
Sorry, I said I was out of sorts. Anyway, I also wonder how the factions in the North would have appreciated a Muslim team flying in to Belfast to bring peace and harmony.
Sorry again. Don’t know what’s got into me.
UPDATE: This is he.
Piece of shit dogsucker.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
No Synopsis Yet
All my bosses have decanted to North America to buy a secret ray-gun factory or something. The other one is in the East Midlands.
I have driven 214 miles today. It’s always the same isn’t it? The NLP has prepared me for these setbacks. I laugh in their faces HAHAHAhahahaha. STOP. Enough laughing already. And rest.
The more astute among you (everyone) will have noted a few pitfalls in advance.
I list them here.
a) I can’t write.
b) Which books to deface with the highlighters?
c) I have no synopsis, title, sample chapter(s), or plot.
d) Where’s Gothic 12b even? I mean, a book? The man’s a fantasist!
That’s enough pitfalls for the present.
I will now debunk the pitfalls in turn.
Let’s take a)
For example, is it the other boss or the other secret ray-gun factory that’s in the East Midlands? I can’t remember.
When I shut my eyes, I see cat’s-eyes and road signs passing by. A full hour tonight to get over that fucking-ratfink-piece-of-shit Bridge. Not a good start at all at all.
“I don’t understand this new clause 24.”
“What’s not to understand?”
“Why not tell me what you’re aiming at and I’ll put it in for you?”
“Ok…SIMON, hmm let me see…….Look, I’ll get back to you.”
And why? Because even I don’t understand what I’ve just written.
However, It’s of no consequence. It will sort itself out as we go. We will not be writing prose. OR Contracts. Thank the Lord Harry.
b) The books to deconstruct. I thought I’d get them out the library and say they were like that when I took them home. Problem solved!
c) The synopsis is something to think about. I mean, should it be a bald plot outline giving the game away in one go? Remember, the literary agent wants one. Fussy fucking fussikins.
SYNOPSIS
Example;
Boy X meets Girl A in Baghdad field hospital. Girl B fancies Boy X so poisons Girl A (the crazy neurotic bitch) but Boy Z drinks it first, and dies!. Boy X is closet gay and fancied Boy Z rotten, (from afar) so goes on mad shooting spree, killing Tony Blair who is there on secret talks. Boy Z was husband of Girl B….
Or should the style be more….
Late1944...The Eastern Front…
His blood-spattered hands shaking uncontrollably, Dirk Diggler opened his secret orders from Berlin. How could he have known then, that in seven short days he would see his beautiful bride Nora die in his arms, and the world’s first atom bomb dropped on Stuttgart…..
OK, we’ll just have to jump off that bridge nearer the time..
d) Gothic! Nothing at all to worry about there. It’s got tons and tons of scope. Cast of hundreds, three genres, (Stick it up your ass El B.) lots of jokes lying around just waiting to be picked up.
12B first, then I’ve got the multiple death of EL Barbudo, you know, accidental stake through the heart, battleaxe falls from suit of armour, slices his head off, they give him too much power on the resurrectionist table, he rises, falls out the window, onto the pitchforks of the gathered peasants, on and on and on…
So nothing to worry about there. I’ll get round to it soon if I get a minute.
I must attend now to my commenters in the previous post, and have a quick scan round the blogs by way of relaxation. I will of course keep you posted. That’s what a blog’s for!
All my bosses have decanted to North America to buy a secret ray-gun factory or something. The other one is in the East Midlands.
I have driven 214 miles today. It’s always the same isn’t it? The NLP has prepared me for these setbacks. I laugh in their faces HAHAHAhahahaha. STOP. Enough laughing already. And rest.
The more astute among you (everyone) will have noted a few pitfalls in advance.
I list them here.
a) I can’t write.
b) Which books to deface with the highlighters?
c) I have no synopsis, title, sample chapter(s), or plot.
d) Where’s Gothic 12b even? I mean, a book? The man’s a fantasist!
That’s enough pitfalls for the present.
I will now debunk the pitfalls in turn.
Let’s take a)
For example, is it the other boss or the other secret ray-gun factory that’s in the East Midlands? I can’t remember.
When I shut my eyes, I see cat’s-eyes and road signs passing by. A full hour tonight to get over that fucking-ratfink-piece-of-shit Bridge. Not a good start at all at all.
“I don’t understand this new clause 24.”
“What’s not to understand?”
“Why not tell me what you’re aiming at and I’ll put it in for you?”
“Ok…SIMON, hmm let me see…….Look, I’ll get back to you.”
And why? Because even I don’t understand what I’ve just written.
However, It’s of no consequence. It will sort itself out as we go. We will not be writing prose. OR Contracts. Thank the Lord Harry.
b) The books to deconstruct. I thought I’d get them out the library and say they were like that when I took them home. Problem solved!
c) The synopsis is something to think about. I mean, should it be a bald plot outline giving the game away in one go? Remember, the literary agent wants one. Fussy fucking fussikins.
SYNOPSIS
Example;
Boy X meets Girl A in Baghdad field hospital. Girl B fancies Boy X so poisons Girl A (the crazy neurotic bitch) but Boy Z drinks it first, and dies!. Boy X is closet gay and fancied Boy Z rotten, (from afar) so goes on mad shooting spree, killing Tony Blair who is there on secret talks. Boy Z was husband of Girl B….
Or should the style be more….
Late1944...The Eastern Front…
His blood-spattered hands shaking uncontrollably, Dirk Diggler opened his secret orders from Berlin. How could he have known then, that in seven short days he would see his beautiful bride Nora die in his arms, and the world’s first atom bomb dropped on Stuttgart…..
OK, we’ll just have to jump off that bridge nearer the time..
d) Gothic! Nothing at all to worry about there. It’s got tons and tons of scope. Cast of hundreds, three genres, (Stick it up your ass El B.) lots of jokes lying around just waiting to be picked up.
12B first, then I’ve got the multiple death of EL Barbudo, you know, accidental stake through the heart, battleaxe falls from suit of armour, slices his head off, they give him too much power on the resurrectionist table, he rises, falls out the window, onto the pitchforks of the gathered peasants, on and on and on…
So nothing to worry about there. I’ll get round to it soon if I get a minute.
I must attend now to my commenters in the previous post, and have a quick scan round the blogs by way of relaxation. I will of course keep you posted. That’s what a blog’s for!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
How to sell books and open the door to fabulous wealth.
Here is my theory.
Total book sales in the UK have grown on average at 4.5% annually for the last 30 years. It’s 6.5% for the last 10. A phenomenal compound growth when you think about it. The market’s mental!
Check all the top selling stuff. What have they got in common? I’ll tell you. A formula.
That bloke Bernard Cornwell who writes all the Sharpe stuff, was on the radio the other week, and he said that he gathered all the books that he liked and went through them with a highlighter, marking out all the exciting bits that he liked, all the necessary bits, and all the slow bits that irritated him. Then he wrote his story with more good bits. It’s all lowest common denominator stuff but it works. It works because we expect a formula whether consciously or not. He said he was amazed no one had thought of it before.
There are I believe, only five stories. Everything is a variation on those. Is this right or total bollocks? I heard it somewhere.
It’s actually better if you’re not well read. Then you don’t compare yourself with the impossibly high standards of the classics. You’d never live it down. How can Dan Brown sleep at night, and him an English teacher? I’ll tell you. He stuffs his mattress with crisp tenners. That’s how.
Where was I? Oh yes, all the top sellers couldn’t hardly string an sentence right. Did it stop them? Did it buggery.
So that’s my theory. Analyse a couple of formulaic bestsellers a la Cornwell, and set to work changing the story to suit. After a while your own stuff will take over.
Then rewrite the whole thing.
Stephen King, (worth a bob or two) in his book ‘On Writing‘, reckons you should trim it down by 10% every pass. Also the rewrites flag up the clumsy bits you didn’t do right. Or the bits where the same word or phrase keeps cropping up. (amateurish).
That is my theory. I shall now test it to destruction.
According to FMC and I believe her, I should concentrate on the manuscript (great word that). This is good news, it frees up time for me to find a literary agent. I will make use of the publisher’s editor, they can smarten it up.
You all think I’m taking the piss don’t you?
Here is my theory.
Total book sales in the UK have grown on average at 4.5% annually for the last 30 years. It’s 6.5% for the last 10. A phenomenal compound growth when you think about it. The market’s mental!
Check all the top selling stuff. What have they got in common? I’ll tell you. A formula.
That bloke Bernard Cornwell who writes all the Sharpe stuff, was on the radio the other week, and he said that he gathered all the books that he liked and went through them with a highlighter, marking out all the exciting bits that he liked, all the necessary bits, and all the slow bits that irritated him. Then he wrote his story with more good bits. It’s all lowest common denominator stuff but it works. It works because we expect a formula whether consciously or not. He said he was amazed no one had thought of it before.
There are I believe, only five stories. Everything is a variation on those. Is this right or total bollocks? I heard it somewhere.
It’s actually better if you’re not well read. Then you don’t compare yourself with the impossibly high standards of the classics. You’d never live it down. How can Dan Brown sleep at night, and him an English teacher? I’ll tell you. He stuffs his mattress with crisp tenners. That’s how.
Where was I? Oh yes, all the top sellers couldn’t hardly string an sentence right. Did it stop them? Did it buggery.
So that’s my theory. Analyse a couple of formulaic bestsellers a la Cornwell, and set to work changing the story to suit. After a while your own stuff will take over.
Then rewrite the whole thing.
Stephen King, (worth a bob or two) in his book ‘On Writing‘, reckons you should trim it down by 10% every pass. Also the rewrites flag up the clumsy bits you didn’t do right. Or the bits where the same word or phrase keeps cropping up. (amateurish).
That is my theory. I shall now test it to destruction.
According to FMC and I believe her, I should concentrate on the manuscript (great word that). This is good news, it frees up time for me to find a literary agent. I will make use of the publisher’s editor, they can smarten it up.
You all think I’m taking the piss don’t you?
100 UP!
For my 100th posting I had wanted the finale of Gothic. Best laid plans and all that. The anti-barney has provoked this instead.
Ever done an NLP analysis, then followed the 21 day course? They do work.
Years ago, hundreds of new mothers were asked what they hoped for their children. The overwhelming answer was “to be successful.”
The exercise was repeated not 10 years ago, and the answer was now “to be happy.”
Most philosophers will point out that happiness requires a level of disengagement from the real world, and is therefore not a virtue, not an absolute. How right they are.
Back to the NLP.
To begin, one has to write down one’s aims, then analyse the reasons for them, and follow the three week course to reinforce them. Put a bit of focus into it. You do not get what you want after the three weeks, what you get is the personal confirmation that you’ve started on the road to what you want.
It’s very effective and gets most people what they want. That is, what they decide they want. It’s efficacy leads to pleasant feelings of accomplishment and contentment. At the very least, it always dispels some of the fantasy shite that we fill our heads with, and points a way.
Starts us off.
You also realise that some of the ‘fantasy shite’ isn’t fantasy shite at all, and that if you want to, what’s stopping you?
“O.K. So what?” You say.
“He’s acting odd.” “Yeah, like a bloody Amway salesman.”
“Does he want money?”
“Where’s all this going?”
Well I’ll just fucking tell you, if you give me a minute.
I like it here, I have taken refuge, I have no complaints whatsoever. More than content, I am, it has to be said, happy here.
However, outside in the real world, I am a grumpy bastard. I like to shout from the sidelines, usually something like;
“That’s garbage! I could do better than that! Stop treating us with utter contempt.” (I mean things which occur in the real world. Out there...)
Well no longer! I am jumping in with both feet and giving it a go!
You will notice no outward change.
Cape to Rio will continue as the foremost blog in the firmament.
I may give myself another award if I see fit.
My decision is final!
But below the surface, just like the beautiful swan (sorry FMC) my project will be going like the fucking clappers!
As was often said at school, AD MAJORA NATUS SUM.
Thank you for listening.
For my 100th posting I had wanted the finale of Gothic. Best laid plans and all that. The anti-barney has provoked this instead.
Ever done an NLP analysis, then followed the 21 day course? They do work.
Years ago, hundreds of new mothers were asked what they hoped for their children. The overwhelming answer was “to be successful.”
The exercise was repeated not 10 years ago, and the answer was now “to be happy.”
Most philosophers will point out that happiness requires a level of disengagement from the real world, and is therefore not a virtue, not an absolute. How right they are.
Back to the NLP.
To begin, one has to write down one’s aims, then analyse the reasons for them, and follow the three week course to reinforce them. Put a bit of focus into it. You do not get what you want after the three weeks, what you get is the personal confirmation that you’ve started on the road to what you want.
It’s very effective and gets most people what they want. That is, what they decide they want. It’s efficacy leads to pleasant feelings of accomplishment and contentment. At the very least, it always dispels some of the fantasy shite that we fill our heads with, and points a way.
Starts us off.
You also realise that some of the ‘fantasy shite’ isn’t fantasy shite at all, and that if you want to, what’s stopping you?
“O.K. So what?” You say.
“He’s acting odd.” “Yeah, like a bloody Amway salesman.”
“Does he want money?”
“Where’s all this going?”
Well I’ll just fucking tell you, if you give me a minute.
I like it here, I have taken refuge, I have no complaints whatsoever. More than content, I am, it has to be said, happy here.
However, outside in the real world, I am a grumpy bastard. I like to shout from the sidelines, usually something like;
“That’s garbage! I could do better than that! Stop treating us with utter contempt.” (I mean things which occur in the real world. Out there...)
Well no longer! I am jumping in with both feet and giving it a go!
You will notice no outward change.
Cape to Rio will continue as the foremost blog in the firmament.
I may give myself another award if I see fit.
My decision is final!
But below the surface, just like the beautiful swan (sorry FMC) my project will be going like the fucking clappers!
As was often said at school, AD MAJORA NATUS SUM.
Thank you for listening.
Friday, March 17, 2006
…Cue the music…(Yehudi Menuhin)…
…Hand of God passes imbuing spark to Adam…
Music fades…
Melvin Bragg (for it is he) :
Tonight’s South Bank Show celebrates the life and work of one of Britain’s most prolific artists.
He has been known variously as ‘The Scourge of Pomposity’, ‘the new Liechtenstein’, the ‘Hogarth of the Blogosphere’.
He has courted controversy, as evidenced by the recent fatwa and his third excommunication.
His books sell out.
His retrospective at the Barbican closed to great acclaim and last year he was voted Best Beard, by Asian Babes readers’ wives.
He is of course El Barbudo.
Bragg: El Beardy, welcome. It’s quite a list of achievements.
Barbudo: Thanks Melvin. Yeah I’ve come a long way.
Bragg: And yet in March 2006, you came close to “ending it all”. tell us a bit about that.
Barbudo: Yeah. Well, I’d hit a wall.
Bragg: A creative blockage!
Barbudo: No a wall. I was on a bike at the time. Right fucking mess.
Bragg: At anyrate you surmounted your tribulations and reaped the plaudits of your peers.
Barbudo: Yeah?
Bragg: Early on, you won a Maroon didn‘t you? How did that affect the way you viewed your work?
Barbudo: Oh Yeah. Best use of the C-Word.
Bragg: The C-word?
Barbudo: 'Contrapuntal.' You see Melvin, we were a loose grouping of likeminded souls seeing how far the envelope could be pushed. A sort of Bloomsbury Group in the rough. We welcomed all comers. It was self regulating. We could spout anything really. No one gave a toss.
Bragg: You believed in ars gratia artis?
Barbudo: No, I just told you, no one gave a toss.
Bragg: And yet, it was around then that you produced a definitive, for many, a seminal work; “God Is A Stupid Cunt”.
Barbudo: Well he is isn’t he? Look Melv : You’ve got all these dirt poor Pakistanis up in the mountains struggling to make ends meet. India on the one side ready to nuke them, the Afghanis on the other, running wild, hiding from American helicopters and British Special Forces who, as it happens, are shooting anything that fucking moves. Then you’ve got your Taliban remnants who’ve totally lost the fucking plot, beheading all and sundry and what does God do? Gives them a fucking EARTHQUAKE!. Sends forth ruin upon their fucking heads, that’s what. I mean come on! I mean Christ! You don’t have to be Brain of Britain to work that one out.
Bragg: But some would argue the notion of free will…
Barbudo: Would they? They must be cunts. Where’s the free will in that?
Bragg: Moving on if I may, you famously tried to have sex over the internet with a girl in Iceland.
Barbudo: The Elfshagger! That’s right!
Bragg: How did that come about?
Barbudo: Well I figured if she shagged elves, I was in there, know what I mean? Also, coming from Iceland, the chances were she was pretty fit and probably had a runny nose. Now that combination always gives me wood…
Bragg: That’s all we have time for. Next week, the secretive, reclusive writer and philosopher, K. Ayres joins us to discuss…
Barbudo: Hey! How’s your brother Billy doing?
“I WAS A MINER, I WAS A DOCKER, I WAS A RAILWAYMAN, BETWEEN THE WARS.” Great stuff. You don’t hear from him now….
Cue the music, end credits.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The Bearded One.
A Retrospective.
From September,
Arse Fucker
So there I was, fucking the Virgin Mary in the arse - hey, she was quite particular about keeping her hymen in check - while she was sucking off Jesus (it doesn't count as sexual relations does it Bill?).
I leaned forward to adjust Christ's nipple clamps when......
Hey- are you reading this stuff?
Fuck off you cunt - this is my own private fantasy world, not yours
Who can forget;
Who's a clever bastard?
So you think you're something special just because you figured out how to read this text by highlighting it?Brainy cunt.
And what about…
Pretentious fuckers
Jesus Fucking Christ and a whole host of Angel's Arseholes, there are some pretentious fuckers out there.
"Oh look at me, I'm doing an open university course in classic history and the linguistics of the 17th century royal court. I can use words like 'contrapuntal' and 'dichotomy'. I'm so superior to you plebs."
Every hair on their balls should be pulled out one by one with a pair of fucking tweezers before a hedgehog is rammed up their fucking arse backwards.
Pretentious cunts.
While also…
Santa’s a cunt!
He doesn’t give a fuck about poor people. Rich kids leave a better quality of whisky when he visits, and are more likely to provide organic, free range carrots for his reindeer. Poor people can keep their good will and it’s the thought that counts, and stuff it up their arses.
So fuck him.
Remember this nugget?..
AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH
FUCK!
And this?
Buns of Steel and Pubes of Wire Wool
Fatmammycat, you're magnetic.
Yeah, not sure about that one actually, but then there was this….
Endorsement from Harry Hutton?
Harry writes:(http://www.haloscan.com/comments/hhutton/)
“I’ll be away for a couple of days. I don't have time for this frickin' nonsense. But why not visit this filthy animal?”
Have I been frickin’ complimented or fucking insulted?
And then there was his tugged beard award, and his maroon, and the one about his brother, and the ‘god is a stupid cunt’ one, and all the others, what about...
Fuck Off!
Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! you off! Fuck off! Fuck off! alter off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck the Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! color off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck and ! Fuck off! so on off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!
I don’t know. Truly I don’t.
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