A CALL TO REASON

These a dire times. Unemployment rising, markets crashing and countries on the brink of collapse. Dire times indeed. But no one stands to gain from pinning the blame on the downtrodden, the defenceless and the disenfranchised. I am, of course, referring to the needless and inhumane scapegoating of badgers that has been rampant in the press lately. A few headlines from the last few months:

"Badger implicated in Missouri vote fixing scandal."

"HM Revenue and Customs point to artificially low fixed exchange rate and badgers as leading causes of capital flight."

"Metropolitan police raid sett in attempt to break up illegal rambling and child substitution ring in Stepney."

"Higher tolerance of badgers and badger-like behaviour among youth linked to increase in street robberies, fancy dress parties and type II diabetes."

"Human Rights Watch: Up to 13% of legal immigrants within the EU believed to be badgers, unclear by whom."

"'Badgers bigger threat to institution of marriage than gay people' according to Hockey Moms for Jesus, Flat Tax and Electrocuting Mexicans."

"Nazis, Jews and Catholic Church in secret talks on 'final solution of the badger question'"

"Parliament set to vote on No Badgers in Public Office Act next Tuesday."

It is at our darkest hour that we must most fervently hold on to our highest principles, lest we lose our humanity. We must unite against the dangerous populist demands to restrict the rights of badgers and turn them into second class citizens! We can not let these vicious lies stand!
In the famous words of Benjamin Disraeli "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and badgers. Or rather, two kinds of lies, plus badgers. As it were."

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO COME BY

Here's my spittoon, where's your festoon?
It's over there behind the shed.
Excellent. So, listen… do we really have to invite the guy with the harpoon this time? I mean isn't he… you know… a bit of a cunt?
Yeah, the last time was actually quite horrendous. But who do we ask then?
Didn't you say you saw a guy with a lagoon the other day?
Yeah, well… I saw a guy by a lagoon. I'm not sure it was his.
Oh, I see. Right, so we definitely don't want to invite the guy with the baboon again, and the guy with the bassoon is out of town, isn't he?
Yes, he had some business to attend to. How about the guy with the platoon then?
He's a bit uptight, but worst case we could ask him I suppose.
It's such a shame we can't convince the guy with the buffoon to come. He'd be perfect.
Tell you what, let's ask him again, and if he isn't interested we'll simply get the guy with the cocoon. He's always up for it.
Brilliant. Hey, I hope we can make it happen this time, mate. I have a good feeling. I really think we can do it. I really think so.

I really do.


I really do…

JEWISH HOLIDAY

'What's that Jewish holiday when you dress up in red costumes and fake beards, exchange presents and then die in huge numbers?'
'Jewish holiday? Hm… no, doesn't ring a bell.'
'Oh, now I remember. I'm thinking about the Santaclaust.'
'Santaclaust? Really?'
'Yeah, it used to be huge like 70 years ago'
'Come on, there's no such holiday, surely!'
'No, no, I'm absolutely positive that's what its called. The Santaclaust.'
'Seriously, I can't believe there is a holiday like that. Santaclaust… No way.'
'Oh, I see. You're one of those Santaclaust deniers. That's not cool mate. Really not cool.'

TRADE

I traded my face for a bag of crisps. Not the brightest idea ever. Ah well, win some lose some I suppose.

RANKING OF IDIOMS FOR 'EASY' BY ORDER OF DIFFICULTY

A hot knife through butter
One, two, three
Falling off a log
Stealing acorns from a blind pig
A, B, C
Stealing candy from a baby
A piece of cake
Pie
Taking a shit in a tuba
Shooting a fish in a barrel
Fending off a ferret with a fork
Living off sunlight
Solving the Israel-Palestine conflict
Finding God in Kalamazoo

GAY CAKE

Even the most staunch evangelical must admit that some things in life simply need to be gay. Like cake. A straight cake would be something like one of those government issued birthday cakes in the GDR – slices of crusty, dry bread held together by a plastery mix of condensed cream and artificial sweetener.

No, the only good cake is a gay cake.

SWEATSHOP, DAY 8

I'm beginning to nod off at my station. Within seconds, the Chinese foreman is there, slapping me awake with his bamboo stick. 'You work! You work, or Sting!', he says. Or Sting… I can't let that happen. Not again…

If you fail to meet your quota by the end of the day, they turn down the lights in the factory, hoist a giant backdrop with a mediæval, Dutch landscape painting, and start the smoke machine. As the last of your co-workers leave the building and the heavy machinery goes silent, he enters. The former Police frontman himself, dressed in a period costume, appears at the other end of the room. Accompanied by the foreman on a guqin built for the Yellow Emperor Huang Di, he recites 14th century Flemish love poetry for eight hours straight; his tantric visage less than an inch from your face as his breathy voice slowly grinds everything you know, everything you love and everything you believe to a pulp. Those who don't lose their minds tend to double their output over the next weeks, working feverishly into the night until they pass out over their equipment. And they never, ever miss their quota again.

'OK, OK. I will work harder! Please, not Sting! Anything but Sting!'

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TO BOLDLY GO

'We're going west', he said, 'to see what the sun is up to'.

CONVERSATION

– So, what do you do for a living?
– I'm a geneticist.
– Ah, like Barry White?
– Eh… no, no… you know, I work with genes. Genetic code.
– Yeeeah… soul man, hey?
– I think you've got it mixed up. I'm not a singer, I'm a scientist.
– Oh OK now I get you. You're in it for the women? Lathering them up with that bedside barytone of yours, hey?
– You don't seem to understand. I analyse genetic material, you know, the stuff that decides what species we turn into when we're born.
– Now I'm confused, are you saying you hate black people? Because that's not cool.
– What? No, no! That's not what I'm saying. I'm talking about genetics! You know, haplogroups, DNA, chromosomes… that sort of thing. Nothing to do with black people at all.
– But you are Barry White?
– Barry White? Do I look like Barry White?
– Yeah!
– But I'm a short, skinny white guy! I'm a scientist and my name's Steve, I told you. OK?
– Now, that's exactly the kind of thing Barry White would say!
– What's wrong with you? Why the hell do you think I'm Barry White?
– Look, I know Barry White when I see him. Just admit it.
– For fucks sake… OK, you got me. What gave me away?
– The voice and the body, obviously. And the print on your coveralls that says 'Even if I insist I'm a geneticist called Steve, I'm really Barry White. If I deny it, just keep pushing it until I confess.'

SINGALONG

When the Boer hits your eye, and you do not know why, that's apartheid!

GOD

God lost his job as a janitor. God came to work drunk. God is unemployable. God can't create anything anymore. God is too old. God cries alone in his flat. God drinks alone at night. God falls asleep in his own piss. God can't afford the gas bill. God is not needed. God remembers his youth. God can't remember his youth. God makes too much noise late at night. God gets into fights with his neighbours. God leaves the rubbish in the hallway. God blames the Jews for killing his son. God is afraid of black people. God has joined the BNP. God writes steaming letters to the editor. God thinks he's being watched. God can't stand the smell of curry. God browses for barely legals online. God cries when he comes. God browses for male minors in makeup. God can't come. God drinks to forget. God forgets to drink. God lost his job as a janitor.

AARDVARK

A small, hairless animal with a proud, lean snout protruding from its fore is rummaging around in the undergrowth somewhere in the grasslands of Africa, going about its business as on any other day. Suddenly, someone calls out from behind an acacia tree:

'Hey, aardvark!'
'What was that?'
'You, aardvark!'
'What did you call me?'
'Aardvark. That's what you are, isn't it?'
'What? Fuck no, my name is Richard.'
'No, no I'm quite sure you are an aardvark.'
'Hey, seriously, I'm Richard. Rick is fine, but whatever is was you called me – not OK. Not OK at all.'
'But you actually are an aardvark. I didn't come up with it.'
'Look mate, if you want to be an aardvark that's fine, but I just won't have it. You're the aardvark!'
'Actually I'm an antelope.'
'Yeah, you would be, wouldn't you? "Look at me, I'm an antelope, I'm so cool with my cool antlers and my cool name!" Fuck you, you're an aardvark! You're an aardvark!'

A small hairless animal, crying itself to sleep in the burrow as the sun sets over the Serengeti. From now on nothing will ever be the same.

GAME

Shall we play ignore, ignore? I'll ignore you, and then you'll ignore me and then we'll see who's more ignored. After that we can ignore the result of the contest, and see who does that better. Then, of course, we'll completely ignore whatever outcome that comparison yields. And whoever best ignores that will be the winner. The winner then can go on to graciously ignore the other until the game is over, unless the loser ignores the game all together, in which case we'll have to start over again, provided none of us ignore the fact that the other completely ignores the game. After all, it takes two to ignore the tango.

SQUARE ONE

Now, exactly where I was before

and still

I miss

that thing I never had

DOGS

When dogs get tired,
they rest on furry paws,
on balconies and railroad tracks,
on lawns and shoes and shores,
on slippers and shoes,
on pillows and laps,
on mats and rugs and carpets,
on cushions,

on blankets,

on Tuesdays,


on couches,



on clothes,




and on other dogs.

PERSONAL ADS

"Angry man with acute sense of smell. Large cock and a goatee."

"Friendly non-smoker who enjoys taking long walks in the forest. Hates animals and Belgium."

"Avid sailor with bad table manners and questionable political views looking for animals that can fit into his pocket. And women who like animals that can fit into his pocket."

"Thin, relaxed and afraid of herrings. Likes fencing, Chinese whispers and smack. Looking for a woman who looks exactly like John Goodman."

WHISKERS

No man has longer whiskers than I.

And I have none.

It is a sad, sad world.

FLABBERGASTED

I can't get it into my head that people still believe in the phonebook. In 2010. Unbelievable…

A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME

Before the concept of time, events unfolded haphazardly, sometimes congesting as they slammed into the bottlenecks of reality. Fortunately, the industrious Greek laid down a plan to schedule the temporal aspect of the cosmos so that things would happen one after another, in a strictly implemented serial progression – thereby inventing causality. Due to the limitations of the original design, only one event could take place at any given time. This effectively froze development in many parts of the world (the classic example being the Bactrian baker who had to wait for two and a half years before he could take his bread out of the oven).

At around the same time, in India, the first drafts of circular time were being conceptualised, but inadequate technology and an inferior model for product development made the project an impossible endeavour, and public interest waned as progress halted.

Time moved forward linearly, more or less along the lines of the original serial protocol, until the Renaissance, when an aspiring German scientist devised an algorithm for parallel temporal progression, which allowed for several events to take place simultaneously. This would later facilitate the European conquest of the world, since most cultures were forced to choose whether to shoot first and ask questions later (or the other way around), whereas the British marksmen could interrogate their enemies while firing round after round at them in rapid succession.

By the late 19th century, at the peak of European colonialism; in the wake of the rationalisations brought about by the industrial revolution, a proposal was put forth to the British Chamber of Commerce to merge time with money. The proponents of the scheme argued that the process of measuring labour in time, converting the time into money and then exchanging the money earned for commodities was inefficient and wasteful. Vast resources were spent on convincing the public of the merits of the idea – a nation wide information campaign christened "Time IS Money!" was launched, and over 2000 volunteers were sent out across the United Kingdom to sway the conservative minds of the rural population.

Slowly but surely public opinion began to melt to the idea, and a few years into the new century the final steps were taken to bring the plan into action. But just as the issue was about to be brought to vote, the British government learnt that a hostile takeover between Time and Space was well under way, masterminded by a patent office worker in Switzerland. The Germans were backing the merger, the Double Monarchy, Italy and France were all in favour, and the British had no choice but to come into the fold.

One hundred years later, any reform of the state of things is very unlikely, since all countries, international bodies and multinational corporations are so deeply enmeshed in the military-industrial space/time continuum that uprooting the current system would most probably result in huge financial loss and cause a complete meltdown of the structures that bind society together.

WHO'S THAT MAN?

Have you ever seen a man who drags his feet, works his fingers to the bone and puts his money where his mouth is? All at the same time? In front of a live audience?

Linus Gabrielsson is that man!

Linus Gabrielsson – don't beat him, don't join him, just watch him!


Watch this space for more dazzling tricks, exclusive offers, and the odd horse!

MIN FRU SKA HETA HALVMUSTASCH OCH HAN ÄLSKAR JESUS

Han står blodläppad hallåtanten på Stureplan ropar taxi kommer hem ska åka för inte trevlig kväll det har varit. Alla gånger bara prata men inte ska förstå för vill en annan sak komma med hem men den gången går inte gör huvudsmäll mitt på tantens mun som gör ont och har blod. Pengar alla fall i väska som tur inte gjort av så kan komma till sitt hem.

Nästa dag och dagen efter den ska inte vara glad till alla hej vad roligt träffa dig och så. Ganska sur och gnällig med fortfarande blodmun och sticker och drar i läpparna som trasiga. Varför det ska bli konstigt ofta när vill bara prata? Inte sant att han ska vara stolta tanten som jobbar TV4 berätta för alla tråkig attityd. För man bara säger jag tycker bra jobbar TV alla vet vem man är säger hej TV-tanten ska dricka som ska jag betala ta lite bild på foto och så. Alla kan prata om jobbar utan kommer tråkiga kille stoppar huvud fort på mun så kommer blod för inte vill ska följa efter till hemmet och ligga. Faktiskt mänskliga rättighet.

Vecka innan tanten sitta lunchätning med andra tanten och killen som också kollega knapra nyttig sallad och bulgur fastna mellan tänderna gapskrattar fast de andra inte tycker roligt. Livet ska inte vara lätt att leva den här veckorna för tant som inte bara vill vara till besvär och ha roligt.

BARGAIN

What if you could get all you ever wished for, all you ever wanted, all the things you ever desired – at the price of everything you ever had?

BIRD TIME

Watching an old bird do the old bird routine outside my window, I suddenly realise that all means of transportation take you to the future.

PICTURE

Will you take my picture, before someone else does, and put it in your pocket for safe keeping?

NOIR

This one was particularly vile, its frog has been sweltering in the bag for at least a dozen nautical miles. Further down the alleyway five short stops from the Avonsdale Gazzette ground the beans to a halt, wavering in their quest for business opportunities. People all around, dogs, car horns, radio dials gone haywire... This is no time for badgering, the marksmen have been and gone and the first to come won't be the first served.



Time to shift gears. This is it, the final call. Take it or grieve it.


I'm coming.

THE YEAR OF OUR RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR LORD 2010

New times again, new fingers in their wake, looking for hands to attach themselves to.
The feathers and the snakes putting a damper on transfer speeds, just as they always do. Grown men will weep, grown men will build things, grown men will hug and dance and steal and talk about other grown men who weep and steal and laugh and talk. Thus have the times become.

What will be the lesson learnt from the years gone by?


- If you dip your tail in the coffee your fur will get wet.

OH LIFE…

The Fermi paradox, if by whiskey, Bessel functions. And love. And frogs.

The only time for all of this is cookie time. So it is said. Is there more? What more can there be?

I will meet again, rest assured. I know where. I know when.


Pondering has had its day, time for sleep and sausage vomit…

PLANS AND THEIR GANGING

Yesterday I vowed to lay my plans better next time, lest they go agley. I felt very good about myself for making that decision. But then this morning I ran into one of the most respected plan layers in Europe. I was utterly shocked by what he told me:

He claims that even the best laid plans; the top percentile of all designs; the crème de la crème of schemes (in terms of laying), not just occasionally but often gang agley.

Often!

And ganging agley is obviously something that should be avoided at all costs. Especially when it comes to plan laying. It turns out agley ganging in plan laying accounts for almost 32% of reported domestic violence, 44% of all child abuse, and a stunning 87% of the rest of the problems in the world.

So, if improved laying will not prevent the plans from ganging agley, then what do we do?

I'm at a loss…

ISLAND

No man is an island.

Except for this guy: