In the gracious morning air so politely teasing your shiver
Bobby-Jo wakes up and tucks into liver.
As the Sun King radiates and warms with his love,
Into the Aga Bobby’s darling is shoved.
Now clouds gather for a refreshing spring dousing
And Bobby-Jo’s touring the council housing.
As welcome drops fall on the surface so dry,
Young Bobby-Jo gives the old folk the eye
As drops turn to drizzle, and drizzle to rain
Bobby-Jo’s tunic gets covered in brain.
Clouds draw apart: again Louis shines -
Bobby-Jo tires of the unemployeds’ minds.
The hunger not ended, with skies turning blue,
Bobby-Jo considers pastures anew.
Now Ra rises higher and hotter for all
And into the suburbs, the hungry one crawls.
And with blooming of flowers and frolicking wildlife
Bobby-Jo carefully carves up a housewife.
The mid-day heat turns to mirage and haze
And Jo with her gut full finally pays.
For in the great hurry to de-wife the house,
Bob had neglected the psychotic spouse.
So whip, chain, axe later, as breezes get up,
Our girl’s tainted blood is filling his cup.
So for all you man-eaters, a lesson to learn:
The middle-class couture can leave you with heartburn.

One of my colleagues constant whittering is making me want to cut my ears off.  It’s not just the frequency of the babbling, but, as is often the case with your common garden shit talker, it’s also the content. Eg, now she’s pretending to have a deep knowledge of hand writing analysis. Yesterday, she was talking expertly about her boyfriend’s army carreer (one year as a cheese eating surrender monkey – not really a career in my books). She went on to say this “But, you know, the French army’s the biggest in the world,
ay?” Totally serious. When someone said, “ok, what about China?” she held firm. I couldn’t resist poking my head around the corner at this point and saying “The Chinese army could potentially be bigger than the entire population of France – are you sure you’ve got your facts straight?”. She still wouldn’t admit any mistake, but went on about the fact that she used to work in a French military hospital, and heard this from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I asked her if it was a mental hospital, she admitted that yes it was, but my wide grin didn’t seem to invoke any kind of realisation…..I’m starting to think she’s a robot, planted her to test us. I expect her and a team of her ilk will soon be uniting, Power Ranger style, into a huge shit talking doll, trotting from town to town exploding heads with very loud, inaccurate sermons on the speed of light being attainable by
French GIs.

About to head off for a meeting with one of my clients to talk about some final changes to their website. Not too worried about that as the website looks super good and the changes should be ok. More worried about the fact that behind the scenes, my chief database man has gone totally AWOL, can’t track him down for love nor money. Am due to deliver the project in about one week and he’s disappeared off the face of this earth. Needless to say, I can’t finish the project without him and my stress levels are rising……So Rick (name changed for legal reasons), you animal. If you are out there give me a call.

On other matters, went to a gig last night where there were a number of up and coming bands. Some good tunes in there amidst the dross, posing and current obsession with suit wearing in your leisure time, and the chandelier clad venue added to the effect. So just wanted to put out a shout to the Veils and My Latest Novel, who both rocked in their respective way.

The clocks went back this weekend and as a result I feel fully justified in rocking up late to work today blaming trains and jet lag. The weekend spiralled off kaleidoscopically again and I was left searching for good websites, viewing satellite maps of mine and my mates’ houses and carrying out essential database maintenance. Nothing like a bit of late night tomfoolery to force you to sleep in late then get up on a retail frenzy. Quick, buy something for mothers day and wow, those trainers are nice. Look, they have interchangeable colours for the 3-stripe. Essential to buy them. A must have.

Meanwhile, I guess down the road, Kember, newly rescued by the SAS, was chilling back into his Pinner lifestyle. Putting on the god-robes and up early on a Sunday to church and then off to film Wogan. Open a few hospitals on the way home. Early morning press calls must beat piss baths and threats of beheading. Still, they don’t beat sleeping and that’s what I was doing.

#133 Do not mime the words to James Brown songs when listening to them through headphones, e.g. “Uh!…..Funky!….Yeah!…..I’m Super Baaaddd”

#97 Never believe your brain when it tells you your arse itches. This is an evolutionary practical joke which only humans fall victim to. Our ape ancestors could scratch at will but one suspects they knew that when we got civilised we couldn’t, and so would live in torture.

That corpulent, slobbering, perma-perspiring, imminently-dead-on-his-arse-from heart disease wreck of an MM02 fat cat and the new mega-money head of HM Revenue & Custard David ‘Reg’ Varney has in what appears to be a masterstroke of motivational therapy transformed the attitude of the entire working population of this country. If you didn’t know it already you are now ‘customers’ of the Revenue – implying of course that you are now willing participants in the trade between yourselves and us scumbags in bowler hats (you bring your custom in the form of a percentage of your hard-earned cash and in return we happily give you crap public services and botched trials of badly-made weapons in deserts). In your previous incarnation as ‘taxpayers’, apparently, all you did was pay tax. Expect all your lives to be that bit brighter, however, as one edict from the twenty-cake-a-day hole tells his employees (to be renamed meet-and-greet shop assistants) to aim to ‘delight the customer’. Hands up who is delighted to pay tax…….

Yes indeed and this time it’s on the way back from a day of harsh accusations mixed with light banter mixed with warm compliments over a table in yet another blue carpeted office. A strange mix of sensations, but not one that was unexpected given my client’s well known proclivity for schizophrenic reaction to minor issues and blase demeanour to the serious. Seems like this time we were mainly in the good books though.

Now just feeling knackered and contemplating the long journey home on the GNER super bullet train. Actually scratch that, lets call it a supper bullet train given that a dude with a chef’s hat just popped round and ran through the gourmet fish fare available from the restaurant car today. “and of course sir” he said, “people in first class are offered the first sitting to ensure that they get the freshest and most choice cuts”. First class travel again eh and the Groover feels like he is going up in the world. Delusions of grandeur, and maybe could get used to this. Even the dude clicking your ticket says thank you sir and wishes you a good trip. On the way up here the train had to stop for a bit to correct a minor fault. When we asked the guard what time the train would now be getting in as we had a connecting train at Newcastle he phoned ahead and got them to delay that train by a couple of minutes and went off to tell the driver to go a bit faster. Something tells me this wouldn’t happen to the plebeians. Ah well fuck the polo shirted pricks sitting around me. I had to get up at half five in the morning and surely that deserves a chance to see how the other half lives?

I note with sadness that my cousin Corey has been hurt in connection with the Clemson chapter of Bolo. Ah well, such is life.

On other matters fellow boloists, for ease of use I have put a little button in at the foot of this page that takes you directly to the posting sections. No more need to remember those pesky words. Bolosoft click and type….

You know – the kind that allow miniature rude boys to play the latest offering of one of a million possible talentless granny-touchers to everyone on the bus. Who invented them? The cunts who came up with this concept obviously don’t take public transport.

Even good tunes sound awful when piped through those little half watt speakers. And why the hell do the phone toters assume that everyone within a 10m radius wants to hear the latest MC Utah Plumbait track?

I reckon they just might drain the insular out of some commuter geezers. SMASH. STOMP. HA HA!

This is the sort of email an extemely bored mind produces, and I thought I’d throw it on the table for general inspection….names may have been changed for privacy or (Greek) comedy reasons.

Yes yes people !

Midweek uptown and we’re all screwed to our desks like so many pieces of
immovable McDonald’s furniture. Damn those Indians and their freakish
smoke signals, mine’s a Chicken Bhuna and a tin of elephant nad chutney
please govenor. Oh, and yes I want another pint every ten minutes and extra
rice to boot, even when I obviously still have plenty of both. We are good
lads mate.

I hate to harp on with an old tune, but I am, I’m afraid to say, bored out
of my increasingly mediocre tin pot of a mind. Still, comedy relief, in the
form of a certain Boy Mogley is arriving shortly, and we can both look
forward to a weekend of hard labour as, unbeknownst to him, we’re going to
be doing DIY 24/7. I’ve bought some cheap tools, a floodlight and enough
cheap whizz to animate a full home of geriatrics. It’s my plan to turn the Moguester
into a DIY crazed garage MC by next tuesday. Slice Busy and Blight, that’s
the sound of the Mogue on the mic, Hype!

Oh yes, shadow boxing with my own chod. Big up all the clagons in the house
! Shout outs going to the brown trout massive !

By the way Mogue, we have an unexpected +1 for Friday night. Pippa intended
to call a senior colleague by the name of Mike, but instead called a much
younger ex-colleague named Mike. She didn’t know what to say to him, so she
ended up inviting him round for beers on Friday, along with two other people
who I’d actually invited. Why run your own life when you can let your wife
do it for you ? Because then you’d choose what the feck happens, I suppose.
Stevo – it’s a special occasion, so if you could Fedex over a few of those
swan napkins you’re so fond of that would be appreciated.

From the dolldrums of a mind left fallow.

(I can only rhyme the next line with checklist)
Begin with butter on toast for my breakfast
On top of the butter, I thickly spread Marmite
And elevate toast slice up mouthwards to bite.
Then some minutes later I run for a bus
I miss it by seconds and begin to cuss
I walk thus/ergo to the station quite quickly
But something intestinal makes me feel sickly.
So some moments later I seek out a toilet,
The toast seeks to commence my day and then spoil it
Alas! Fuck-Cazart! Cunt-Yegads! Train is leaving!
I take leave of basin with contents still steaming.
Now running of sorts for the third time already
Trousers round ankles make my progress unsteady.
I leap for the train as the doors they are shutting
I slam into closed doors while window head-butting
Through concussive haze I notice the train move
And as if the thirteenth had its manhood to prove
I find myself moving along with said train
And notice an unbelievable pain!
A look to the south would confirm the cause
A limb, not my leg, is trapped in the doors.
I plead with the standees – please release me at once!
But they all stare ahead, the blind insular cunts.
So it went then, my day, oh that fateful last train ride
When sod’s law and Transport for London did collide.
I think it was Finchley when consciousness left me
Then Death’s blunt-edged scythe was applied oh-so deftly.
Forgive me, dear reader, if you are quite app-alled
By my story ’bout how from life’s lodge I was blackballed.
My lesson is simple: eat hearty, enjoy life
Just remember, for Pete’s sake your small, sharpened steak knife.

#36 Always wash your hands after using another man’s mouse.

Now, I’m not into internet snooping or checking out where people have been on the web, perhaps because I’m afraid of finding something particularly repugnant. Fortunately though, an ex-colleague of mine does not share the same scruples. Whilst using another colleague’s pc, a brief click of the ‘historique’ icon revealed a hudred weight of smut (nieve pc-wise). Nothing sinister, quite innocent searches really “sex”, “girls”, “hot-plating skeets” etc. As this guy is very much an upstanding gent, and quite high up, we did find it funny. Handshakes also became an issue.

Anyway, I was using said PC today and had a problem with the mouse. When I lifted it up to see what was wrong, I noticed the brand of the mouse – it’s a Disney “THRASHER” ! Could it have taken control of him, forced him into his thrashtastic ways? Like a Herbie for wankers ?

I was looking around the tube today, uncharacteristically awake after having to get up early to show the roofer the leak in my room and then figuring on staying awake to try to shake off the last dregs of the night before. Seemed to me that there was the potential that the people in front of me were a) very dull, beaten down by years of cancelled trains, stalled promotions and failed relationships, or that b) they were fiends, living for the chance to act inappropriately, existing to put a spanner in the works.

Option b) appealed to me. Was the man opposite flicking through tunes on his ipod actually flicking through nudie pics? Was the lady with the ham sandwich and the light reek of kerosene planning her next arson attack. Was the old lady to my right planning to chain herself to Alan Sugar while screaming “you’re hired, you’re hired, you’re hired”? And what of me? was I just going in to work, to type a thousand words about community safety or was I secretly planning to spend the day with one eye on bolo and one hand idly sketching a picture of the man I wanted to be? I was not sure, but I was hoping for the latter.

The news may have just about filtered into the uk by now, although I’m not sure. The British associate the French with striking in the same way they assocoate us with bad food and glassings. You don’t need to report on national character traits…

Apparently, students used to be able to have a 10 minute break to eat cheese and moan for every hour of teaching. Plans to cut this essential break to 5 minutes have met with staunch resistance. 1.5 million French took to the streets on Saturday, with nearly 200 arrests and cheese sauce sprayed on the streets and the hoods of Renault Clios throughout the country. Sunday was a day to take stock, to mourn the loss of cheese past.

Actually, they are protesting against a new employment contract for the under 26s, which lacks the “job for life, can’t be sacked even if caught cracking one off under the desk” security of the current contracts. They do have a point, in so far as the French are massively conservative and cautious in virtually every aspect of life, but I can’t help but feel embarassed when I see the “manifestations”. All the shouting and stopming and singing and self-congratulatory noise making and cheese eating bravado makes my skin crawl. Part of the English condition I suppose. Power to the people? “I’m too embarassed mate, let’s just go and have a cup of tea” (or 10 pints and a messy kebab house mauling?). Contradictory as a whole ? Perhaps.

Remember sound of breaking and screeching voices downstairs as the boloists climb the walls to late night tunes and maroots. Upstairs, busy causing trouble of my own, raised voices and recriminations and this morning, feel pretty shameful and the need to say sorry to someone special… ouch. Happy birthday Lurcho….. and big up for getting searched by the police on the way home. Don’t let the weasels grind you down. Crimp hope your head’s not too sore for Chicago middle class musical action this evening. Paps, wrap another maroot… throw some prawns on the barbie!

Thoughts were running through my mind for a moment there and I suddenly thought: “anyone else remember Duck-Face?”

#33 Never, NEVER eat Krispy Kreme (r) doughnuts. Each one must take an hour off your life and that’s too much.

The question what is God’s finest work is usually thought to be unanswerable: The Earth? The Universe? Man? Woman? Obviously without being Him we cannot know (and no, Dubya, they told you wrong), but I have a strong suspicion that what He is most satisfied with is getting that impressionable berk to put the line “God moves in mysterious ways” into the Bible. Cue licence to behave as erratically as you like (or more likely not to do anything at all) and have an instant answer to all questions engendered thereof. And the warm glow that comes from giving solace to every glazed-eyed born-again who has just seen their beloved mother brutally hacked to death with a sharpened chair leg, thus transferring the burden of thinking about such trauma and evil onto them scummy atheists and Non-Americans. Selah.

#1. Never have faith that ‘nobody could be stupid enough to do that‘

#2. Never, NEVER eat Krispy Kreme (r) doughnuts. I have sunk oceans-worth of alcoholic beverages in my time, and eaten more abbatoirs’ worth of questionable animal-derived by-products than days I have lived, but I have never felt my liver fur up, my teeth scream and my bowels lurch and writhe quite like when I first sampled their morbid sweetness. Each one must take half an hour off of your life. That’s like, two pints. And that’s too much.

Yes, as the title indicates I have nothing to say today. Nothing that is except that I need to draw a line in the sand, retreat from it or perhaps run screaming from the beach spilling children into self-dug pits and adults into their picnic  hampers, people shaking their fists after me.

Just rambling as you can see, but what I’m talking about is sleep. Something I’ve mentioned before on this site, but it really is hitting crisis point. I must sleep. I crave sleep – my eyelids beg to fall and hypothetical dribble lies ready to collect in the spaces on my. keyboard. What is the reason for this predicament? Insomnia? Deadlines? Incessant use of caffeine based stimulants. Nope – I’m afraid the reason is me…..

You see, ever since I started on this web/design quest about a year ago it has been all I have wanted to do. I love it and when I’m doing it I feel better. I feel like I’m getting somewhere… As a result, I am in danger of breaking the weakened connections in my mind because I seem to figure that sitting up, looking for obscure resources, planning for the future and coding stuff is the route to salvation. It’s not, but at three in the morning it certainly seems more attractive and fun than getting up for a day in the office.

Ultimately, the good work must continue – that part is certain, but for it to continue the lesson must be learned that this cannot continue without death and insanity. My firiends then are hereby entitled to comment upon my progress in this matter, particularly if they receive an email from me at any point after half one (which is surely a sensible compromise).

Why do I not get my hair cut? It is a question often asked of myself, by myself and others, and as it is an issue whose already-limited thinking time allocation is constantly interrupted by matters of love, life, death and Manchester United, it surely must be put into 12pt Arial (or the present font, whatever that is) to be even touched upon. Is it a statement? Could it be apathy turned opportunistically into a statement on the homogenisation of society, or, subconsciously, apathy acting as a protest in itself: against the instigation (by Government or otherwise) of a culture that encourages the vastly disproportionate efforts and expenditure lavished by ordinary folk on creation of a ‘hairstyle’, undoubtedly to divert attention from all manner of corruption and inequality that we should be worrying about. Is it me trying to show a dismissive and shallow world that I have hidden depths by rejecting follicular ostentation, and if so am I missing the point because the people I am aiming to impress this upon have turned into vain, insular dolts by virtue of their high-maintenance hairdo? Or am I simply trying to provide shelter for the fast-declining House Sparrow? I often joke that I “should make the best of it while it’s still there”, a reference in part to a double crown which has made me look balding since infant times, but what if my reluctance to part with my parting is aprt of a deeper-seated fear of ageing, possibly linked to moments when I find myself at Twenty-Six in a dead-end school-leaver’s job job writing verbose prose about inane shit when I should be photocopying…..

There is an interesting (no really) phenomenon with public sector budgets whereby if you are a department or organisation that works hard all year, provides a good service and manages due to efficiency to finish the year under your budget, you are penalised. The excess is likely to be reclaimed to pay for another department/organisation’s inefficiencies and you are likely to meet the new financial year with a reduced budget – after all, if you can do it one year, surely you can save even more the next.

Somewhere along the line you can see the logic in the above. You can see the young scamp that had the idea and you can imagine the backpatting around the office. “Brilliant James, that’ll give us the chance to pay off our deficit”.

Unfortunately, it’s not actually a good idea: the result is that budget managers do not attempt to save money through efficiency to come in under their budget (efficiency savings are only made in the event of crippling cuts), this will just make their lives harder. Instead, they will ensure that in the final months of the financial year, they spend every penny – if need be, on pure rubbish. This is why you may see at the moment the end of your ‘perfectly good condition’ road getting dug up, or a sudden burst of speed humps appearing. You may witness the parks full of yellow jacketed malcontents digging holes and putting in fragile trees that are smashed down by the kids next month.

And obviously if you are a contractor for the public-sector, this time of year feels like the gravy train has come home.

A waste of time – this Valentines!
A mess of pink-faced corporate swine
Arise from silent post-Yule wallow
And force the populace to swallow
A date plucked from an obscure myth
A Saint, we’re told with solemn breath.
This myth then linked to love and lust -
Ergo, you miss: your love life’s bust.
So at yet another time of year
The wallet must ‘religion’ fear:
A woman’s brain of reason sound
Becomes a fertile planting ground
For seed of gift-box expectation;
And woe betide her indignation
If for some reason you select
To abstain, question or object.
Thus runs smooth the corporate plan
To exploit and browbeat modern man.
I could go on, but something nags:
Despite my ire at corporate slags
I know that all I have I’d drop
For cause to be mugged at the florist’s shop.