Monthly Archives: August 2007

Consistently Failing to Di

Hello one and all, and may I say how nice to welcome back some much-missed fellow bolonauts. Having seen the sterling efforts of the bolotariat (tenuous…) I started to feel a little guilty about my lack of post-age recently, so despite the real risk of contaminating a page of some pretty epic posts with mindless dross I thought I ‘d better get something up there, whatever the quality.

Given the date, and its accompanying puce-faced spitting fits from my friends the tabloids, I was going to spray bile about the reeking liquid bullshit that wells up from somewhere under Harlow every time the anniversary passes of some silly doe-eyed toff who married another toff that she knew full well preferred shagging horses getting into a car with a drunken Frenchman and the spoilt son of a glorified minimart owner with a craving for passports and ending up with her brains doing a Jackson Pollock on the windscreen. And then I thought, that’s old hat old boy – save your bile for digesting last night’s Aloo Gobi – it would only have been done proper justice at the time, when nothing would have cut through Blair’s triumphal grave-stamping than a savage indictment of the collective flower-throwing lunacy of a formerly dignified people whose lives somehow allowed enough time to ignore real tragedy and hardship and ‘grieve’ over what they failed to spot was nothing more than the sparkly caricature that the world’s press and her PR monkeys began crafting as soon as Charlie bit her while dancing in America.

That missed opportunity still rankles in quieter moments, but I know that it could never have happened while my 17-year-old brain was mounting a desperate and vicious rearguard against anything that dared to try and capture it and put it to use, such as A-level coursework, and negotiating those whatsits with tits that made my thingy go funny.

So, with bile swallowed, and having turned up on my pancreas’s doorstep like a cat thrown out in the rain for pissing in the piano, I began to feel a little sick. But at least I got some words on the screen without mentioning Madeleine McCann, or saying cunt, bestiality or kiddie porn and hence avoiding all the nasty spam that could have been generated by doing so. Groover will be pleased. Auf Wiedersehen


Verse 34b

Disillusionment hits with the world we appear in,
Or is this just the path to earning certification?
How is it possible to effect change
Whilst ensuring that change is good?

There are no answers;
Just void where you want answers to appear.
When there is no inherent meaning but that which you create
Life’s mobius strip entangles itself.

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(Here comes the) Phantom shitter (turderer)

Well, well, it’s been a long time boloites. What better way to return to this fair site than with a story about skanky french toilet habits? No better way if you ask me, no better way.

Here’s the scoop : We work in a managed office complex and the reception area and facilities, most notably the toilets, are therefore shared by the eployees of several companies. One of the toilets on the ground floor has been closed to all business for over a month now, with a sign on the door professing ‘vandalism’ to be the reason, presumably chod-orientated I hear you say. Finger paintings etched in shit, clinging loosely to the red plastic coated walls…

Only today did I discover the full story and the reasoning behind closing one of our loos (causing my almost all female colleagues to beel and whinge about the toilet seat not being down, etc etc). Apparently, some bright spark has been systematically blocking up all the toilets in the building. He or she does this by creating a very substantial nest of paper in the bog before defecating on top of it. Perhaps he is convinced his turds are alive and does not want to drown them? In any case, this is particularly anti-social stuff as it means the cleaning lady actually has to get her hand in there to remove some of the business end of the mound before the blockage can be cleared. Flushing is not sufficient.

But why close one toilet on the ground floor? What will that prove? According to the girls on reception, it will make it easier to catch the phantom shitter (murderer…can you here the song yet?) as they will better be able to track the comings and goings of the toilet users. They think that now they have reduced the number of available toilets, shitting will become “accountable” as the chances of someone coming in directly after an airborne steamer has been deployed are now increased….WTF? The accountablilty of shitting. Only in France? Perhaps. Toilets are noticeably more rank over here, it must be said. The flat we bought last year did not have a toilet with water in it – but the old sort where it’s just a pipe and you send the water down after your business and hope for the best. Smelling goooooooood….

In any case, they’re going to catch the fiend at some point and monkey face him in public. Check out for the full low down.

I hope to be back with non-chod related etchings in the near future.

May this be an Indian summer for all boloites.

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Barnyard Life

Spent a couple of days this semi-glorious bank holiday weekend down at another wedding, deep in the darkest, coastally close countryside.

A strange place indeed, but much natural beauty at the ceremony itself, although more from the trees and fine lawns that graced the mansion where we were based than from the assembled company. There was a most distinct lack of single women for me to ogle/berate, so I spent my time considering my strange fortune at being in a reconditioned barn which looked out to luscious gardens, taking trips outside for too many cigarettes and seeing what I could do to stay out of trouble.

Duty done, we piled on back to the hotel, on the fringes of a retirement village, somewhere near a Sainsbury’s multiplex. This kind of place is not always convivial to joke, but well aided by alcohol by then, we managed to create our own entertainment, assembling a crew of established jokers in a baracaded room, to partake of the cheroot and swap a few more laughs and stories. Ignore the bangings on the wall, floor and ceiling from those trying to catch some ill-deserved kip. Just turn the volume on the ipod up, shout louder and resist all attempts at entrance from peope wearing security uniforms, allowing people who prefer Hawaiian shirts and heart shaped shades.

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I think Blur probably hit the nail on the head when they sung “Your mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty”. Perhaps it’s because we’ve been starved of sun this summer, but every time there is a nice day and the ladies come out wearing their lack of wares, man, I’m nearly going blind.

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Yes, that’s right today I reached the lofty heights of 27. This is the type of age I would definitely have classified as ‘old’ when I was a long-bleached-hair, long overcoat wearing indie weirdo teenager. I would have expected that by the time I got to that age (if I even made it) that I would have written a couple of books, maybe made a film, certainly a top 10 album.

Ah well, I probably knew even less then, than I know now, and certainly my haircut has improved (a bit). On the plus side, the last couple of years have felt like things are finally moving. The creative endeavours are growing in both intention and magnificence and that is surely no bad thing. I finally feel like some of what I started off wanting to do is possible and that the rewards maybe are there if I can just keep my tentative grip on reality and keep going against the current set by the increasing crowds of haters, nay-sayers and plumbaits of every description, found on all sides.

One thing I’ve learnt since being 15, is that it is possible to turn this great ship around. It is possible to set your navigation by a distant and dimly lit star and sail toward it, fearful of falling off the edge of the world, but certain that not heading for it will lead to a lifetime of regret and recrimination. However, it is bloody hard, everything takes a ridiculously long time and there is no certainty. You never quite feel that you know what you are doing and for every epiphany it feels like there are a hundred moments of doubt. It is a bit like trying to wade through concrete. It can be done, but it’s fucking dangerous and is slow tiring work that will probably ruin your shoes and see you standing still for a very long time.

To commemorate this fact and the occasion, I kicked a car-park ticket machine today. It was refusing to accept my money as I stood in the pouring rain and this made me extremely unhappy. Something clicked in my head, so I kicked it, stepping back to allow maximum momentum of bottom of sole into soft display panel, before stamping forward hard. The thing made a suitably loud crunching noise, rocked a little and then, sensing the risk of destruction, an alarm went off inside. Several concerned residents looked over before thinking again about making any kind of comment to the 27 year old who was already loping off into the distance, rain dripping off his face and shaking his fist at an old lady who was attempting to run him over, feeling once again, a lot better about everything.


GNER rinseout

Hurtling through the countryside again, past miles of farmland and the occasional nuclear power station, after an afternoon excursion to Newcastle to talk about transport security.

A three hour meeting and six hours of travel always makes for feeling jaded and in this instance, it’s been compounded by the fact that I couldn’t sleep last night. Lay there fidgetting and imagining I needed the toilet for a couple of hours before evenutually passing out at five, only for the alarm to ring three hours later to remind me to get up and catch my train.

This kind of insomnia hits me about one night every three months. It doesn’t seem to be related to having stuff on my mind (or not especially so), just a perverse joke chucked in to keep me feeling paranoid for most of the following day.

As a result, thinking back about actions of the past few weeks and getting nervous about the prospect that for I while now I’ve been taking myself dangeriously seriously. This is not a good habit for a serial animaliser. If you can’t laugh at your foolish behaviour and rejoice in the diminishing effects of bumping into old girlfriends, the prospect of marriage going on on all sides and late night expeditions to sleazy old cheese bars….. Well…. it could be pretty much terminal losing your sense of humour in that game. Side effects, part positive are that I currently seem to have the single minded purpose of the very drunk and the very religious, but that in itself can bring its own problems. Much determined to get home, get some rest and launch a few new schemes destined to bring trouble, exhaustion and most importantly, a high level of amusement, to fully re-balance the scales.

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