This was gonna be big, a rant about how, in what we flatter ourselves to think is the most enlightened age of human history – when knowledge truly is power, and we are thus all truly empowered – that into our Parliament, that (still, surprisingly) world-respected carpentry shop where the raw wood of our taxes, resources and societal will is fashioned into the chairs, comfortable or otherwise, in which all our futures will sit (gonna stop this soon….), has been allowed to crawl the blind, dullard, atavistic carpet beetle of blind ignorance and its nastier, more energetic spawn, religion; and so the decision on whether, by passing the embryonics bill we advance human health, wellbeing and chances of our species’ survival long past the fungal-kingdom’s due date to take over has been allowed to be swayed by men in dresses who believe that somewhere out there (or up there) there is a big beardy man (in a dress), who made all this, by himself, for no particular reason but his own enjoyment; who fucked a married virgin, killed their son (not before he’d performed some magic tricks and made everyone mysteriously not record 34 out of the first 35 years of his life…the life of the SON OF GOD), dragged him from his grave, made him dance, then took him away 2,000 years ago and has not sent this ‘saviour’ back since, despite the world, er, going slightly downhill since…; and who believe that condoms are bad, but not because beardy man or junior specifically said so, and there’s different types of hell, but only because some poet made it up (which even THEY admit) and believe that the bill in question is ‘monstrous’ because it will save thousands of human embryos being required for research (yes that’s right you kid-fucking transvestite scum, you said abortion’s bad too[or was it beardy]….)…FUCK THEM, FUCK THEM ALL, BURN THEIR DRESSES WITH THEM IN THEM BEFORE ANY MORE KIDS GET FUCKED AAAAAGGGHHHH…………….like I said, it was going to be a big rant but instead I have to pack my case ahead of the brief re-opening of bolo’s asian office, moved somewhat east to Phuket. Bet I see some men in dresses there……..will report my findings anyhow. Laters boloists
Generally taking the time to get away from the evil screen for a couple of days, spending a bit more of my life bopping about in the bank holiday blighted world of the replacement bus and the underground, to rant about UK hiphop to comparative strangers in the Eastern suburbs. Always a fine selection of beverages to be found on a bank holiday, and nice to swirl a bit of whiskey around the tumbler with a few old friends. A tasty selection of takeaways and a few films on the big screen while home and sofa bound with the omnipresent reassurance of a bit of Playstation time filling to see us through to work again. Yes not too bad a bank holiday at all.
2008 is so far turning out to be a year of lucky breaks for me. Round of about the closing days of December of every year I run around telling everyone I meet and ringing up my long suffering mates to say that the next year is going to be the best yet. That the platform is finally there for the good ship Bolo (and by association the Groover) to reap the dividends of years of late nights, furious thinking, growing hard work and sadness and loss for the ones we left behind.
Of course, things never quite pan out quite that way, as the weeks and months fly by and you settle into old patterns, shelve plans for movie scripts and get on with scheming about Friday nights down the pub, late night donner kebabs, and keeping out of argument with your work colleagues on a day to basis.
But this year I was doubly determined and so far, whisper it mind, I can confirm that things are going smoothly. As an example, (and the only one that seems fair to talk about here) my prognostications of doom about the house buying have turned out to be untrue. After a brief spate of viewing unsuitable shanty town properties and shirking my property searching responsibilities I let upon a fine flat in the distant shire of Ealing which seems perfectly adequate for my needs. Following a couple of days of offer making and general estate agent rinsery I find myself with an offer accepted and the thought of imminent financial ruin offset by the delight in a good deal, done quickly allowing decent living and (perhaps most importantly) preventing any sort of return to the parental mansion.
Those of you who are familiar with the crazed world of English property buying will be quick to point out, that an offer accepted is by no means a done deal. That now I must be wary lest I get gazumped (which twat invented that word?) by some plumbait or be fearful of a poor survey result or the chances of the process dragging on for months and months. However, for the moment I am content to ignore these concerns, and to revel in the possibilities of progress, an escape from the suburban dark ages (well semi-escape), the prospect of choosing life, a wide screen television and a well stocked fridge full of fine delicatessen delicacies and strange and obscure liquors.
It’s funny because years ago, when I was younger (inevitably), more foolish and sometimes more perceptive, I realised the link between the system (the man) and the property-ladder and the dangers it posed to the best intentions of the individual. To illustrate: As a generally socialist and free-thinking individual I am not down on the asylum seeker or the junkie seeking therapy. I feel for the kids on corners hanging around with nothing to do rather than put their hoods up and shit up old ladies with their mobile phone tunes. I am free to do as I please, to leave the country, to stop work for months at a time or to spend my wages on loud music and trainers.
As a home owner, I have to start worrying if someone builds something down the street that affects the value of my property. I have to keep an eye on mundane percentage figures and the economy. The bank will own my soul and in times of trouble can finally turn the tables and seize my worldly assets if I get unctious or refuse to pay my offensive debts. Oh yes debt. Debt to the hilt and beyond, the kind of staggering figure which is so large in terms of comprehension of salary, overdraft and that jar you keep with your bits of change and carpet fluff, that it is a figure without meaning, an immense pound sign that owns your soul, hangs a noose over your children and threatens to shut down your brain if the web work stops coming and the coffers dry up.
Home ownership takes away a little of your freedom to do as you please and forces you to stay within the confines of society. It keeps you pushing towards the big bucks and putting your feet on the faces of the proletariat. Ah Marx, you never saw London house prices coming.
Still, I wanted to do it. Partly peer pressure I guess. Didn’t want to be the last person in my group to own a small bit of space, four walls and a three piece suite. But also something deeper. Maybe something in the classic adage about an Englishman and his castle. After all these years of flat sharing and seeing the washing up pile up while the walls get covered in the dirt from scuffles, exploding bottles and office chair rides down the stairs, the urge to claim a place of my own. A safe sanctuary where no fucker, be they landlord, drunken pal, or wandering gate crasher can rain on my parade. A place to plot future plans of world domination, to escape from these petty provincial despots and to create great things in peace and safety.
Jesus, that sounds like a distant dream. Like an advert for a car, or maybe Playstation 3. A perfect hermitage in a digital landscape, but I’m not sure. I think there is some resonance here. I think this could be the right way to go, that this place of tranquility could exist for real. Perhaps most importantly that it could be the right time to set up headquarters, that it probably is about time that I get some space, convene my best generals and plan the next (ideally mortgage clearing) epic campaign.
Ah well, who knows. The deal is done now and tomorrow the estate agent will be ringing to advance the process. I could duck his call, plead insanity or a lack of clean underwear, but I am pretty certain this will not be the case. I will answer the phone with a gag ready for him to laugh at (he’s paid well to laugh at my jokes), and the great wheel, despite my best efforts, will keep turning.
Big up your respected chests boloists. Just trying to get something down too – I know what you mean Coybag. Today has been the sort of day that makes you extremely envious of anyone lucky enough to have a dog to spike with Coca-Cola. It began extremely early – up at 6, awake at 5, ringpiece contracting in anticipation of driving test number 2. Get there 25 minutes early, having managed to munch down just half a bit of toast with my useless, saliva free mouth. Forced to chat football with the cunt that runs the driving school – his other conversational mode revolves around teenage birds, so I suppose that was a blessing in disguise really.
Get to the test centre, legs shaking nervously like a kid with ADD and a belly full of mentos and coke. I’m ready to pop. You just know it’s going to go tits up, but why is it so important and nerve-racking? I think it may be raw harshness of being in a position where some hard-faced bint with confused genitalia has the RIGHT, nay the absolute NEED to JUDGE you. I mean, obviously it couldn’t be any other way, given that they are effectively putting youths in front of highly powered combustion engine driven machines, but some part of me just HATES THAT SHIT. Not that I didn’t deserve to fail – I drove like RAb C Nesbit on a Smack come down. Very very jerky and Oh so off the right trajectory. Gear changes that would knock the spliff out of your hands every time. 40 km/h in a 30 zone, in second – the engine whining like a weasel being ripped to shreds by two wild boars – have it.
Still, decided to try and vent some of the negative energy on the way home from work by calling on an old trusted friend – the pool hall, and his cousin, strong belgian lager. Things are slightly more rosy now, but the need to burst this stress crammed whitehead of a mood lingers on, so I’m giving bolo a semi-eloquent, smut filled bashing.
Had an interesting chat with the owner of the pool hall though. I’d picked him as some kind failed cue sports pro, but it turns out he is an ex-managing director of Ford France. Never judge a book by its cover, this geezer sits there pretending to read the racing form, but he’s actually learning Russian, the mentalist. He also confirmed a commonly held view about the local Bordeaux folk (the “Bordelais”)….but that’s another story.
In a last desperate effort to find something that might stir my foul-smelling foamy intra-cranial slop into bolo action I decided that science might prove to be the safe fall back that it has often proved when it comes to trying to make oneself look intelligent (ah, I recall the heady days of arseing around in BSc Environmental science [emphasis on the BS] at university, whilst out of lectures holding court with the sociologists and media studies goons – aka proto estate agents, explaining over a watered down plastic-wrapped Foster’s the wonders of a cumulonimbus or the life-cycle and dining etiquette of a house sparrow [Passer domesticus don’t you know, you ignorant FOOLS], basically reciting all I had learnt from various Ladybird and Usborne books, with the crucial credibility-sealing smattering of premium breezology in order to send their slack jaws pouring onto the fag-burnt carpet…and to stop anyone finding a gap in time to point out my goatee beard and centre parting). I thus planned to devise a series of experiments that will stretch the boundaries of human repulsion to anything I do or represent, the results of which will be revealed periodically on this fine site, to the accompaniement of gasps, sighs, and incredulous murmurings from the public, and creaking noises from my bottom. Teeheehee. No seriously, they’re there, don’t know what causes them, but they often seem a very appropriate reaction to whatever I happen to be doing when they make themselves heard.
Unfortunately I only got as far as feeding my dog coca-cola, which was so hilarious I decided that the the tongue-stiffening, lip-curling, violently sneezing and hyperactively tail-chasing reaction was the only possible expansion of knowledge that anyone could ever want (on a Sunday anyway)…and I didn’t care that by the time I’d stopped laughing I was shaking violently and wondering whether I was a bit of a psychopath..and I didn’t care that I lunged at bolo with an idea infinitely more tenuous than any of the ones I’ve cursed and consigned to cyber-oblivion, I just had to get something down y’see? And that is that for now,pending a comment from my bottom…
2008 is so far turning out to be a year of lucky breaks for me. Round of about the closing days of December of every year I run around telling everyone I meet and ringing up my long suffering mates to say that the next year is going to be the best yet. That the platform is finally there for the good ship Bolo (and by association the Groover) to reap the dividends of years of late nights, furious thinking, growing hard work and sadness and loss for the ones we left behind.