In the House of the Rising Sun

In my life I have listened to many people who really have nothing to say at all. You probably have too. Having nothing to say is, I will argue, something of a virtue. Having nothing to say tells the world that you have nothing to say. Having nothing to say de facto means that you have nothing to say.

This is very powerful for two reasons. Firstly, you have nothing to say. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, you have nothing to say. This behaviour should not be mistaken for saying nothing however, people tend to say things all the time. They might say that "giving players a jammed gun in DayZ is a social experiment" or "how to plan an active vacation". People say things all the time.

I have nothing to say.

Also I did not argue my point as I had nothing to say on the matter.

1. Premise
2. Bollocks
3. ????
4. VIRTUE!

Eventually Ian Stewart Brady

In 1963, Dallas, Texas, a bullet smashed through the skull of the then president of the united states of America. Two other potentially fatal wounds were also inflicted, to his thorax and neck. He died. That description might seems too passive in a way – rather he was killed, murdered or assassinated. This is not insignificant. Here is a man who has reached the highest office in the so called free world, which one would imagine on it's own would make him an excellent target for killing, and is killed. A man who lied and adulterated throughout his term and presumably before hand also. Yet he is heralded as an Icon. He was unquestionably extremely charismatic. He orated well and made proclamations of peace, a better understanding between people and of hope. But he died. Perhaps he meant well. I very much doubt it though. I see a privileged, randy, cold war politician who made no significant changes to the society his administration governed. He gave the 'okay' to the Bay of Pigs invasion, recovered admirably, and repented by escalating the war in Vietnam. He also committed a great deal of thought and money to putting people on the Moon, which though inspirational at the time might be judged contrived and wasteful by our standards. Then he caught a bullet in the brain and became an immortal. JFK was taken from us only for the evil Nixon to fill the void. So the narrative goes. Narrative history appears to describe a really unhelpful account of events to my mind. It misses the truth. It is primarily disseminated by mass media and consumed by a mass audience and as such there should be a sufficient degree of responsibility and integrity to the truth. There generally is not, rather there appears to be a desire to craft some crude dichotomy or other. I find this lazy and insulting.

How to Take a 'Selfie'

It's done like this. Y'll can stand the fuck down.

Things that shit bloggers write about.

Being a shit blogger I thought I'd up my game by researching some of the shit things that shit bloggers write about and try to get some tips. My research methodology was p tested and forest plotted extensively so I knew I was onto a winner before I even started. Lacking any real statistical software I simply autohypnotically clicked into my calculator.exe whilst thinking really hard about robots (to avoid publication bias) and got a result that was not a 'minus number'. This is how science works, don't ask me how, it just is.

Food blogging

As a borderline anorexic this threw me a bit I must say. I mainly try to avoid eating food let alone write about it. Eating disordered bloggers on the other hand often spend vast amounts of time thinking, writing about and preparing food in addition to avoiding it. This all seems to be a colossal waste of energy compared to my method. Apparently it's all about control.

Cake: shit

The methodologically robust literature search ('I feel lucky' google hit) here led me to a post about posts about how blogging is hard. As this post is pretty much about that then that's incredibly ironic. A bit like anorexics being obsessed by food. Like food bloggers are. Maybe they could start a joint support group and cancel each other out. Literally.

Traffic

There seems to be a lot of talk about traffic in blogging posts. Blogging posts about traffic. Traffic. Firstly it's a stupid word. Traffic. Secondly I listen to Radio 2 whilst I commute and hear a thirty minute bulletin about traffic that doesn't concern me because I live in fucking rural Wales and another convoy of oil tankers backed up because of a convoy of tractors dragging sheep to their deaths doesn't merit a mention. Fuck traffic.

Sheep: Dicks

Fashion Blogging

I don't exactly have my finger on the pulse when it comes to fashion but I do wear a shirt and tweed jacket when I don't even have to leave the house so I reckon I'll fuck you all and laugh at you on the internet in ten years from now from the safety of my shirt and tweed jacket.

Writing

Well, I wouldn't want to end up tumbling off my high horse here (a sturdy Falabella) eyes first into the luxurious thick pile carpet that I can afford due to my lucrative writing career, but I've been writing since I was three years old. Where does a man on the internet get off on telling me how to write down words? Many authors mature into their work later in life, with others their best work is crammed early into their careers before they descend into a fugue of alcoholism and obscurity, literary achievements a hubristic and bitter memory. I wrote my best story at seven. Men fought a dragon for no reason and everybody died, including the dragon. I drew a picture. My favourite writer is George Orwell and he just wrote down lists of different types of cotton that were exploiting the working classes then died of AIDS in a shed.

Psychopath Much?

The incorrigible fire topped news papers and supposedly more thoughtful broadsheets appear to have united in an interesting way this week. Pisses me off and I thought for a full 90 seconds about how I thought about and wanted to put this, which hurt my brain , but it goes something like this:

“That weird pervert murdered his children because he was on too many benefits”

The Telegraph, the fat twats that they are, constructed a better sentence and put it more subtly:

“The UK now has seven social classes, according to a BBC survey. At the bottom is what they call the “precariat” – the poor, precarious proletariat. Well, they need to come up with an eighth category for Mick Philpott”

The loveable Daily Mail put it more succinctly, less afraid of being seen as the fascist bastards that they are:

“Something has gone awry when skivers like Mick Philpott feel all-powerful and society cannot summon the moral will to say 'No. Enough.'”

Mick Philpott seems to me to have become the poster boy of what is wrong with the welfare state in the context of Osbourne's recent budget review. I'm not going to continue fucking newspaper quotes on here to back up my argument, you have the internet, or are alive and have seen the news, so have a look yourself. I'm going for more drink. It's meant to be a present and I shouldn't drink it or something but fuck it. Someone will back me up if it comes to it. Maybe we could set the house on fire and blame it on somebody else? No?

There are about 300,000 people on waiting lists for social housing. The BBC and ONS are telling me something stupid like 7.7% of the population is unemployed. My calculator tells me that that's about 5 million people. Probably can't be right. I've met many people who claim benefits, a lot of them skivers. Lazy, entitled mother fuckers who refuse to accept any responsibility for what they do or what happens to them. They tend to stand out because they piss you off the most. They've usually come from economically poor backgrounds, have been abused in one way or another well before the age of ten, use drugs and alcohol to excess in their early teens, 'come into contact with services' by their mid teens and end up being a 'problem' to services and society by the time they are reaching twenty. If this behaviour continues the boys are more likely to go to prison and the girls are more likely to end up in 'psychiatric care'. Lots of angry people. Not one of them has set their house on fire and 'accidentally' killed six children though.

I don't really give a flying fuck about the BBC's new class system or anything else. The three stratum model seems to works fine. Apparently I'm ' established middle class', which is really nice. Apparently I'm the second richest person in Britain and should invest in Fabergé Dildos.

I know sweet fuck all about economics and sociology but I know a psychopath when I see one. Your man Philpott is one. Any they don't need to be on benefits to be heinous. But to Philcott.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8z8ygrDSWU

Glibness/ superficial charm

Grandiose sense of self worth

Parasitic lifestyle 

Promiscuous sexual behavior

Many short-term (marital) relationships

Need for stimulation/proneness to boredom

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mick-philpott-listen-secret-police-1798559

Poor behavioral control

Irresponsibility

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2013/apr/02/derby-house-fire-evil-philpotts
Early behavior problems
Criminal versatility

Psychopathy is hardly scientific whatever Hare and his qaucks tell you. This man is a psychopath, not a product of some sort of coruppt society.  I prefer to call them cunts. Whatever classification system you use, mine or his, this is one though.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hare_Psychopathy_Checklist

This man is a psychopath, not a product of some sort of 'too soft' society. He walks amongst you and you probably respect him. There are no good figures, but it might be as high as 1%, which is a lot. He's the one that seems to win and lords it over you and you're too afraid to challenge him, not because he's going to hurt you necessarily, but because he frightens you in some way. Most of them have found positions of power, be it some your boss, MP or doctor. They don't like to be uncomfortable, just like you, but often look for advantages you wouldn't. Stop being a coward. Get yourself some Machiavellian egocentricity going. It's very unlikely that he will set your house on fire.

No. Enough.

Hate

Ever hate someone so much that you could rip off their ears and choke them with them? Of course you have, you’re an animal. It’s as natural as being hungry or a bit sad. It’s not treated in nearly the same way by our society though. Fine enough is the passive aggressive accumulation of status and materials, the righteous lament pointed at BBC, Mail or whoever, the car. 

People might start thinking that you’re a bit mental if you start spouting off that you want to rip off this person’s arm or punch this one’s head until you’re through to carpet. It’s a natural response I imagine, who wants some nutter going off and rampaging about the place, running amok and fucking up all kinds of shit, after all? Not me. I like it nice and calm. You tell me that that guy at your work really annoys you because he’s always asking you to figure shit out for him and you want to slap him? Guess what, he’s your boss and that’s your fucking job.  I tell you what. The next time you complain about your boss, I’ll punch you in the neck as hard as I can. You’ll feel as if you’re being choked, you won’t be able to do much. Your hands will be on your throat and your subjective experience will be “I cannot breathe”.

This is when I will show you my pen. Plenty of people would love to get their hands on my pen. Prisons are a doddle nowadays as everyone knows. Gone are the days when long swords and bad language were allowed past the gates of our mighty correctional institutes.

My pen, yes. It goes through your fucking eye if you try it on. If you want to get all technical it goes here:

I'm a little guy, I can't afford to fuck about. Bear this in mind if you feel your 'temperature rising'. I might just fucking kill you on the spot.

 

As a wise old lady once told me “Feeling are neither good nor bad, they just are. It’s what you do with them that matters”.

Morning

Mad ankle boots destroy the symmetry of my perfect gravel driveway. Two of them come, destroy my oblivion sure as fuck. I peer, roused. Eight fucking am. Fear. Awake as ever now I grab at dressing gowns, slippers, yesterdays roughly cast aside office wear, anything. Throwing myself down the stairs, dodging the omnipresent cat, not slipping and breaking every bone in my spine is a feat to behold, if ever there was someone to behold it. Barely more than brain dead I answer the door to be greeted by an apologetic young man wearing short pants. I blink at him. Casting his gaze to my newly fucked up driveway he mumbles at me;

“Ms. Davidson, package”.

“I was sure that there were two of you fuckers”, I hope I don't say out loud.

“You just need to sign it. I'm sorry to disturb you, doctor” he replies.

“Ah, he thinks I've been on call, thinks I'm a real doctor so he does, maybe he can't smell all this drink”

“Here”

He hands me his fancy ticket machine and thrusts an inadequate imitation of a pen into my hand, demanding a signature. He gets one. For a second both of us stare at the scrawl I've made on his, frankly really shitty machine. I perceive nothing but pity in his eyes.

I close and lock the door.

“It's Dr. Davidson, dickwad” I declare to the hungry cat staring at me from the stairs.