Lets Get Political, Political – Physical

What are they Like:

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Felines Tripping The Light…Switches

Drug addiction statistics rise by 30% in England and Wales
Noah Rosewater

A government sponsored survey shows the number of pets addicted to class-A drugs in England and Wales has risen by more than 30 per cent in the past three months.

The trafficking of illegal drugs in the UK is estimated to be worth £5.3 billion and has been strongly resilient to concerted police ‘crack’ downs.

An ever-growing presence of gangland elements is responsible for the alarming surge in drug availability, and resistance to law enforcement’s attempts to buck the sales and use of narcotics.

Scaremongers in the nations media are predicting a ‘pandemic of substance abuse sweeping the nations veterinaries.’

Heroin abuse within the feline world provides startling figures that show just how prevalent the drug problem in Britain is.

1 in 4 domesticated cats have a daily habit accounting for 23% of sales per anum.

“Dealers must be brought to justice, this is essential. But for us to have a real effect on the markets we must crush sales by 60%, a statistic that has never been met by the British constabulary.” said former Scotland yard top ‘dog’, Sir Ian Blair.

David Blakey CBE QPM, of the UK Drug Policy Commission, when questioned, declined to comment on the perturbing figures relating to domesticated animals.

As always, this ever-resourceful reporter wanted to hear from the afflicted and addicted. I spoke to my cat, Otter, who’s been hooked to amphetamines and dope for two years.

Mr Rosewater, as I’ve now been asked to refer to Otter, provided me with a written statement, refusing to talk in front of cameras – despite this being printed press: “For two, long, harrowing, years I was addicted to substances that should not be ingested by any sentient being. The experiences I had were harrowing and besieging…of my mind. I’d like now to be left in peace. I like Whiskers, not that cheap shit your whore of a wife gets.”

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“Aside from the Punic Wars, which I was too young for, I have been blamed for everything.”

Casinos: everyone looses – Cuba 1959.
Mingling through the pulsating catacombs, lost in the labyrinth. It appears I will be here till the money machine coughs me up as a defective coin. I walk around; the aisles are reminiscent of the Styx with the dead littering its banks. Falling off my life raft, coming face to face with the gatekeeper, is a strong possibility; inevitable. I’m not sure what would occur when he opens my featherweight wallet, revealing I do not hold enough to pay the ferryman. Though diminutive funds do not seem to hold back the impoverished from gambling their lives away. All these souls, their eyes glazed over as they dunk coin after coin into the luminous, animate machines that fill the foreseeable horizon. The clanging of currency and the buzz of these machines, laughing at their penetrater’s loss, fills my ears. My head spins with despair. Humanities failings laid out all too clear. Nauseous and intoxicating, the audible terror of the casino is all too much. Sports stars grace the screens whilst convertible cars stand, lit up, ready for auction. Finally I catch up to those I entered with, already casualties to the Styx: “$10 more, just $10 more” the horror, the horror.

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Hook, Hook, Where’s The Hook

Foxes: poor bastards. Who doesn’t want to kill them? I don’t know, I do know who does want to kill them. That’s right. Everyone. Everyone wants to kill a fox. I recently discovered that you can hire a hit-man to loiter out of one of your upstairs windows and snipe – sniper, assassinate – a fox for you. To what purpose, I’ve yet to determine. A video on Youtube illustrates my point.

So, foxes are being shot, people are being shot, the shit’s being shot, fuck it, I might even be being shot. What isn’t being shot? I’ll tell you what’s not being shot, that’s right, the sequel to the greatest movie ever made.

Why is it that this behemouth of cinema is not being shot? Well, that is a question I can answer, I can fill you in on that one, I can place pen to paper and produce a signed statement detailing the reasoning behind this travesty of justice. It’s not being shot because Stephen Spielberg is too busy shooting foxes.

Leading us back to the beginning. Foxes: poor bastards.

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Bleeding Rabbit Heart

Wonder where Florence got her machine? Probably not, but these guys – one of the noughties seminal outfits – feel jilted.

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Quoted from the journal of Charles Whitman

They always have a military obsession.

“A fetid, mangy parasite. Little more than this, as boredom sets in a simple skip to the next host is all that occurs. Lie, cheat, steal these are the tools of the trade. They make life difficult, unbearable at times, but these are the tools utilized. But what does it all mean? Isolation. Loneliness. A trail of destruction is hardly what’s left, more a brief glimmer of disappointment in the once courteous eyes of the long line of former compatriots. But why do it? Boredom bore*Dom, noun, the state of feeling bored: the boredom of afternoon duty could be relieved by friendly conversation. Bored, adjective, feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one’s current activity: she got bored with staring out of the window | they would hang around all day, bored stiff. Well this is why, after hours on end of insipid pointless rambling it is time to move on. But why? Isolation. Loneliness. A burning necessity to maintain consistent contact causes the disinterest of company, but maintaining too little contact also does the same. Having no contact brings on bouts of manic depression, jealousy and anger. There is no mutual ground. So the parasitic life it must be, for without contact comes anger, and anger brings violence.  How do people do it? How do they find the ability to enjoy both their own company and the company of others so readily? I can’t, I can have one or the other there’s no in-between. No neutral, it’s all acidic.
Sometimes the acid burns through the hosts quickly, melting them away to little more than a charred memory, and often a fading one, one that has little to offer the current existence. The light that burns twice as bright burns only half as long. Excitement and adventure are all too apparent in some, yet this excitement is quelled and, eventually, peters out.  As the excitement melts away all that’s left is the parasite and an evanescent rag. But how does one distinguish between the varying degrees of host? Sometimes the excitement dwindles off and you still find yourself attached to them, like the parasitic entrails you hope not to be. Then, as would a zoned out zombie, you drag your feet to their call, without real care or knowledge as to the situation you are finding yourself engulfed within. Life in this vein can take you quite far until one day. This day is the day you realize that the social world you’re engulfed in is not for you. You jump in your spaceship, whether this is metaphorical or not entirely depends on who you are, and fly off elsewhere in search of new blood, to sap. It’s surprising how lonely you really are.
Then you find yourself lacking empathy, no one is of particular importance and you fear nothing. You brazenly walk up to the languishing pensioner and fillet her in front of her 2 young grandchildren. They stand transfixed upon the blade that has just ended their dear sweet nana’s life and as a trickle of blood caresses, gently, one of the shoes laced to their feet you walk on down the road. And so the path begins, where once there was a sell by date on the life you live there is now nothing but endless possibilities. Your new life style costs little and it has numerous advantages. For it does not matter whom it is that dances with your blade in the moonlight, they are all faceless entities enshrouded in a haze of mist. Tall, short, fat, thin, black, white, old, young, male, female, these are the distinguishing features, and even they can sometimes have difficulties in their detection.
The act, the facade, the mask, the consistent striving to be what you are not, the vain attempt to be yourself for you can never be yourself, I can never be myself. Day, week, company, all factors in deducing which mask it is that should be employed: which character am I today.
And now, sat alone on a moonlit veranda I preside over life so far, a different face for a different day. The darkened clouds drift by – over the twinkling peninsula city. Crickets twitter in the gardens. Cars cruise the strip. The pulsating hum of the fan. All elements of the night’s symphony. The approaching roar of a plane overhead breaks through the orchestra. Its engines providing rhythm to our musical circle. Shadows flit across the sky. The scattering of imagery building the tension, a crescendo is coming. The distant lull of the sea, at a stretch becomes audible. Every aspect is coming together. The stagnant humidity is punctuated by a cool breeze overhead, propelled by our fan. Ambiance.
A lie, a lie lays in this passage. Like my life a lie lays in wait. The sky is dark. The moon illuminates nothing. Spotlights brighten my surroundings. An empty pool beckons. The heat of the day’s sun provides more than enough warmth for its waters. In the thick foliage cows follow their bull to food. The sound of their wails intrigues me. I approach, with caution. Watching them graze peacefully I feel a stab of jealousy. Though their lives, eventually ended by the blade, are merely there to feed men, they’re at peace.
Tomorrow I’ll be off. Interaction, what I crave for most and what I yearn to escape is intrinsic. I need it. A different mask for a different?
Who am I? Where am I? What am I?
I’ve dreamt of seas falling from the sky, oceans pouring from my mouth. My eyes, filling with rivers. Vast Waters. Drowning. I’m drowning. I have to get out; I have to escape this world. I’m on a doomed mission, I have to get out. I have to escape. Where’s my exit, my get out clause, where’s the back door?

When I was young, I can’t remember precisely when, I was obsessed, nay, infused with a 6” Mattel action figure. This one figurine reigned over all the other toys in my chest. Like the age, I’m not sure how long this fixation lasted. What I do remember, however, is that I once enthralled myself with the figurine and the u-bend at the back of the toilet. This story is of little relevance, this brief and enlightening facet of information, like me, has nowhere to go. Merely it provides me the grounds to prove that it is not just my depraved sense of existence that has visited dark grottoes. So too has a 6″ Mattel Action Figure: A Batman I believe.

The darkness is sweeping in. I don’t envision change in pace, or direction. Light’s feeble attempts to pierce the crevices of the oncoming gloom are swiftly alleviated. Nothing will light this blackness.”

And this is definitely what leads to rampaging murderers, the type that top themselves after hacking through a village. Prose like the above is the contemporary equivalent of the psychic cops from Minority Report. You read anything remotely reminiscent of this…arsenic in their food, or call the authorities; probably best to go for the latter.

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My old blog was destroyed in a fire or possibly my cat ate it.

Film by…Moi. Starring: Ben. Music by…Moi. Clock by: Ben

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Enough Already

Princess Diana, queen of hearts, was discovered dead today, a coroner confirms. Cause of death appears to have been asphyxiation, however, the princess had received several large abrasions to the head and torso. Early rumours claim that her body was unearthed from six feet of dirt.

She was discovered when guards were alerted to someone loitering with a spade in the grounds of Kensington palace. As the two guards approached they discovered that the man, one Adam I. Lily, had removed several layers of dirt from the ground, exposing the coffin, I mean box, and was proceeding to remove his underwear. Mr Lily was taken into custody for questioning and is likely to be charged later this week.

The princess, who had been living in subterranean quarters for the past 13 years, provided much charitable work towards the ruination of Britain’s monarch. She has also been linked to several conspiracy theories. Little is known of her current sex life, though it is widespread knowledge that she’s ‘dirty’.

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Attempted rape in a toilet…

…for all I know his sole intention was merely a handshake in a public urinal. Is that common practice?

So, where should I start, I suppose not at the very beginning, as little happened for a while. No, I’ll start with the day my – our – journey, adventure, began.

Well, It’s approximately 9am in Sydney, Australia – I discovered that there’s a Sydney in Canada to which I was completely oblivious. We’ve been milling around in Balgowlah on Sydney’s northern beaches, just up from Manly, for a few weeks now. It’s February 1st. A few days ago myself and my travel companion – for the purposes of this blog he shall be known as Paul – decided we’d done Sydney. Sydney was over with and it was time to push on. So, opting to lessen our carbon footprint, we’ve decided to cycle to Melbourne; We’re not particularly prepared. I think, food wise, we’ve just got a lot of pasta and weetabix…and some raisins. Though I left that bit to Paul, I have got us a map, but I’ve not quite worked out which roads we can cycle on yet.

The other day, the day after we got our bikes we cycled from Balgowlah into the city – Sydney. Our purpose was to pick up a tent; never happened. We did cycle across Harbour Bridge, the view was astounding, really quite something. It didn’t cross either of our minds that there’s a cycle path, we just opted to follow the cars. It resulted in a lot of people hollering “DICK HEADS” at us, one even flew off the phrase “Out of towner”, to my particular delight.

We’re going to take a route which will encompass 1500miles of terrain; we’re not entirely sure what that terrain’s made up of; we’re not sure if there are any uphills involved. In all honesty we are completely oblivious to what we are facing. A lot of the people – locals – that we have met in Sydney are telling us we wont make it, that we’ll die of dehydration, etc. etc. These are the same locals that are petrified of the sun to such an extent that they rarely venture out of the shade, and when they do you can see a childish sense of rebelliousness pulsing through their bodies, as though they’re sending a big “fuck you” to the sun. To reach a conclusion, Paul and myself are ignoring those people. I’ve checked the web, seems a fairly common practice ride. I asked a man in a bike shop he said “yeah mate, doable, though that fella out there smoking might find it ‘ard”. That “fella” out there was Paul. I’m optimistic.

Well, it’s just after 2am. First day is over. Our target was a pleasant campsite in Royal National Park; we’re actually camped in a small piece of woodland just off the Princess Highway. Our target was 80miles; We’ve done 30miles. Paul’s described our ramshackle camp spot: “Blair Witch territory”. I’d say today has been forgettable, definitely forgettable. Oh yes, we realised about 4hours ago we haven’t got anything to sleep on, we’ve got the tent to sleep in, but that’s it.

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Youth of…

Last week, whilst festering around the local crèche waiting to collect my nephew, I discovered (perhaps not to my surprise) that today’s ‘modern’ child has an unusually high sex drive for such an undeveloped creature. I decided that my general concern and intrigue had to be quelled. With my genitalia firmly strapped down and out of sight I opted to loiter by the perimeter fence of the local tuck shop (hub of the young and raunchy) under the guise of a blind man and his dog. Of course, ideas of ramming young Jane during recess weren’t all that filled these prematurely chauvinistic minds, so too did a sense of inQuire. Before long, Oliver (age 6 from Margate) came rattling the fences and questioning me of my business.

Well, my sex drive is massive. However, the inability to sustain an erection is somewhat of a quandary, in fact to garner an erection in the first place is problematic.” At this stage I was surprised by how formal and eloquent a 6-year-old could be. “The method I’ve employed to help me in this matter is to tape two untrimmed lollipop sticks to my elephantine wang.”

When I asked the female sucklings what prompted this move to early sexual development the answers always came back the same: “Reading Jacqueline Wilson helped improve both my vocabulary and my realisation that slag culture promotes the ideal of the intelligent, independent woman.”

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