Mockrates’ rePUBlic; or, Mockrates vs the Strawmen

As an amateur Hubert Watergipridget scholar, it brings me great joy to bring his renowned Mockratic dialogue to you today. For those who don’t know who Watergipridget is, I assume you’re some sort of illiterate scum of whom the world would be better off without!

Anyway, here it is.

It always astounds me that people refer to cold as bitter and yet the idea of warmth is one synonymous with all things good. Heat is stifling; cold inspiring.

A thin layer of ice had formed on the roads and paths, sending the aged sliding to their doom or keeping them safely locked away in solitude. Nothing is more disheartening to the soul than having to behold the elderly. A man does not wish to be reminded of his mortality but rather wishes for it to come as a surprise when he’s intoxicated and, the gods willing, naked.

Trashymachus and I entered The Chequers, it’s air smoke scented. I ordered a pint of ale called Lumpy Bogsprot and Trashymachus ordered one called Party Down at Hubert’s.

What ho, said Racisites, who happened to be sitting atop a tall stool at an unnecessarily high table along with Idiotus. Mockrates will surely join us in this discussion! Racisites bellowed.

A foreboding statement where Racisites is concerned, being the sort of person who spoke much but said little, and the little he said tended to be utter horseshit. Whilst I support the right to free speech, my support for shutting the hell up is often greater. By the gods I hate him. If I didn’t have to maintain the flimsy façade of civility, I’d happily beat him to death with a snooker ball in a sock.

Having said that, The Chequers was busy and Racisites and Idiotus had a table.

You will have noticed the flags festooning the lamps about town, said Racisites with a grin thick enough for a cart to get stuck in. What is your view on them, Mockrates?

My view is blocked by the walls of the pub at the moment, said I, for I am very witty.

What indeed is your opinion of them, then. Said Idiotus who never appreciates my wit, perhaps owing to his idiocy.

My opinion is that they are flags. Made from nylon or polyester, if I were to guess.

Is that an opinion or an observation? Asked Racisites

Perhaps, said Trashymachus, your question needs refining, Racisites.

Perhaps your mum needs refining, said Idiotus guffawing and glancing about to bask in the guffaws of others, of which there were none.

Very well. What is your opinion on what they represent?

Ah, my dear Racisites, I believe they are said to represent a nation. I declared in a manner that would perhaps be described as smug, were it not for my innate and obvious brilliance.

That’s a poor answer, claimed Racisites.

It is the very answer you asked for, said I. If you wish to go further, as to what a nation represents, then it would appear you are in need of a lesson in metaphysics.

Or maybe, Trashymachus chimed in, good Racisites means what do we make of the act of putting the flags upon the lamps?

Ah, but the two are intrinsically linked and would still require the lesson. For would the intent of those putting up the flags not be influenced by what the flags represent?

They represent patriotism. Pride in one’s nationality! Said Racisites, taking a gulp of his Spanish lager.

The flags represent patriotism? I asked. So, anyone can look upon them and feel patriotic and have pride in their nationality?

Yes. Said Idiotus slamming his hand upon the table.

Even a Frenchman? He could look upon these flags and feel proud of being French?

Absolutely not, said Idiotus.

No one can feel proud of being French, said Racitides.

Then the flags cannot represent patriotism or national pride as concepts in themselves. I took a sip of my beer. It tasted like someone had rubbed an orange on a handful of loose change. And so, I went on, I cannot answer your question unless you can define your terms.

The flags, they represent Britain, they represent Englishness! Said Idiotus as though it were obvious.

Ah, said Trashymachus, now we get somewhere.

If that somewhere happens to be the middle of nowhere at all! I plonked my glass down upon the table with enough force for some beer to slop upon it. A deliberate tactic to enjoy my beer with less beer in it. For are not Britain and England distinct entities? I asked.

No! said Idiotus.

Well… technically, yes. Said Racitides

They are?

Indeed.

So, which do the flags represent?

It would depend very much on the flag, said Trashymachus, there are Union Jacks and St George’s Crosses out there.

Union flags, Trashymachus. I corrected him.

Yes, I said as much.

No, you didn’t. You said Jack, when what you meant is flag.

What’s the difference?

Jack is for when flown at sea. Flag is for any and all other uses of the colours.

Seems a pedantic point to make considering the nature of the conversation, said Trashymachus with the air of a man who was already regretting leaving his house.

We are sophists, good Trashymachus. Teachers to one and all. What are teachers beyond professional pedants?

You make a good point, as always. Said Trashymachus, for I had made a good point as always.

Let us talk of the Union Flag, for the time being. I said. For St George’s Cross raises many questions, such as why the cross of a Cappadocian knight in the Roman army came to represent a tiny island he never came to.

You say the Union Flag represents Britain, though, though it cannot by definition. I said, coolly awaiting the rebuttal I was well equipped to counter-rebut! For, I am the great Mockrates, inventor of the Mockratic method and I had carefully made a clever trap.

It’s the flag of Britain for goodness sake! Blurted Idiotus. Who was an idiot.

A flag of the United Kingdom. I replied.

It’s the flag of the United Kingdom, for goodness’ sake. Said Idiotus.

With no reference to the flag of Wales. Is that not one of the entities which is supposedly united?

Ah yes, I always forget about Wales, said Racitides.

The people with the single greatest flag known to man, and the powers that be (or rather were) decided not to include it in the big one. If there’s one thing the Union Flag represents, it is oversight! I plonked my beer down again, this time with enough force to shatter the whole class and empty it completely.

The point is, said Racisites, I believe the flags were put up in defence of British culture.

And what –

And what, good Racisites, is British culture? Trashymachus interrupted me. I allowed it in this instance, as the man needs a win sometimes.

It’s under threat is what it is, said Idiotus.

His attempt at wit no doubt. He was not a witty man. To look at him was to be aware that somewhere a sack was down one potato.

You see, said Racisites, people effectively have to apologise for being British these days. Britain’s culture is being erased. Walk down a London street and you shall hear almost every language on the planet bar English!

Did not the English spend a great deal of time and resources in attempting to erase the Welsh language? A language that is, by definition, British? Said Trashymachus, which irritated me, because I hadn’t thought about that.

What? No… I mean. It’s a silly language. I had forgotten about the Welsh. We live in the here and now and cannot feel guilty or worry about things in the past that we weren’t around to have any responsibility for. Said Racisites.

Ah hah, so we cannot concern ourselves with the actions of those who inhabited the past? I asked.

No. Would you arrest a man because his great-grandfather committed murder? Said Idiotus.

So, when it comes to assessing British Culture, we cannot allude to the past. Therefore, we should feel no pride in Britain’s role in fighting the Nazis? We should not extol the virtues of any of the ‘British’ inventors and their works, as we ourselves had no direct role in producing them? I had them here. Or at least I would have if my audience had a single functioning brain between them. Alas, what they had was a lumpy sack of prejudice among which hid a single brain cell whose soul focus was keeping them alive, for all the good their living did for the world.

Of course we can be proud. Culture is history. Said Racisites.

Apart from the bad bits, of course. Said Trashymachus, breaking our unspoken agreement that it is I who make the sarcastic remarks. One day I really ought to strike him.

I suppose, said I, it is time for me to get another beverage. Of course. This was a clever ploy to form some witty retorts for future use. As I returned to the table Racisites was unleashing another turgid diatribe.

For example, simply look at the number of mosques that are popping up all over the place. He began. Britain is historically and culturally a Christian nation. Why should we let them start spreading all this Islam about the place?

Religious freedom, one would presume. Said Trashymachus, is freedom not a pillar of British culture?

Erm… said Racisites. Yes. But…

Trashymachus had foolishly disrupted the rhythm of the thing. I had quite the retort brewing. Not wanting it to go to waste, I ploughed on. Of course, said I, my good Racisites, with your great knowledge of history and British culture, you will be aware that Britain is only culturally and historically Christian after a certain point in history. Before the Romans came, our Anglo-Saxon ancestors, worshipped their own version of the Nordic pantheon and had their own cultural practises established. But our Great British ancestors gave up their established culture the moment some foreign invaders brought with them some stories of a magic Palestinian baby. They wholeheartedly embraced this Middle Eastern import. Surely this shows that culture is a rather fluid thing. Trying to preserve culture is like standing on a beach telling the tide to fuck off.

I’d stand on the beach telling the small boats to fuck off. Said Idiotus.

As would I. Said Racisites. I’d love to stand on the beach with a machine gun and shoot them all.

And this was supposedly a representative of Great British values. A man who would preserve Great British culture, revelling in the idea of shooting children for the crime of being born on a different landmass.

Would they not, Trashymachus began, be more deserving of a place in Britain, owing to the fact that they’ve put a lot of effort and taken great risks to be here? All we did was fall out our mother’s fannies.

Traitor! Yelled Idiotus. How dare you make me think about my mother’s fanny!

The fact is, said Racisites, who seemed unphased by the introduction of his mother’s vagina to the conversation – it’s a sad state of affairs that ‘the fact is’ is often followed by anything but a fact. Very rarely does someone say, ‘The fact is, the summit of Ben Nevis is 1,345 metres.’

The fact is, Racisites repeated as though reasserting himself after a brief narrative tangent. Foreigners coming here, are often criminals and will often commit terrible acts of sexual violence!

But my dear Racisites, are you suggesting that native Britains are incapable of committing such acts. Was Britain free of all crime and a bastion of women’s rights before the arrival of foreigners?

Well, no… not exactly, but… I think victims of crime would prefer to be victims of a proper English criminal! Idiotus replied on Racisites behalf.

No… not that. Said Racisites who realised he had got himself stuck in his own trap. The fact is, Britain is a very specific thing and just so happens to adhere to the world I have created in my own head, and anything that deviates even slightly from my comfortable image, is a threat and must be destroyed. And that is why I – I mean they – put up the flags. Look at my flag, it says, this is mine. Everyone must conform to how I want reality to be or suffer my wrath!

We all fell into a depressive silence. Ultimately, this is why we cannot have nice things. For all our talk of intelligence and rationality, unique to humanity, the fragile nature of society is subject to the whims of those possessed of a dangerous mix of ignorance and arrogance.

Given the option of a truth, backed up by the evidence of their eyes and ears or the option of a false reality that allows them to revel in their worst prejudices, humanity will, by and large choose the latter.

And there you have it. The Mockratic method had once again won out. I, the Great Mockrates, had once again proven his intellectual superiority and done a great service to mankind.

We finished our drinks and went back out into the cold.

For those who wish to read more of Watergipridget’s work. You can download a collection of his short stories here.

For those who don’t wish to read more, you can go back to rolling around in your own filth, I guess.

Infinite Typewriters

I wrote this in a terrible rush. I have not edited it or even done a cursory proofread. Nor shall I. For this is true art in its rawest form. If you can’t cope with poor grammar, awful sentence structure, plot holes and two-dimensional characters, then the modern world is not for you.

Get enough monkeys in a room with typewriters and they’ll produce Shakespeare. That’s what people said. I was unsure whether this would be a collaborative project, or whether each individual monkey would manage it on their own. If the latter, does each monkey produce the same play or do they each produce a different one?

Of course, as wonderful as this sounds, it fails to address the fact that it would be plagiarism. Whilst the works of Shakespeare are in the public domain, there is nothing particularly impressive about copying. It’s also less impressive than Shakespeare in the fact that the Great Bard predates the existence of typewriters by a couple of centuries at least. Get a monkey to write Shakespeare by hand and I’ll be impressed. With a quill at that, not a ball-point or fancy calligraphy set.

The concept interested me enough, however, to start the Infinite Typewriters project. The name was cleverly chosen to avoid the ire of animal rights[1] activists. The capturing of monkeys for the purpose of producing a new Shakespeare play would no doubt be prohibited by international law, though I suspect it’s far kinder than testing pharmaceuticals or cosmetics.

I often wonder whether previous theorists would have been pleased or disappointed had they attempted the infinite monkeys theory, only for the first monkey to produce Hamlet flawlessly.

In the first year of Infinite Typewriters, the monkeys showed very little interest in the machines themselves. It seemed it was going to take a long time to get any results. As it is, I have all the time in the world; more on that later.

In the third year when I had a total of fourteen monkeys, they produced three chapters of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code. Well, more or less. The grammar was better, and the characters immediately seemed more fleshed out.

In the fifth year, when I had a total of one hundred and eight monkeys, certain factions started to emerge. The writing was forgotten and the monkeys took to killing each other. It would appear that not only would this project potentially require infinite monkeys and typewriters, but infinite rooms to keep them separate.

Ten years in, people began to grow suspicious of the declining monkey population, which of course meant I had to slow things down, allowing populations to bounce back before securing more.

Fifteen years in, I had thousands of monkeys who had produced half of the Bible and almost replicated Einstein’s Special Relativity, though their formula was E = FC[2].

But no Shakespeare.

Twenty years in and I had ten thousand monkeys tapping away at ten thousand typewriters. Their output was impressive enough for me to get enquiries from some substandard universities for guest lecturers.

Forty years in and I could no longer keep track of the number of monkeys as they kept moving about, making it difficult for me to count. I therefore had to devote some time to creating a monkey counting machine.

Fifty years in and the machine said I had 145.9 monkeys, proving my understanding of programming and engineering was significantly more flawed than I thought.

Fifty-five years in and I outsourced the thing and discovered I had nine-hundred-thousand monkeys, who were now producing accurate translations of well-known novels. Still no Shakespeare.

Jump ahead three-hundred-and-nine years and I have literally millions of monkeys working at high-tech typewriters that would automatically notify me should any Shakespeare be produced. Three-hundred-and-ten years, and it finally happened.

Two houses, both alike in dignity…

Monkey four-million-one-hundred-and-eighty-five, after eighty-five years had done it.

Word for word. Beat for beat. Romeo and Juliet had been produced by a monkey. So impressed I was by this, that I snatched up the manuscript and the monkey, and hopped into my time machine[3].

I headed back to Shakespeare’s day when he was working in London, roughly around the time he was working on Romeo and Juliet. Of course, I hadn’t dared go back to meet the Bard himself until now, mostly due to nervousness. They say one should never meet one’s heroes. What if he turned out to be a particularly dull fellow despite his catalogue of great works? What if I turned out to be a dull fellow, boring the man?

Still, I had in my hands one of his most famous works and a monkey who had written it. I couldn’t fail to impress him now.

I walked through the streets of Rennaissance London, ignoring the powerful stench of faeces both animal and human alike, mixing together to make something fouler than either one alone.

I wore a costume I had bought from a fancy dress shop, an oversight on my part, as I rather stood out. What I should have done was use the time machine to literally get period accurate attire.

Anyway, long story short, I came upon the theatre currently housing the playwright and attempted to gain entry. A rather burly man told me I couldn’t go in on account of the rehearsals taking place. I got around this rather annoying obstacle by using a disintegration ray that I had picked up from a holiday to the future[4].

The actors were indeed at work on Taming of the Shrew potentially Shakespeare’s worst play. I expected to find the Bard either on the stage himself or directing the thespians. Instead, I saw no sign of the man, though I’m willing to accept contemporary imagery of him might be off.

I saw a stout fellow acting as director and approached him boldly. It’s amazing what being in possession of a disintegration ray has on one’s self-confidence. I demanded to see Shakespeare. He said that was impossible, no one got to see him when he was busy writing, lest they upset his flow.

I declared that I must be permitted to see him, for I have a play that may interest him.

‘A play that may interest he! He says,
The greatest writer of the English lan-
Guage? You think he wants to see things writ by thee?’

I could tell he was struggling with the concept of iambic pentameter. I thrust the manuscript under his nose but still he denied me. And so, I disintegrated him. The actors exchanged half astonished, half terrified looks. Still, when I demanded to see the Bard, they were hesitant, exchanging more nervous looks, bordering on desperation.

I had to disintegrate two actors and a musician before they eventually relented. A trembling young actor with a face caked in paint took me back stage and stopped before a thick wooden door.

He nervously fumbled with a set of keys, setting one to a lock.

‘He insists on being locked away, does he?’ I asked, ‘He doesn’t wish for any distractions?’

The actor said nothing. There were tears dribbling from his eyes, washing smeary lines through his makeup. He unlocked the door and revealed the finest writer the English language – perhaps any language – has known.

Horror! Horror! I cannot tell you the pain I felt upon this moment. My heart shattered, my soul was torn in twain. For in that room, the room of Shakespeare, sat nine monkeys, scribbling away.

[1] Potentially missed wordplay opportunity – ‘Animal Writes!’. Save this for next project.

[2] I cleverly used the footnote as the squared, as I don’t know how to do it otherwise. Anyway, they concluded that Energy was equivalent to the Faeces thrown at the Speed of light squared, showing they didn’t really know what they were talking about.

[3] The machine I had created in order to run this experiment.

[4] It gets rather bleak around 2032, and humanity is eventually wiped out in 2058 when an ill thought out experiment causes the moon to knock into the Earth, sending the Earth hurtling into the sun.

Getting a Head in Life

Introducing an extract of a short story I wrote to avoid doing any work. The premise came about when I asked the very timely question: Imagine Weekend at Bernie’s, but with the added challenge of the body having no head.

Brennan had a number of problems. First of all, he was called Brennan, which sounded more like a brand of yogurt than a man in his late twenties. He also had a very respectable job at Durantis Technologies, a multi-billion-dollar company, which, if you’ve watched enough movies from the late 90s, you’ll know is terrible. You wouldn’t wish middle-class stability on your worst enemy. Decent pay packets leading to having disposable income, large houses with literal white-picket fences, no financial stresses and so on. It’s the sort of hell Dante Alighieri refused to depict in his Divine Comedy because it would have been too terrible to contemplate. The point is, being a healthy, fairly well off and moderately attractive white man in an economically prosperous nation is tough, and more people need to understand that.

He was also working closely with the CEO, overseeing a complex and tumultuous merger with Turandis Technologies, another multi-billion-dollar company. With so many billions of dollars at stake, the stress was mounting. Some might throw out lazy metaphors such as having the weight of the world upon his shoulders, forgetting that the world is floating through space and, assuming he was underneath it (therefore in space himself), it wouldn’t weigh that much. A more accurate thing to say would be to say that he had the stress of a large corporate merger to deal with, but that lacks poetry.

Brennan stood to receive a huge bonus should everything go well, which would only add to his misery. As already established, having lots of money is bad. The working classes, crammed into their social housing and eating Spam straight from the tin and drinking gin straight from the bathtub live in enviable happiness. Their gruelling, hard and laborious twelve-hour shifts, and the challenge of paying all their outgoings makes for a full and exciting life. If only they knew the sacrifices the obscenely wealthy made to enable their happy existence.

He got into the office at seven-thirty am and put some expensive coffee into the even more expensive coffee machine. He pressed the button to get it started, situated on a panel featuring a multitude of buttons and knobs, the majority of which did nothing, but a one-buttoned coffee machine would look cheap.

Bernard Shaw (not that one), the CEO, wouldn’t be in until much later. A CEO’s time was too precious to be wasted sitting in traffic, and so he wouldn’t get out of bed until rush hour was long passed. Rush hour had been stretched out over the years, now taking up at least three and a half hours. This gave Brennan plenty of time to work on the Big Important Presentation, or the BIP as it was known.

Acronyms were important in the world of business. Time was money, so it needed to be saved where it could. The cost of extra syllables across the year could really mount up. The coffee machine gave a jovial ping, and Brennan went and poured himself a cup.

Coffee made the world go round. ‘Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee!’ people would say, wide eyed and slack jawed, a thin stream of spittle dribbling from the corner of their mouth.

‘Just don’t,’ they’d say. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’

Brennan returned to his desk and switched on his Bapple CAM. They were more expensive than PCs and therefore harder to use. Sleek metallic rectangles they were, going went ‘Boom-boom’ whenever you turned them on.

He opened the BIP. It was currently twenty-slides long. Nineteen slides too many in Bernard Shaw’s (not that one) opinion. Too text heavy… his words echoed in Brennan’s mind. Don’t use ten words where three will do… and don’t use three where one would do. Don’t use words when a noise will do… sometimes noises are too long. A gesture. Sum the BIP up in a single movement of the arm. People are too busy to be interpreting noises.

By half nine, Brennan had the BIP whittled down to three slides containing two arm gestures and a waggle of his left foot. He printed off the notes and crept into Bernard Shaw’s office. The door was made of frosted glass, the sort that could only just be seen through. Or at least it would be if it wasn’t for the grey Durantis logo running across it.

By the windows, looking down onto the city below, was an obnoxiously large desk. On the left wall was a poster containing a number of penguins huddled together with the message, ‘Penguins huddle together for warmth. However, we don’t pay you to learn facts about penguins. Get back to work!’ Running along the floor was a strip of green cloth with a small hole at the end, for practising putting.

Brennan had never played golf, on account of not being a CEO. Another sacrifice made by the corporate overlords. If they’re playing golf, there’s less opportunity for poor people to be bored to death by such a ridiculous game.

Brennan placed the printouts on Shaw’s desk. He should have left there and then, but he was taken by a sudden urge to try his hand at putting. He selected a club from a collection by the door and picked up a ball from a glass bowl. He teed up and nervously thwacked the ball. It was launched across the room, smashing a lamp.

He selected another ball and lined up the shot, giving it a hefty tap. The ball rolled into the hole. Brennan decided he was very good at golf, and would take it up if he ever became a CEO, to protect the poor people of course.

He selected one more ball and placed it on the tee. This would be the biggest shot yet, he decided. He swung the club back and heard an ominous thunk. He felt as though his heart had exploded, releasing some horrible gunge. He turned slowly, not knowing what he was going to see.

He saw Shaw, lying on the floor. Or rather, he saw Shaw’s body. Shaw’s head had rolled out of the office, through the open door he had silently crept through.

He wasn’t supposed to be in yet! Why had he arrived early?

Brennan panicked and dropped the offending club. He tapped is foot anxiously, biting down on his tongue. What to do? What to do? He heard the ping of the elevator at the end of the office. The marketing team would soon be in, and they’d see what he had done. He had knocked Shaw’s head clean off. The big merger meeting would be ruined.

In a fit of blind panic, Brennan ran out of the office, scooped up Shaw’s head and returned. He shut the world out, plonking the disembodied head on the desk. The wide brown eyes glowered at him, as if to say, ‘What have you done now, you silly silly man?’

Brennan had no answer.

If this sort of thing tickles your fancy, why not buy this book. If it doesn’t, buy it anyway. It’s only 99p you tight arse!

On Phrases

As Western society marches towards fascism, which can only lead to a more intolerant and violent world that undoes any progress made over the last few decades, I think it’s only appropriate that I talk about phrases that annoy me.

I have often been told I am too literal a person. This may be the reason I tend to avoid ‘phrases’. They annoy me. All to often they make no sense. Even quotable lines, under any scrutiny, fall apart and can be discarded to the ‘nonsense’ pile; a pile that grows ever larger, threatening to cause a landslide of nonsense, burying the village of ‘Over-stretched Metaphor’.

My theory is, once you reach a certain age, you can spout any old bollocks and claim it’s an oft used expression. ‘It takes a strong swimmer to measure a whale.’ That’s one I’ll be telling my grandkids.

Anyway, a particular memory stands out in my mind. I recall sitting in a maths class attempting to make sense of ‘the scientific calculator’. Upon getting the wrong answer to a question I said, ‘This calculator is broken!’

To which the maths teacher said, ‘It’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools.’ This is possibly the most ridiculous statement ever uttered. I’d say it’s the mark of a good craftsman who can cast an eye over his tools and say, ‘Well this isn’t going to work. That saw’s blunt. Ever tried cutting wood with a blunt saw? You’ll be there for ages, and it won’t be a smooth cut. Either sharpen your saw or get a new one.’

The phrase should be, ‘It’s a poor craftsman who, upon seeing his tools aren’t fit for purpose, says, ‘I’ll give it a go anyway, because I’m so good it doesn’t matter that my chisel doesn’t have a handle.’’

One my nan used to say was, ‘You’d laugh to see a pudding roll.’ The phrase suggests that I’d laugh at anything. The problem is, it suggests that seeing a pudding flop about of its own accord isn’t innately amusing. If I was stood in a forest clearing and saw a Swiss Roll tumble on by, I probably would have a little chuckle.

A president once said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ And, by and large, everyone thought, ‘that’s well good. What a clever man.’ Realistically, the crowd should have responded, ‘No, that’s not how democracy works you idiot!’

He claimed to know how to run a nation, and then put himself forward for position of nation runner, asking people to vote for him. The contract there is, the people would vote for him, allowing him to be nation runner, and in turn, he’d run it in their favour. If after voting for him, the voters have to then ask what they can do for their country, what was the point in that whole election bollocks?

Then there’s, ‘The only thing needed for evil to succeed is that good men do nothing.’ This is dangerously close to victim blaming. Good people have their own lives to live. They can’t constantly be on the lookout with a big stick for evil doers. Why don’t evil people just stop being evil? Could a serial killer stand up in court and say, ‘yes I did assault, brutally murder and then dismember several people, but the point your missing is that good people didn’t do anything!’

Having said that, my brain is so shit that I was once brought low by a friend telling me that the pineapple was once seen as a symbol of wealth and status, which is why the pineapple is featured in a lot of architecture, and then they said, ‘For example, there is a pineapple on the roof of St Paul’s.’

‘An actual pineapple?’ said I

‘Yeah, an actual pineapple!’ They were giddy with enthusiasm.

‘Does that mean it’s someone’s job to change it like once a week?’ I enquired innocently

They responded to my question with another question. ‘What?’ said they.

‘Like, the pineapple would rot and attract pests. Also, wouldn’t it just fall off? Like if there’s a strong wind or something. How many tourists do you think have been taken out over the years by falling fruit?’

My friend looked at me for some time before repeating, ‘What?’

‘The pineapple on the roof!’

‘No, when I said, “an actual pineapple” I didn’t mean an actual pineapple!’

Which just goes to show people abuse language, so it’s no wonder phrases are stupid. Phrases can be forgiven for being nonsensical when people don’t mean the words that they say, despite the very specific meanings of said words.

There’s just no hope for anyone.

Buy this book if you like.

On Drink

After an afternoon of lonely day drinking, I paused to reflect on how well dry January was going. As a gym going, must eat-five-a-dayer (though I consider it a success if I manage 1 and a half), I often wonder about the effect of my drinking. I’m not an excessive drinker, but I am a consistent one. On a good week (or a bad one, depending on your view) I can average 1-2 pints a day or, if I’m feeling particularly fancy, a glass of wine or two.

This is probably considered too much by medical standards, particularly in regard to cancer risks, a disease that seems impossible to escape. It’ll get us all eventually if global warming doesn’t. My local pub has a poster over the urinals detailing the symptoms of colorectal cancer, which is not the most uplifting reading material when doing a two-pint wee. Having said that, over the years medical advice on drinking has got to the point that even looking at a pint of beer is considered liable to increase your chance of some sort of cancer by as much as 5000%.

I know talking about dry January is boring, but talking about drinking is equally boring. I suppose the sad truth of the matter is most of us, when it comes down to it, are quite boring. I find a drink or two takes the edge of that realisation.

People who give up drinking (mostly famous actors who have access to fancy rehab centres and have a flock of people ready to cheer on their sobriety and millions in the bank to inject other forms of excitement into their lives) tend to oversell the benefits.

‘I lost so much weight. I sleep better. I’ve got more energy. My emotions are better regulated. I can hear the thoughts of pigeons. The leg I lost in Nam grew back.’ It’s never ending. If that is the case for drinkers turned non-drinkers, I say kudos, but just once I want someone to say, ‘I gave up drinking and have never been more depressed. My family no longer invite me to Sunday dinner. And I keep shitting myself for no reason.’ Just for the sake of balance if nothing else.

The problem is, I feel there is no greater place than a pub. If I were a spiritual man and believed in an eternal paradise, it’d be one of two things. First, it’d be forever waking up and realising it’s only 3 am, meaning you don’t have to get up and get ready for school yet (it has to be school; it hasn’t been the same since I entered the world of work). Second, it would be a nice pub. Not too busy, but enough people for there to be a decent vibe.

A pub pint is about as close as I get to a ritualistic experience. Maybe being spiritually bereft has left a hole in me somewhere. Perhaps all human beings need that slightly ethereal edge to their lives. An embrace of the otherworldly and illogical.

Then there’s the aesthetic nature of drinking. It goes beyond the pure physical pleasure of the stuff. Get yourself a perfect pint in a sturdy glass. Whatever shade your beer, be it a shimmering black, a woody brown, a warm amber or a shimmering gold, a beer is a work of art, especially with a couple centimetres of tantalising foam. A small tumbler of whisky is like a poem, distilled into a potent liquid. There’s nothing quite so sophisticated as a glass of wine sloshing from side to side with the wild gesticulation of a passionate storyteller claiming, ‘And then, I says to him I says…’

That first metallic hit on the tongue is more refreshing than anything you can imagine. If it’s whisky, the powerful thump to the chest makes you feel alive. The sharp taste of white wine makes me think I could be an ancient Greek philosopher, discussing the latest developments in metaphysics. Perhaps I’d discover quantum metaphysics. Why is there something rather than nothing? Child’s play; imagine something that is also nothing at the same time, depending on it being observed. A mellow red makes me feel like an old lord, hunkered down in his fort for winter, eyes bleary with the smoke of the fireplace.

Look, the point is. It’s either I over idealise drinking as some high experience, or I sit and listen to my own thoughts at night! Maybe drinking is healthier.

An Update for Appearance’s Sake.

I generally think of myself as quite laid-back and mellow. However, whenever I say this out loud people laugh at me, shake their heads and then tell me I’m the worst person they’ve ever met. Just one of the reasons I stopped going to therapy.

I have started to notice what everyone’s getting at though. I recently threw a book into recycling as a symbolic punishment for these offenses:

“The clouds were the colour of pewter jugs that threatened to spill over…”

And:

“Her mouth fell open rudely.”

Sunday Times bestseller that. The first offence focuses on the colour of clouds. Being the colour of pewter is fine, but why would the fact that they are jugs affect the colour. The fact that the jugs are threatening to spill over would also bear no relevance to the colour. “It’s metaphorical! The author is stating that it looked like it was going to rain!” I hear you cry. And I get that; doesn’t stop it being shit though. It’s established in the beginning of the sentence that we’re focusing on colour and ends with shit imagery. A much better version of that would be. ‘It looked like it was going to rain.’

The second offence… how does someone’s mouth fall open rudely?

I threw it in with the recycling in the hopes it’ll be recycled into a better book. I’ve been seething with rage ever since. So maybe I’m not that laid-back.

I hate social media

Now, you could argue that a blog is a form of social media, but seeing as I don’t get much in the way of readers, the social aspect doesn’t really come into it. I hate social media with an intense and slightly painful passion. I would have nothing to do with it if it wasn’t for the fact that it is part of my job. For a lot of companies, the role of social media manager gets shoved into the realm of digital marketing. Makes sense, it’s digital and is, to some degree, marketing.

Still, I have no skills with social media marketing. Because social media is terrible. To be fair, I have no skills with digital marketing either. In fact, I have no employable skills whatsoever, beyond the ability to spout nonsense in an interview.

‘You said you could do this!’

‘It was an interview, I’d agree to kill a man if it got me the job.’

‘Would you kill a man?’

‘No, I’d just say I would and then make up excuses later.’

*Would you kill the person you love most to prove your loyalty?*

Anyway, last night, after finally getting some content signed off, I had to whittle down a lengthy post to the acceptable lengths of Twitter. In doing so, I forgot to add a colon. So I deleted it. I then spent twenty minutes stressing about the best way to replace the post with something better, then I remembered I didn’t care. Social media is a cesspit of pointless drivel. Most companies I have accidentally found myself working for are very specialised, which makes the whole social media angle pointless. Yet, companies are convinced that they’ll live or die by their social media presence. I remember having an argument with a manager whose favourite phrase was ‘where’s the value?’

I discovered that just repeating it back to them was enough to win the debate.

‘Where’s the value?’

‘Where is the value?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you?’

‘I know, but where is the value?’

‘Yes, where is it?’

‘The value?’

‘Yes, where’s the value?’

‘Where is the value?’

My point being, there was none, and endlessly searching for it was futile. Something won’t always appear just because you’re looking for it. My subsequent point was, given control of an IT budget, a person is unlikely to fire up Twitter in the hope that someone’s tweeting about their state of the art cyber-security suite. If they were, then God help us all. One of the Hindu one’s preferably, they seem the most well-adjusted.

If you’re selling hats, maybe social media works. Everyone has a head and hats aren’t necessarily that expensive. It’s also something you can sell in a visual way. “Buy this hat. Wear it on your #head. #wearinghatsonhead’ you can say, followed by a picture of someone wearing said hat on their head.

As a teenager, I had a Myspace page. I used it to learn some basic HTML coding and showed everyone how unique I was by making everything black and having an emo song blast out every time someone landed on the page.

This gave way to Facebook. This gave way to me deleting Facebook. Nothing made me despair more than seeing the sorts of things people felt compelled to tell the world. ‘How will we contact you?’ friends exclaimed. ‘I have a phone, you can text me. Alternatively, we’ve been friends for many years and you know where I live!’ said I. I was a naïve fool. I deleted Facebook and, subsequently, my social life too.

I haven’t seen the documentary ‘The Social Network’, so I have no idea what the rational behind Facebook was. I only know that if I had written the script, it would have gone like this:

Int. a bustling, slightly unsafe laboratory – Day

Mark Zukerberg taps on a test tube filled with a sinister looking liquid.

Mark: I’ve done it!

Previously unmentioned person: done what?

Mark: I have created Facebook

PUP: What does that do?

Mark: You can find your friends and add them.

PUP: And then what?

Mark: talk to them.

PUP: Oh thank goodness. This solves a vital issue. For generations, friends have had no way of communicating with one another effectively. We’ve had to make do with flailing our arms and screeching at one another.

The fact that Facebook not only took off but became a billion dollar industry is equal parts astonishing and distressing. In a twist worthy of the Twilight Zone, I recently had to make a new Facebook page, primarily to pretend to manage various business pages. I also joined a amateur dramatic society and they said ‘You’ll need a Facebook page so we can contact you.’

‘How did you contact people before Facebook?’ I asked.

‘What are you talking about?’ they said, ‘Facebook is, always has been and always shall be. All hail the book of faces!’ as they spoke, everyone bowed down and began to chant.

This unfortunate circumstance means I occasionally accidentally see someone’s status. Usually, attention seeking, rambling nonsense. A lot of selfies too. Here I am at a place. Here I am at another place. If no one was interested enough to be with you at said place, why do you think people will be interested that you were there? Then there are those politically attuned, who post newspaper articles with a scathing comment, to garner some good old-fashioned agreement.

I find all of this rather irksome. A healthier individual would say, ‘well, they’re happy. Let them continue.’ But down that path lies madness.

The real worst thing about social media is people’s insistence on sharing things their children do. ‘Look at my baby, they’re bashing a window with a toy train!’ ‘Look at my baby, they’re literally doing nothing of interest to anyone outside this room. I should really put my phone down and devote my full concentration to enjoying the antics of my baby, but I’d much rather exploit him for likes. That’s right, I’m prostituting my child!’

Someone showed me a picture of a child on Instagram in their school uniform. They had scribbled over the logo and said ‘Obviously, I’ve taken precautions. There are some dodgy people on the Internet.’ Said I: ‘I notice you haven’t taken the simpler precaution of not documenting your child’s every moment online.’

They no longer show me pictures. I feel sorry for the offspring of my generation. Very few photos of me exist. Primarily because I was the second child, so naturally was less interesting, and I was born before the internet was available to the public and there was a camera on every device. This is good. I like this fact. I can create a sense of mystery. There are no embarrassing childhood moments for people to see and go ‘hah! You were a child once and had no sense of self-awareness!’ Any child born after say, 2012 will have their entire lives broadcast to one and all; friend and stranger alike. All because their parents had such fragile egos they could only be happy for fleeting moments, so long as enough people smashed that like button.

You all make me sick.

I don’t care what the [ex]royalman said!

This may make me sound sociopathic, but I don’t care about the royal family. I’m not an anti-royalist, because that would mean I care, but as I just stated, I don’t. You may think writing a blog about the royal family suggests the opposite is true, but it isn’t. I don’t care, so shut your stupid face.

When drawn into a debate, I have often defended the royal family. Not because I care (I don’t), but because if we ever want a Game of Thrones type situation to kick off, we need to have a monarchy.

I have some respect for the Queen, as I once saw a clip of the Changing of the Colours… or something like that. I don’t know, there were horses. It was a really hot day, and she – a lady in her 90s – stood respectfully for the whole thing. My nan died in her 80s, and she spent the last ten years of her life sitting down, only ever getting up when a comfier chair presented itself.

It’s weird when you think about it though, as the whole parade was in her honour. I don’t think anyone really wanted to be there, least of all her. But it was traditional. And what is tradition other than doing things we don’t want to do because they’ve always been done?

“But it’s disgusting!”
“It’s traditional!!”

Anyway, what is currently irking me about the royal family – unfortunately making me care to some degree – is the media circus surrounding Harry and Meghan. Not because I care about them necessarily; I care that everyone else seems to care. There have been a number of headlines and articles that have wound me up during my morning poo. One being the claim that Harry and Meghan have had to ‘rely’ on the money left to Harry by Diana.

“Is this all there is? We’re going to have to call Oprah!”

At risk of belittling their plight, I think they’re going to be alright. Assuming they budget, they can probably live a decent enough life. If they need to top their funds up, Meghan could always pick up a few acting shifts. Harry could stack shelves at B&M. The point is, we’re unlikely to get into a position where Harry is regularly seen on street corners giving blow jobs for £5 a go. Mainly because I don’t think he could stomach seeing his grandmother’s disapproving face every time he gets paid.

There’s also the idea that people are shocked that someone in the royal family is racist. I thought it was generally presumed they all were. Phillip’s racism has become a recurring joke. These are perhaps the most outdated white folk on the planet. Elizabeth’s great-great-grandmother was queen Victoria who claimed to be Empress of India, and we’re surprised someone was a bit racist!

Then there’s this bold claim:

I’d go so far as to say it’s going to have longer lasting consequences than the Reformation!

It’s nice to know that those behind the Daily Mirror have their priorities straight. In terms of royal crises and their severity, it goes:

Edward VII abdicates to marry an American.
Harry and Meghan don’t want to be royals any more.
Prince Andrew used to go on holiday with a sex-trafficking paedo

We all remember that right? I didn’t just dream it? I have been known to have some pretty bizarre dreams involving members of the royal family.

If I was a cynical man I’d suggest that maybe the powers that be are jumping on this and stirring up media hype to get us easily distracted morons to forget all about that.

As I say, I don’t care one way or the other about the royal family. But if the institution wants to remain, they’ll have to modernise themselves soon. The claims of racism will hit them hard and, seeing as no one’s come out to deny it or decry racism, then perhaps there’s something to it. From a marketing perspective, they missed a trick. Embracing Meghan as one of their own, would have been a step forward into the twenty-first century. Not that I’m suggesting embracing a person of colour simply for their own political gain would be a good thing. Just good from a marketing point. And marketing is always evil.

They seem somewhat blind. If they’re not careful, public favour will swing towards republicanism. They bring in the tourists, people will cry, but the tourists rarely get to have dinner with the Queen.

In an age of austerity. In an increasingly ‘woke’ society (whatever that means), more and more people will start to wonder why we pay posh people’s rent when they have enough as it is. Simply for slipping out of a posh vagina.

For a long time I’ve been saying we need to go one way or the other. Disband the monarchy or disband parliament and make it an absolute monarchy.

If we go with the latter we can go mental and invade France, without having the trouble of having to justify it. Beyond ‘the old woman with the fancy hat said to.’ If we go with the former, then maybe we can make journalists really work for that ad revenue.

100 years is the record. I reckon we could beat that.

We all know monarchy can only ever end with a beheading. As I say, I bear no real animosity towards the royals. I don’t really know any of them. So maybe don’t cut of their heads. If you have to cut of a head, take Piers Morgan’s.

Yes. That’s the conclusion to this blog. Let’s decapitate Piers Morgan.

…What? Oh, okay.

For legal reasons I need to point out that I don’t actually endorse the beheading of Piers Morgan, no matter how much of a wankstain he is.