I'm not going to be funny this week. I simply can't do it. My cat died, the milk's gone off, I've a flat tire on my bicycle, my stock has plummeted, I went to look for some lint in my bellybutton and there was none, there's a fly in my ointment and in my soup, the glass if half full alright but my mate just backwashed it and he has cooties, all the time Aslan's 'Crazy World' is stuck in my head. It's a very bad time for me.
No laughing matter folks. Stop snickering. These maybe the tears of a clown, but they are just as valid as the tears of any other circus employee. You think it's all fun and games for me, having a nice week to write the column, thinking up of stuff to say then typing, doing the word count, then typing some more, and a little more. And then a small bit more. It's hard graft.
Nothing happened this week even remotely funny. I didn't notice anything positive or uplifting or joyous or worthy of mention. It was a terrible week. I can normally scan the 24 hour news channels for some heartening news. If you edit all those life affirming 'And finally…' segments at the end of hour together you can have a good stint of cheery good tidings. The stories are usually about grannies finding a legendary rock star's cod piece in their attic or a houshold pet getting rescued from inside another household pet; generally happy occasions that make you glad to be of this earth.
This week was grim. There wasn't even any Siamese babies successfully separated in a far flung country. In fact, I saw on TV how they sowed two Siamese babies back together for being too much of a nuisance to look after when separate. Grim viewing, especially after watching the two hour TV3 special 'When Bears Attack Cuter Animals While Simultaneously Involved In Some Of The Worlds' Deadliest Police Chases'. I could find no solace in the TV or the wider world this week.
Home life was equally dispiriting. I rarely reveal personal details here, but the torrid state of my domestic affairs has left me with no choice. I have begun to suspect that my other half is cheating on me with one of my closest confidant, my imaginary friend Milko, whom I myself had to wrestle away from the clutches of Sally from Home and Away some fifteen years ago. What a predicament: girlfriend running off with imaginary friend. And he's not half as funny as me.
Really do you expect me to be humorous under this strain? I'm supposed to just turn it on and off like a tap? You think it's reasonable to assume that I can conjure up with top quality jokes in an ad hoc manner, like, say, "What's the first sign of madness? Suggs walk up your driveway."? Okay so I did it that time, but that doesn't detract from my position of being too down in the dumps to be funny.
And besides it's no time for humour. There are problems everywhere in the world and you want to just laugh away, happy out, forget about your worries and pretend everything is going to be fine. "Oh I'll read this column. It's funny, and I'll get a big laugh and then go eat a biscuit." God you people make me sick. It's your duty as a member of the human race to avoid silly meandering rubbish like this column and use your time on this earth to do something useful. Now go on, get lost. I've got important things to be doing. Sing 'Crazy World' for a while being a top priority.
The Zeitghost
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
"Never Work!" - Situationism for the Bone Idle
Work. Not a fan. Even this, this fanciful malarkey is above my
station. I'd rather be lying idle right now than having to type this.
Ugh. It pains me to think that my hands could be resting contentedly,
maybe lying prone on a cushion or playfully sagging by my side.
Instead I'm rigorously pounding my digits into the keyboard, with no
respite, bashing, bruising, possibly scarring the remainder of my
fingerprints off for this godforsaken column. Aaaaghh! I think I
sprained my left index finger when over reaching for a lower case 'm'.
Dear God how can a man be expected to work in these conditions!
Okay so my plight isn't as bad as those small urchins forced to make
sneakers or cheap clothes but we're in the same boat. Labour, to a
work-shy like me, is a life-long struggle. At least child workers get
to look forward to an early retirement from their work at 13. Me? I'll
be spending the remainder of my days avoiding it, which is hard work
in itself.
I always had a penchant for the French situationist philosopher Guy
Debord, who brazenly scribed 'Never Work!' on a Parisian wall. Being
too lazy to delve deeper into in his thinking, I assumed he was just a
right dosser. I subsequently discovered he had formulated many
different theories and written many books on this situationist
philosophy. What a fraud! If he had being spelling out 'Never Work!'
on his bedside pillow with bits of crusty sleep that tumbled from his
eyelids, I may have had more respect for him.
Unfortunately one must work. Unless you win the lottery and then you
can do whatever you like. I think the people I mistrust most in the
world – more than despotic tyrants, more than beady eyed little
children, more than the beady eyed little children of despotic tyrants
- are people who go into work the day after they've won the lottery.
That's a hate crime right there: a sado-masochist slight at the wage
slave; "I work, and I don't even have to." A suitable punishment would
strip the offender of the lottery winnings immediately; use it or lose
it. As an added humiliation give it instead to someone undeserving and
force them to spend it irresponsibly.
People don't see my side of the arguments because they're always
looking at the bigger picture. "If we all stopped working, then
everything would grind to a halt,". Yada, yada, boring. What about
looking at the smaller, more personal, blinkered picture for a while?
The one that goes 'Sod it anyway, I don't care what happens but I'm
going to go to lie down and sleep right here, right now and that's
it'. I bet that when you wake up the world will be exactly as you
left it. Airline pilots are sadly exempted from this sagely advice.
I try to make the best of a bad lot. I work from home, which is the
probably the world's greatest invention. Other housemates toddle off
to their workplace, leaving me 'working' from bed till about noon.
They never know what goes on when that door closes – no one ever knows
what goes on with people who work from home. We are a byzantine puzzle
for you office monkeys, treated with a mixture of contempt and
jealousy. Sometimes, just to spite you outdoor types, I work from
illogical places in my house: the attic, the coal bucket, the dog's
kennel. Just. Because. I. Can.
Then you see those faded bill posters: 'Work From Home: Earn
Thousands", and get tempted. "This is it", you think, "a secret door
in that shady cabal of home workers." Next thing you find yourself
drowning in a sea of Jiffy Bags, phoning randomers about Cat
Insurance. Tsk, amateurs.
The added bonus of no one ever seeing you physically at work is that
they automatically assume that you must occupy your time with some
sort of work. "What else is there to do?", they logically calculate. I
know. One could, perhaps, pay a schoolchild to do this while I'm,
sorry, one is fed grapes and said small child's Dairylea Dunkers. Just
a thought.
The Zeitghost
station. I'd rather be lying idle right now than having to type this.
Ugh. It pains me to think that my hands could be resting contentedly,
maybe lying prone on a cushion or playfully sagging by my side.
Instead I'm rigorously pounding my digits into the keyboard, with no
respite, bashing, bruising, possibly scarring the remainder of my
fingerprints off for this godforsaken column. Aaaaghh! I think I
sprained my left index finger when over reaching for a lower case 'm'.
Dear God how can a man be expected to work in these conditions!
Okay so my plight isn't as bad as those small urchins forced to make
sneakers or cheap clothes but we're in the same boat. Labour, to a
work-shy like me, is a life-long struggle. At least child workers get
to look forward to an early retirement from their work at 13. Me? I'll
be spending the remainder of my days avoiding it, which is hard work
in itself.
I always had a penchant for the French situationist philosopher Guy
Debord, who brazenly scribed 'Never Work!' on a Parisian wall. Being
too lazy to delve deeper into in his thinking, I assumed he was just a
right dosser. I subsequently discovered he had formulated many
different theories and written many books on this situationist
philosophy. What a fraud! If he had being spelling out 'Never Work!'
on his bedside pillow with bits of crusty sleep that tumbled from his
eyelids, I may have had more respect for him.
Unfortunately one must work. Unless you win the lottery and then you
can do whatever you like. I think the people I mistrust most in the
world – more than despotic tyrants, more than beady eyed little
children, more than the beady eyed little children of despotic tyrants
- are people who go into work the day after they've won the lottery.
That's a hate crime right there: a sado-masochist slight at the wage
slave; "I work, and I don't even have to." A suitable punishment would
strip the offender of the lottery winnings immediately; use it or lose
it. As an added humiliation give it instead to someone undeserving and
force them to spend it irresponsibly.
People don't see my side of the arguments because they're always
looking at the bigger picture. "If we all stopped working, then
everything would grind to a halt,". Yada, yada, boring. What about
looking at the smaller, more personal, blinkered picture for a while?
The one that goes 'Sod it anyway, I don't care what happens but I'm
going to go to lie down and sleep right here, right now and that's
it'. I bet that when you wake up the world will be exactly as you
left it. Airline pilots are sadly exempted from this sagely advice.
I try to make the best of a bad lot. I work from home, which is the
probably the world's greatest invention. Other housemates toddle off
to their workplace, leaving me 'working' from bed till about noon.
They never know what goes on when that door closes – no one ever knows
what goes on with people who work from home. We are a byzantine puzzle
for you office monkeys, treated with a mixture of contempt and
jealousy. Sometimes, just to spite you outdoor types, I work from
illogical places in my house: the attic, the coal bucket, the dog's
kennel. Just. Because. I. Can.
Then you see those faded bill posters: 'Work From Home: Earn
Thousands", and get tempted. "This is it", you think, "a secret door
in that shady cabal of home workers." Next thing you find yourself
drowning in a sea of Jiffy Bags, phoning randomers about Cat
Insurance. Tsk, amateurs.
The added bonus of no one ever seeing you physically at work is that
they automatically assume that you must occupy your time with some
sort of work. "What else is there to do?", they logically calculate. I
know. One could, perhaps, pay a schoolchild to do this while I'm,
sorry, one is fed grapes and said small child's Dairylea Dunkers. Just
a thought.
The Zeitghost
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Terror On The Loose
Terrorists! Everywhere! Look behind you now! Is that a terrorist right there? I think it is! No? Okay, so that time it turn out to be a rock, but you have to be vigilant. Wait! I think that rock just moved! I’m sure it did! You’re telling me it didn’t? Hmmmmmm…..there’s something fishy going on here……hold on…. I get it now. You’re a terrorist! And dare I say it, but you’re one of the ugliest terrorists I’ve ever laid eyes on. Terrorising clearly has been the root cause of some of those worry lines.
So we’ve worked out that there are terrorists everywhere, and that even my some of my devoted readers – namely you, and there are probably loads more – are terrorists. What are we to do about this current plight? I wonder is there any way that we can stop worrying and learn how to love the terrorist? Hint: no.
Obviously we are living through very grave times and I don’t mean to make light of the present situation. But if I don’t then who will? The War on Terror occasionally needs some comic relief. The troops get entertained so why can’t the civilians get to have a laugh at the state of affairs.? So we’re agreed that I can make jokes. Besides it’s in the Geneva Convention: Article 36b “All persons have the right to have a good hearty chuckle at the war and at terrorists, so as to assuage peoples fears a little.” It’s at the back of the Geneva Convention, scrawled in crayon. Oh, and I tend to misquote liberally.
I’m not too worried about any retribution. Terrorists it seems have bigger fish to fry. Their either blowing up planes or making dirty bombs or plotting to poison the water supply with Mi Wadi. It always the marquee, headline grabbing operations with terrorists. What they is some more fun-loving, happy-go-lucky style missions; ones that might soften up their severe image a little. I’d suggest they drop some stink bombs in the Houses of Parliament, or maybe empty a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the Trevi Fountain.
I’d love to see Tony Blair on Sky News deploring these acts. “This grave eggy fart stench of terror that wafted up by my cabinet desk is surely the work of al-qaeda. This is stinkiness on an unprecedented level”. Or George Bush jetting into Rome and vowing to stand shoulder to shoulder with his Italian ally: “Weeeeeeee! I like bubbles.”
A change of tactic by the terrorists of this magnitude is sadly unlikely. So maybe it’s up to us to extend the olive branch. A World Terrorist Day where we give them carte blanche to do whatever they like, while we do a house-swap and cower in some of those semi-detached caves they like so much, might do a lot to to ease the existing tensions. We could explain what’s important to us and they might find some of our traditions seem interesting and adopt them as their own. Where I wonder would Basra finish in the Tidy Towns competition? Maybe the Ennis Town Council could send some delegates over to Tora Bora to improve up on it’s Entante Florale chances.
Communication is the key to understanding our terrorist brethren. If we have a platform to share recipes or music or even fashion tips, I think we’ll get along much better. A cultural exchange, like we do with those annoying French students would be ideal. Two terrorists to a home, taken under the wing of a lovely Irish family for a unique insight into snogging and hanging about in gangs wearing luminous windcheaters.
That’s my short manifesto for change. I really think we can work it out folks if we just spread a little TLC about the place. Always remember that wonderful adage: “A terrorist is just a friend you haven’t met. Who may blow you up.”
The Zeitghost
So we’ve worked out that there are terrorists everywhere, and that even my some of my devoted readers – namely you, and there are probably loads more – are terrorists. What are we to do about this current plight? I wonder is there any way that we can stop worrying and learn how to love the terrorist? Hint: no.
Obviously we are living through very grave times and I don’t mean to make light of the present situation. But if I don’t then who will? The War on Terror occasionally needs some comic relief. The troops get entertained so why can’t the civilians get to have a laugh at the state of affairs.? So we’re agreed that I can make jokes. Besides it’s in the Geneva Convention: Article 36b “All persons have the right to have a good hearty chuckle at the war and at terrorists, so as to assuage peoples fears a little.” It’s at the back of the Geneva Convention, scrawled in crayon. Oh, and I tend to misquote liberally.
I’m not too worried about any retribution. Terrorists it seems have bigger fish to fry. Their either blowing up planes or making dirty bombs or plotting to poison the water supply with Mi Wadi. It always the marquee, headline grabbing operations with terrorists. What they is some more fun-loving, happy-go-lucky style missions; ones that might soften up their severe image a little. I’d suggest they drop some stink bombs in the Houses of Parliament, or maybe empty a bottle of Fairy Liquid into the Trevi Fountain.
I’d love to see Tony Blair on Sky News deploring these acts. “This grave eggy fart stench of terror that wafted up by my cabinet desk is surely the work of al-qaeda. This is stinkiness on an unprecedented level”. Or George Bush jetting into Rome and vowing to stand shoulder to shoulder with his Italian ally: “Weeeeeeee! I like bubbles.”
A change of tactic by the terrorists of this magnitude is sadly unlikely. So maybe it’s up to us to extend the olive branch. A World Terrorist Day where we give them carte blanche to do whatever they like, while we do a house-swap and cower in some of those semi-detached caves they like so much, might do a lot to to ease the existing tensions. We could explain what’s important to us and they might find some of our traditions seem interesting and adopt them as their own. Where I wonder would Basra finish in the Tidy Towns competition? Maybe the Ennis Town Council could send some delegates over to Tora Bora to improve up on it’s Entante Florale chances.
Communication is the key to understanding our terrorist brethren. If we have a platform to share recipes or music or even fashion tips, I think we’ll get along much better. A cultural exchange, like we do with those annoying French students would be ideal. Two terrorists to a home, taken under the wing of a lovely Irish family for a unique insight into snogging and hanging about in gangs wearing luminous windcheaters.
That’s my short manifesto for change. I really think we can work it out folks if we just spread a little TLC about the place. Always remember that wonderful adage: “A terrorist is just a friend you haven’t met. Who may blow you up.”
The Zeitghost
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Ministry of Defence To Deploy Four Thousand More Troops For Top Gear Special
The British Ministry of Defence has been forced to announce some unscheduled troop deployments for the troubled Top Gear special.
Trouble in Top Gear studios has accelerated in recent times, and with Jeremy Clarkson now eager to test the speed and ergonomics of the new Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 against the tactic nous of a full British Army regiment, the inevitable incease of troop numbers has been announced by Secretary for Defence, Jeff Hoon.
There are hopes that this announcement could lead to a quick withdrawal of the Army in the near future but these appear premature. Up to 12,000 British Army troops are stationed in or around the Top Gear studios in the Dunsfold Park Aerodrome in Surrey having been called in originally to oversee a segment about a race between a Mig Fighter Jet and a customised Ferarri 612 scaglietti.
British Forces have since maintained a presence in the area to moniter the ongoing situation and to keep peace between Jeremy Clarkson's and Richard Hammond's waring Top Gear Challenge factions.
Many MOD officials in Surrey privately concede that the troops maybe there for some time. They say they’ve been forced to shuffle the units from one part of the studio to another for at least two years because there haven’t been enough soldiers to deal simultaneously with Clarkson's big weaponry fetish, Hammond's eagerness to race a rocket, training studio hands to blow up caravans, and secure the race track, power lines, guarding studio guest infiltrators who profess to liking Mondeos, and keeping an eye on The Stig.
The MOD had no comment about a rumoured secert deployment being sent to monitor the latest series of Brainiac.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Man That Drinks The Brandy
A classy event this week. Normally I'm content to slum it with the hoi polloi, hang out with regular plebeians, feign interest in the little trivialities that dot-to-dot their dull lives together. Not his time. No, I said, I'm going to skip the weekly Soiled Mattress Club, and instead attend the Irish premiere of Ken Loach's Brit-baiting, 'The Wind That Shakes The Barley'. Fantastic flick. "Sign me now", I roared coming out of the pictures. "A Nation Once Again", "Ireland Abu", "Ooh Ah Paul McGrath", were some of my other bellicose chants before my girlfriend told me I was annoying the taxi driver.
The premiere was a splendid affair. Before you think I've lost my "man of the people" charms, don't worry, I can assure you I acted like a gormless buffoon the whole time, looking so far above my station, my ears were popping. Everyone was decked out in their full regalia, but I misunderstood 'Smart/Casual' to mean one of each. I wore a top hat and pyjama bottoms.
The mingling before the film started was unreal. Some of the best mingling I've ever witnessed. People sashaying around, dropping finely tuned bon mots, and disappearing again, to mill amongst the glitterati. I think the film's star Cillian Murphy (pronounced 'Sillian' according to Sky News presenters, the Sassenach bastards) really enjoyed our half an hour conversation about my World Cup Fantasy Football Team, especially the part about whether to replace the Mexican defender Marquez, with someone like John Terry. Not wanting him to disappear on me, I kept him in a headlock the whole time, and although some of his replies were subsequently slightly muffled, he seemed to be having fun.
Once we got inside the cinema, it got a bit boring. It was just like anyone routine trip to the pictures. I always quaff champagne and gorge quail eggs even if it's only Earnest Saves Lent I'm going to see. It was especially poignant to have Ken Loach, the film's producer and the lead actors introduce the film and parade the Palm D'Or, which they won at the Cannes Film Festival. I think they got it for winning the festival pub quiz.
So what about the movie? Well I'm no cineaste, but it initially seemed to be a most intriguing piece of work. Setting an allegorical tale about the Irish War of Independence in the lurid underworld of illegal car racing in day-glo Japan is certainly something I wasn't expecting. At this point I realised I had stumbled accidentally into The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift, after a misguided venture to top up my plate of pigeon terrine. I gave it ten more minutes, before the sound of boy racers in the audience going "Brrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm, brrrrrmmmmmmmm,' drove me back to the premiere.
I rejoined it at a pivotal moment. Some Irish lads were about to make a daring raid on an RIC barracks. The moment was, however, thoroughly spoiled with what I thought it was an especially churlish piece of bad form. A band of Sassenachs mercenaries, led by Jeremy Clarkson dressed as Churchill and the Daily Mail editorial staff in Tommy Hats, marched into the cinema, lined up fifteen premiere patrons and executed them in cold blood. A very provocative gesture I thought, and at a most insensitive time. Did they have any consideration for the people outside trying to order popcorn over a hail of machine gun fire? I doubt it.
By the end, everyone was agreed that 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' was a fiery and emotionally taut polemic. The general consensus was "Five Stars. Brits Out". We travelled en masse out of the premiere in our bespoke attire looking for someone or something to vent our pent up rage at. Unable to find any Black and Tans in the immediate vicinity, we were forced to purchase as much Ben And Jerry's Black And Tan flavoured ice cream as we could muster and gobble it up with a fantical, violent fervour. That'll show them, we all said collectively, with tummy's slightly aching and brain freeze setting in.
The Zeitghost
The premiere was a splendid affair. Before you think I've lost my "man of the people" charms, don't worry, I can assure you I acted like a gormless buffoon the whole time, looking so far above my station, my ears were popping. Everyone was decked out in their full regalia, but I misunderstood 'Smart/Casual' to mean one of each. I wore a top hat and pyjama bottoms.
The mingling before the film started was unreal. Some of the best mingling I've ever witnessed. People sashaying around, dropping finely tuned bon mots, and disappearing again, to mill amongst the glitterati. I think the film's star Cillian Murphy (pronounced 'Sillian' according to Sky News presenters, the Sassenach bastards) really enjoyed our half an hour conversation about my World Cup Fantasy Football Team, especially the part about whether to replace the Mexican defender Marquez, with someone like John Terry. Not wanting him to disappear on me, I kept him in a headlock the whole time, and although some of his replies were subsequently slightly muffled, he seemed to be having fun.
Once we got inside the cinema, it got a bit boring. It was just like anyone routine trip to the pictures. I always quaff champagne and gorge quail eggs even if it's only Earnest Saves Lent I'm going to see. It was especially poignant to have Ken Loach, the film's producer and the lead actors introduce the film and parade the Palm D'Or, which they won at the Cannes Film Festival. I think they got it for winning the festival pub quiz.
So what about the movie? Well I'm no cineaste, but it initially seemed to be a most intriguing piece of work. Setting an allegorical tale about the Irish War of Independence in the lurid underworld of illegal car racing in day-glo Japan is certainly something I wasn't expecting. At this point I realised I had stumbled accidentally into The Fast And The Furious: Tokyo Drift, after a misguided venture to top up my plate of pigeon terrine. I gave it ten more minutes, before the sound of boy racers in the audience going "Brrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm, brrrrrmmmmmmmm,' drove me back to the premiere.
I rejoined it at a pivotal moment. Some Irish lads were about to make a daring raid on an RIC barracks. The moment was, however, thoroughly spoiled with what I thought it was an especially churlish piece of bad form. A band of Sassenachs mercenaries, led by Jeremy Clarkson dressed as Churchill and the Daily Mail editorial staff in Tommy Hats, marched into the cinema, lined up fifteen premiere patrons and executed them in cold blood. A very provocative gesture I thought, and at a most insensitive time. Did they have any consideration for the people outside trying to order popcorn over a hail of machine gun fire? I doubt it.
By the end, everyone was agreed that 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' was a fiery and emotionally taut polemic. The general consensus was "Five Stars. Brits Out". We travelled en masse out of the premiere in our bespoke attire looking for someone or something to vent our pent up rage at. Unable to find any Black and Tans in the immediate vicinity, we were forced to purchase as much Ben And Jerry's Black And Tan flavoured ice cream as we could muster and gobble it up with a fantical, violent fervour. That'll show them, we all said collectively, with tummy's slightly aching and brain freeze setting in.
The Zeitghost
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