Keeping Up With The Joneses

I thought I'd try and write a poem incorporating some of my 'friends' creative output, in an attempt to show the fact we're all part of an artistic/creative community.

(It's in blank-verse, which means it doesn't have to rhyme (is that what Blank-Verse means?) - ah bollocks, but it has to have the same meter ;) don't check :P) The titles ironic I am not a poet blah blah blah...

O.P.S. (Other People's Stuff) 

 Well I'll start with my boyfriend and his documentaries of folk,

Then there is Matthew Reynolds who tends to fade out, 

Offensive & Charming are two words to describe, Sophie & Henry, 

Scott Payne is a creative hurricaine and rather brilliant at it, 

And I am rather partial to Mark Hewitt, a law unto his Poodle,

As well as Andrea Miller with whom I am suitably delighted,

Who could ever forget the hybrid of man twixt Mole (Arron?!),

Then there is the unforgettable bon vivant of Patty Dohle,

Um, well I may of forgotten a load of people, but it rather serves to highlight other people's creative output all of which I do love and listen/watch/enjoy on the periphery of my vision and hopefully they'll exist in the corners of other peoples minds for many moons to come.

Meta-decompartmentalisation

Before we start, 'a bit of housekeeping',( an expression I ironically love as I try to never do actual cleaning or tidy, unless for reasons of entrophy), I must recommend a book, my Mum has been reading SUM:40 TALES FROM THE AFTERLIFE. I've been dipping in an out and this small tome, is a cheeky, flirty and wonderful little creative book about our very existence;  http://www.davideagleman.com/SUM.html Yes, it's ideas such as these that I must fill my mind with heartily to avoid avoidance and anxiety, but more on that another, brighter day.

It's good to make note of such things as existentialism and politics, especially the latter because that just makes me feel warm and fuzzy with a cup of coffee, oh yes sir.

When I was waltzing back from Wimbledon Common the other week in a peaky fit over the fact of my Fatherlessness,  when I happened upon a dirty trodden in post-it note with the word FUN scrawled on it in a strange 'spacky' hand. Now 'FUN' is something that alludes me, and I don't have FUN, I engage, I engage with this gnawing feeling in the gut and how to keep it at bay, my mind is always elsewhere.... but there is no point moaning on about this to friends, family or Dawkin's Forbid A BLOG, one must address these issues because no-one else cares or wants to. I accept this, I am genuinely looking for a way to engage in FUN as it were. More on this news when we get it.

(Sneezing like a Bastard), well as it stands, I am dedicating the next couple of weeks to preparing/rehearsing/prop-buying/sound-engineering/co-set-designing/producing/advertising This One Man Show, amongst my usual business, although a lot of the usual business will be minimized and will compliment all the work on This One Man Show.... so all the things I keep in seperate little boxes of my life will all mingle and coagulate, look it has even happened here!

I have lots of ideas for this blog that has nothing to do with this project, but I do need to keep in the habit of constantly mentioning it wherever I go, which is rather draining, in a good, I am not thinking about the fact that I am an insignificant organism on a little rock in a galaxy somewhere in this universe, a microbic dot on the eyelash of 'God'.... yes, it's good I am not concerning myself with such things.

Roll on september, and in the meantime, stick your hand down the pants of my sister-blog: http://howtoputonaonemanshow.blogspot.com/ and you'll get lots of strange stuff over the next couple of weeks at irregular intervals as well as a podcast, perhaps, all the kids are doing them these days are they not?

Toodle-Pip

The Day I Relieved Amanda Holden Of Her Face: An unbiased Meditation on Britain's Got Talent

In which two young rebels (or 'hooligans' as they are known as in D. Cameronland Inc.) Two translucent, immaciated and lanky figures known as Aldous and Barclay, or A and B for short, part of the Scheduling Terrorists Insurgent's, or S.T.I's, freedom fighters determined to liberate television in the not so distant future.







It is predicted that by 2020, Britain's Got Talent will account for 93% of television, with contestants rigged up to feeding tubes and chained to stages, filmed for up 22hours a day, whilst being branded with 'X's if they deem to fall below a desired audience appreciation level.







Many International Human Rights funds and protests have resulted in little more than sanctions.







It is interesting to note that The Government's bombing of Syria occured at the same time as the BGT 2013 Semi-Final... coincidence?




Screams were being heard from the dressing room. Jem, the shows new runner, pulled at her plastic necklace from Claire's Accessories with due anxiety. "What the frube was that??" She shrieked. "Oh that's just Holden having her stitches removed" Cowell said as he waddled past. His voice was ominously trembling since the Post-oesophageal Cancer he suffered in 2015, now using a voice-box aid, he sounded a lot like a retrograde robot, which certain Anti-Cameronland Inc. News-ports have commented on, quoting "that its high frequency pitch has caused ugly middle-aged women/children to immediately flush their bowels without warning".
Mr Herring-Bone Syrup was by the door smoking a salmon, bathed in sillohette and the overwhelming smell of fish. The long-time director of BGT since 2011, whose face has never been seen, stood, 8 foot tall. Some say he's an alien, others say he was a former property developer from Leatherhead, no-one quite knows. "Don't tell Martha about the electrodes, Barry" He screamed softly, then fell away. This was BGT-Soc codeword for guard The Holden. There had been so much extra security from lower-middle-class students, since the assassination of Piers Morgan three years ago; when unexpectadly the giant glass 'X' that suspended above him for all those many moons, the one he had so many a time lit up to admonish the performers who dutifully totted out for his paternal approval..., the double-glazed letter was shattered into a million razor-sharp shards that fell with speed, raining down onto Sir Piers, splitting his very atoms, miraculously, the practical skinning and disembowling didn't kill Mr Morgan, and he died eighteen months later, every moment spent in unbeleivable agony screaming in the private ward of St. Barts. They say if you stay at The Sir Piers Morgan Memorial Ward For Anal Warts you can still hear his ghost, puckering his lips.

'But what was Holden doing?' the re-elastication of her face didn't usually take that long (they had started using elephant scrotum skin-grafts, and it really gave the non-shimmer 'realism-face' look that was so popular.) The ominous squealching put Jem on edge. She fiddled with her Primark chunky bracelet for a moment, then, knocked on the door. "Mrs Holden-Prince Harry, is everything alright?", her heart was in her mouth, (metaphorically not literally), it was very against protocol to knock on the door of any one of the Holy Trinity. "Yes," came an obviously male voice with a silly 'I am doing a Woman's voice' warblyness emanated through the door. "Oh, is everything alright?" Jem asked playing along, her overplucked eyebrows arched up with very self-aware and bad 'oh I am playing along' acting. "Oh quite alright, dear just signing some pictures of me from that show I was in before I did this one, the name of which escapes me".

Jem burst through the door, ray-gun brandished. "No-one forgets Amanda Louise Holden's awe inspiring performance in Cutting It!" She shouted, but her jaw hit the floor, when she saw, the Laurence Olivier Theatre Award nomitated actress's face in a see-through freezer-bag. Her caved in skull along with the rest of her body, laid limply, with little sign of a struggle in her favourite chair, the corpse was dressed in a really nice little dress that looked fab!

The freezer-bag containing her face was held by a lanky pale boy, who must of been at least 11foot tall, he looked like a horse in human form and smelt like one too, wearing a gold-belt and four t-shirts; A stood heroically with his prize. His accomplice B stood shaking, holding the Ice-scraper and bloodied pizza-cutter in his hands, shaking, his eyes had seen the face of Jesus ripped from its very house.

"And just what the flippity jibber is going on in here?" Jem said with her hands on her hips, with all the authority and command of Ms Hooley from Balamory.

"Eeek, we've been discovered" Squeaked A,

"Quite" replied B.

"So, can someone explain, what have you boys been up to? Naughty, naughty boys"

I don't think Aldous and Barclay were particularly impressed by Jem's intonations because they shot her in the head sixteen times and exuented with the face.

*

"Good God and Stomach Acid!" Farted Mr Herring-Bone Syrup, when he saw the mess in Ms Holden's dressing room... he was distraught and even shed a tear (or two) out of one of his face eyes. He quickly regained his composure and belted out a rather tuneful but misguided reggae version of 'The Show Must Go On' before proceeding to commit to the idea of the notion of the fact that the show must go on.

"I need to replace her, but with what".

"What are you talking about?" A said from off-screen, so when Mr Herring-Bone syrup turns to look at what you, the audience can't see, you're already thinking "Whaaaa..." hehehe.... *cough* sorry....

Quite a sight assailed his eyes in fact, a 22foot high figure in a very long beige coat, it was in fact Aldous and Barclay, disguised in a long biege coat, with Amanda Holden's face precariously perched over his own face, selotaped on in fact. The silly 'woman's' voice had returned that cut no dry-ice with the late Jem.

"Oh there you are Amanda, quickly, I have no time to question the fact your faceless corpse is in the dressing room, or the fact you've grown another 16 foot, the show is about to begin, take to your special seat Pookie-whoreness" And with that sign-off Mr Herring-Bone Syrup flew out of the window with rocket-like speed.

Wierd Britain's Got Talent Theme Music remixed by Mark Ronson Featuring Vocals from Eamonn Holmes.

When Queen Elizabeth II went the way of her father with the lung cancer, in 2015, the nation went entirely numb, and it was allowed to broadcast all future shows of BGT live from Buckingham Palace, (and all future broadcasts of The Xtra (but not X) Factor from Balmoral, something that is trying to be dissolved by The Scottish Parliament).

AND NOW FOR THE BIG FINALE BIT:

So, it's been written into the annals of history, carved on the very bosom of Brittania with a rusty little carving-tool; you had 9/11 and 7/7, and 5/15, 1/1 1/2 6/13 etc., well added to ALL OF THAT, you now have The atrocity on BGT...

It all started off, Cowell was given his liquid morphine and was rather subdued, cooing to himself quietly, stroking his little beak. The Sock-Puppet portrayed by Dame Helena Bonham-Carter in the memory of Sir Piers Morgan was warming up the 40'000 strong audience all shipped in from Belmarsh and The Home Counties; the Amanda Doppleganger was in, unnoticed in the very thickness of it.

Gummed to A and B's liver, was enough plastic explosives to blow a hole in the side of Stephanie Meyer, pretty strong stuff to penetrate that bough.

Famously, although it has since been misreported, that the bomb went off during the singing chicken's from Bognor Regis, but actually after The Cole Enquiry six years later, it was revealed that the bomb was detonated by remote control, during The Self Flagulating St. Winnifred's schoolchildren's tribute to Slipknot.

*

Luckily, due to the idea that Aldous and B will be used again in some Misadventure possibly crucifying Jeremy Kyle, that they somehow escaped from this explosion, how, why and with whose help, therin lies the mystery.


[A little first draft of something silly]

Why People Are Scared Of The Dark

Subject lovingly suggested by a friends brother Nathan Miller who said that I'm 'A man of taste' flattery will get you everywhere. If anyone wants to suggest a subject I am more than happy to accomodate.

I recently read Lucian Randall's biography of Chris Morris entitled "Disgusting Bliss", and for it's tantalising tid-bits about the reclusive, enigmatic character it probably only confirmed that Morris is mortal like the rest of us, yet extremely kind to his friends, fearless and dogged in his work-habits, but it did keep coming back to one thing 'he was afraid of the dark'. Now perhaps it is an embellished conceit to make out that this supposed psychotic shadowwy figure is really a soft and vulnerable thing like the rest of us. Perhaps, but, and I have a tendency to read far too much into things it could be, someone like Morris, the inveterate investigative journalist cannot make sense of the unknown, or maybe all those dark twisted things take shape when he's alone in the dark.

I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was about 15, I think, it came quite late, like a lot of things. Yes, it's one of the things I've really come to terms with; strange some people never do. It's not something one can heroically brag about. Perhaps I am only afraid of the dark, inside the house. Last year, when the only shortcut to my 'digs' at University, lay through a small wooded area or 'spinny', I would always avoid going through it in the dark and take the long way round adding 20-30 minutes to my journey. But just once or twice I went through it, in the middle of the night, just with the backlight from my mobile to shine my way.... and all the stumps and crooked branches of the trees took on lives of their own and at any moment someone or even worse something could jump out, it didn't matter what 'it' did, just the fact it would jump out is enough.

I was always afraid of someone being under my bed when I was younger, but up until late adolescence, the same with alin spaceships appearing outside my bedroom window... oh dear Nathan's opened a floodgate...

So 'Why' is somethin' that has been asked since time immemorial, it's why Man (and WOman) invented fire and so on and so on. Perhaps we should go past all the symbology and such and find something simple, honest and truthful...

...I've had a few scotches (it's to curb 'The Writer's Block' I've been experiencing I am usually a T-Totaller) and maybe it gives one licence to be a crap philosopher, so cue, something cringey and space-age laughable.

(Imagine Bob Dylanesque stoned tones:)

'Maybe we're so afraid of the dark because we're afraid that in the darkness we may see ourselves, and only ourselves'