I Don't Play My Red Guitar**

Firstly, if I did have a guitar, I'd play a blue one, or at least an anarcho-capitalist one, which I would have to consensually lay my -non-tax-payer-funded hands on - as I cannot bear the concept of bossing anyone around for anything. I may be a teacher, but one whose discipline skills are, appropriately enough, lax to poor. Secondly, as my parents were piss-poor as bourgeoisie (though my dad, being self employed, was always somewhat on the edge of the labour movement, if not totally in the ocean*), I cannot, I am sorry to say, play any instrument at all - a red guitar being among the least likely of those that I might have ever picked up and plucked.

As if that tale of post-consensus woe weren't enough, the whole concept of a guitar, red or otherwise, being the "devil in the flesh", is ridiculous. I am a Catholic, as my regular reader wil no, and this means that the flesh is evil. Indeed, I can now-a-days see the Church's point. Why do we love sex and hate toilet habits so much? It seems to me outrageous that men can have a massive shit and a smelly fart and laugh about it, but this is denied to women, who continue to believe that these utterly pleasurable and prehistorically natural functions are in some way "bad" or "shameful". It is surely a mark of the repression of our post-modern society that farts and big smelly shits are regarded in a pejorative way when, in a far more profound way than sex, they _keep us alive_. Yes, they don't make us, but then who thinks that has owt to do with sex anymore? Evacuating our bowels (to wherever) keeps us alive. And nowt compares with staying alive (if compost mentis of course). Why, in the twenty-first century, do I never hear of women "having the turtle's head", or being "desperate to park my fudge" or needing to "lay a cable"? Given that the pleasure they'll get out of this is second only to the pleasure of eating when absolutely gasping for grub, I think we should be told.

Next, in this catalogue of dire physical need and mental degeneration, comes the fact that despite being an anarcho-fuckwit, I cannot bear the idea of working for life. Yes, I'm lazy. Whatever. The truth is, that the beliefs I hold about human society rest entirely on the idea of work - and of that being the sum of human existence, in - partly - that it leaves exhaust trails of us when we die for the pathetic generations to follow. And yet. And..zzzzz...I cannot bear work. I would love to go on strike a la the guys out of Atlas Shrugged, except that they are damned _good_ at what they do and I am not. If I went on strike I'd die. If I do work I live in a cloud of filth.

Finally - "why do I fail just when I'm needed" - sex. "Crushed By Ingsoc" who is, like Matt, younger AND more intelligent than me (Jesus!), likes it and seems to do it a lot. Fair enough. I don't. Partly through the fall of days. Don't get me wrong here, but don't get me right either. It isn't my life nor would I want it to be. If I were a real, true rebel - I wouldn't do it at all. I would stick two pissed off fingers up to the whole damn race back to soil and whisper to no-one "fuck off".

The problem is....I'm in love....have been for years...with someone wonderful...and it's...nice...


-- This has been brought to you by Stella Artois and Walkers Crisps. Again. --



*= indeed, practically a fascist, or so he was told between 1972 and 1985 for *heh* wanting to work when he wanted to. So he couldn't work because there was no leccy - who gives a shit?


**= I Play My Red Guitar

I think this link gives you the video of Red Guitar but if it doesn't don't blame me. You can, however, ask me what the photon I'm talking about.

UPDATE A COUPLE OF MINUTES AFTER POSTING: sigh. Yes I know I'm a teacher. Ergo all of my money is taxpayer extorted. Hey ho.