Not Dead Yet

No, not dead yet. Despite all predictions, of his arse, his head, his bollocks: he is not quite dead.


Citalopram is a soft but stupid drug, which makes you shake and makes you tired. Especially when you ignore your quack's orders to give up the booze. Then it's worse. You shake all day, you feel like death (oh the irony). Also you don't want sex. You want death more than sex. Heh. Death and sex are indeed two sides of the same filthy coin, with Edward VIII on it.

It's a fuckwitted drug, which makes you want to drink to calm down, even though you oughtn't to drink. Well fuck that. I feel great on citalopram and loads of Stella. Citalopram and no Stella then I feel like shit.

I seem to have the DTs!!!! Fuck me I have the DTs!!!


Alright. Well no-one cares about that. Well what have I been up to. I have spent the last two weeks throwing out year after year of my life. The tip is my second favourite place. They let me put my clothes, tea towels, videos, computers, anything. All my life goes into the skips there. Thirty two years of rubbish. Lots of it. Any sign that anyone loved me. The things I loved as a child. The VHS videos I spent years recording. The books I collected.

All gone. In a flash of bin bag, all gone.

My car, even. Gone even before I sold it, thanks to an utterly unscrupulous Ford dealer!!!

My poor little Fiesta. Don't get me wrong, I love my sexy new Focus, with its glorious, vast, curvy arse, and its tempting Pacific blue colour....but my poor little Fiesta which did me so well up and down the M4 and took me to Frogland 3 times....


*sigh*

Can one have an affair with an ex - car?? Is it ethical?

Oh but I'm still in love with my Fiesta and her little teardrop rear lights....her invitingly tight front grille....oh Fiesta, would you take me back, even though I abandoned you so?

No. I knew it. Even when you had gone when I went to pick up the Focus, I knew you'd moved on. You'd never have me back. Someone else was driving you. Someone else was getting their foot soaked because of your malfunctioning aircon, someone else was having to get in via the passenger door because the driver's side door was fucked, someone else was feeling your utterly lame braking. Someone else knew that your foglights were shit. Someone else knew that your brakelights never ever fucking worked.

Not the Ford dealer, thankfully, but, I guess, someone else. The someone who'd taken you out even before I'd sold you.

And the Focus? Yes she is as sexy as hell. Her tits (front fog lights) are fucking amazing and her arse...well, I've fucked it already. Twice. But you know she doesn't love me like you did. It's like her mind is on someone else, someone bigger. Someone who doesn't need to move the seat forward. Who doesn't need to lean to see the blind spot. Who doesn't need to move the rear-view mirror. Who can just park it in reverse with hardly needing to look. Who just knows where the front end of the car is when they do tight turns and that.

My Focus will never love me, I'm not man enough. And I still fancy the sexy little thong off my ex-Fiesta, not that she ever wore a thong but you get the picture.

Oh fucking hell, has ever a man had such a problem with his beloved cars??

A Meditation on Snogging (II)

That was even nicer!!!!

Bragadoccio

Well (shines cuff with little finger in a sort of half-formed light fist, circa 1949 and then 1989, to indicate self-satisfaction): far be it from me to boast, but each and every time I have been to France I have found their prophylactics inadequate....

I guess I'm unusual.

Heh.

Still - it would be a dull old world if everyone was the same, eh? Heh. Tchoh. I guess it takes all sorts, eh? Cah. What must it be like to - . Heh, but I guess we'd better not - hey! Life's good, isn't it?

I mean, possession of a piece of anatomy of uncontrolled size, is clearly an indication of personality and worth! Obviously! And if that piece of anatomy happens to be the same one used to make babies...well! Who am I to...? Well yes I know that no-one cares about the size of my liver (until it bursts), or my brain (nowt in it anyway), or my lungs - the least said about my spleen the better - hah! - though now you come to mention it, I've been feeling a bit of a bump here recently - have a feel -ow! - do you think - no, I guess I'm being silly. Where was I? Oh yes - the size of my knob is unutterably important. What do you mean, what if a woman has a - well yes I'm straight, what did you think I was? - what if she has, you know, a long...you know...yes, what does that have to do with anything? No of course I haven't thought of it! Does anyone? Well anyway, no I haven't. Is that a problem? Oh, right. Is she? Does she? What, every time? No, I mean, if you're big enough does she feel that - every time? Blimey! Is that really - I mean, are you supposed to feel that when you - you know, if your woman - oh. Oh dear. Am I supposed to feel that? Really? Oh.

Oh.

Well.

Then I guess these prophylactics are ok then. About the right size sort of. After all.

Hey ho.

Anyway, I've heard about this cream. You rub it on, and then, after eight months, maybe, you -

New Year Resolution Successfully Kept

I'm talking here about the spurious one, invented a couple of days later. This was the resolution about not having sex.

I've kept it scrupulously, even if I do say so myself.


And against....oh, no temptation at all.

Beauty

As is well known, I adore beauty, especially free flowing curves, gorgeous waves, inward and outward movements, slides, bodies you can slip and down on, full bodies and things you can really hold and be held by.

Accordingly here is the only thing in the world as beautiful as women:




And it's called The European Cup and *not* The Champions League Trophy or some such rubbish.

Football eh? Sex, more like.

Like A Train Passing In The Distance

Is how my blogging is currently being received by all people; I don't really mind that, as I blog for entirely narcissistic reasons, as I've said in blogposts passim. I couldn't care less whether my readers hold my political views or not, so long as they read mine, and for a few seconds are here, subsumed in my will for however long it takes. I've no stomach for the modern violent assertions of the primacy of ideology, or the selective use of "evidence", such as small scale studies by one's ideological allies, that somehow get, unchallenged, to be part of legislation; or the equally selective rejection and adoption of emotive arguments (I trust I will never again hear a progressive complain about private education, given how much emphasis they put last week on "Parents would do anything for their children" as a justification for creating spare part humans). Incidentally, I really am going to need that liver, so if anyone would like to create a liver-embryo could they please do it within the next 10 years?

I am, as I have said many times before, a tenth rate mind. It is the best and brightest of our apolitical world who are the most aggressive, the most dishonest, the most ideologically driven.

Yes I *am* an ideologue, but I am also an idiot. So it has little bearing on life what I think. Our greatest minds do not want more civility or self-control. They want less. They really do want more destruction and more division, especially within that bastard grouping, the family. The most intelligent people in our society envisage a technological version of slavering over hacked out thighs of mutton in freezing caves, with mouths dripping with blood. They like it. They want savagery and selfishness. They want us to love power and to understand victimhood as a political entity, not a physical state. Meanwhile the physical state of the individual is increasingly limited, satiated as it is by the endless, state approved orgasms; of speech, thought, movement and association the state has little to say beyond "prove who you are and that you have done nothing wrong". Gargling with ecstasy, and its withheldness, its escapology, its temporality, I find I have nothing to say on those matters. There isn't enough time. Only time for glorious oblivion and its means.

For only now does an individual really become part of the collective: when it really needs it to survive, or to do what it has been told is necessary to survive. Create such a condition and you create the means to ultimate and permanent power. Hold the individual in a state of permanent desire and you control them, perfectly. In the past this was understood well, in relation to hunger. Our governments now know that they cannot control access to air, water and food; so the next most powerful drive is that towards orgasm. Let it flourish, bring it forth wherever it may be thought of; let it hold and move people away from any notion of control. For the less they control, the better for us.

Hence a C21 tyranny would make sexual liberation its first port of call, and would not, as Orwell would have us believe, suppress these desires in the hope of somehow sublimating them.

Because, literally, no-one will give a toss when they are aware that the rulers want them to engage, wherever and however possible, in one of the few genuinely animalistic drives we have.

Then, of course, we will come running to the benevolent state for abortion, treatment, whatever. It will keep us needing them.

Not that I'm bitter or anything..

Sexcrime

You'd think I could get some, somewhere, wouldn't you?


Or, at the very worst, goodsex?


But instead every day I wearily pull on my Anti-Sex League sash and put up posters about Artsem.

Oh how those marches satisfy me, and the long lectures on "Ingsoc in Relation to Chess".

A Seventeen Point Six Percent Swing

Obviously I'm delighted by the Tories' victory in Crewe and Nantwich, unlike the bizarrely titled "Telegraph Columnist" Mary Riddell, who is already giving herself nightmares about what terrible things may come to pass under a Tory government utterly in hoc to a fundamentalist Christian worldview; such as (cover your ears, or eyes) another vote on abortion. Given that her side won all this week's debates convincingly, and that, accordingly, children are wholly viewed as the playthings of already existing beings in law and morals*, it's hard to escape the view that her fear is based upon the existence of dissent itself; the cognitive dissonance currently being felt by self-righteous lefties with a massive sense of entitlement up and down this benighted isle of ours. It was the debate itself that frightened her, the actual reality of people who don't see life as she does; hence all the God-bothering bogey men lurking just around the next general election. She is right to worry. It will be awful. We'll all have to go to church every week. Pre-marital sex will become a crime, except for Catholic priests, and women who have abortions will be executed. That bad? It'll be worse. For, lurking under Cameron's friendly facade lurks an extremist Etonian who'll actually criminalise poverty and, even worse, might just seek another reduction in the abortion time limit, possibly to as low as 22 weeks. Fucking hell.

Anyway.

Here are some more things TD would like to see a 17.6% swing to:


1) His knob.
2) His bollocks.
3) His brain.
4) Doctor Who.
5) England cricket.
6) His bank balance.
7) The actual size of his knob, in inches.
8) His alcohol intake.
9) Ditto.
10) And again. That makes, er, 52.8% overall in favour of alcohol.


Incidentally, why do NuLabour think that what you eat and drink must be the legitimate subject of public policy but that what you fuck must not be? Have they not heard of STIs or of abortion (er...)? Is it really ok for the likes of Dawn Primarolo to tell us, effectively, that any number of abortions is alright but that people having a few jars must stop, fucking well stop now?

Well, bollocks to that. I'll defy our collapsing autocrats with another tin of crap, cheap lager. And fuck any politician who cares deeply about what I put in my mouth unless it happens to be part of someone else's body (in which case it's a positive choice).


As if that were actually *realistic* anyway. I should stick to being pissed and not really venture into sexuality. Frankly, I would make an asexual plant look like a slut. The fucker would be out in the pub with his mates, knocking back the Stellas, and he'd go "oh look there's TD!!!!" and all his bastard dandelion mates would laugh and raise their glasses. Fucking twats. There's even bloody daisies laughing at me, the fuckwits. While snogging their girlfriends and copping a feel of her tits. I can hear the wanker pansy telling me I am a "fucking virgin, fucking virgin"** and giving his girlfriend a smack on the arse for good measure while I try to sneak up to the bar under my huge collar, almost silently ordering a pint.



*Sooner or later I'll need a liver...

** No conclusion is to be drawn on TTD's sexual experience from this piece of semi-sober whimsy.

The Echoes of Your Footsteps on the Stairs

The point of this line*, is of course, that although it points to the love between Winston and Julia it really refers to the approach of Thought Police Agent Charrington. For the entirety of their love affair the sound of footsteps has haunted them, even if they have not thought of it: it is a bleakly cynical satire on adulterous relationships in a free society and a bitter denunciation of the impossibility of even innocent relationships in an unfree one. Indeed, since the moment Winston put frown to face, many years before he put pen to paper, he has awaited the moment of discovery. Critiques of Nineteen Eighty Four routinely, and rightly, comment on the paucity of Julia as a character and on the one-dimensional nature of their relationship. Of course, this is part of the point. Winston says: "I hate purity." He wants a relationship dominated by sexual attraction: remember he loathes Julia and is convinced she wants him to die, before she slips him the note. His hate turns to lust turns to love. His lust is rebellion (whereas for us it is the affirmation of our world's values - I think (shlock horror - Orwell was wrong here). For both Winston and Julia, lust is an affirmation of existence, love comes later, if at all. Though it does: in a riotous haranguing of the doctrine of ideology, the infirmity and yet strength of the body ("as applied to artsem") is enough to give Winston colour, vigour, to defeat his ulcers. His eventual love is defeated, not by weakness, but by sheer instinct.

There is a sequence in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight where the Knight, about to take his rightful execution, flinches as the blade is lifted. The Green Knight taunts him as a coward but the point is precisely that his reaction is not cowardice, but that of a living being, that of life in the onrush of death. There is nothing you can do. It is part of the glorious ache for freedom of life.

So it is with Winston. He loses nothing, does nothing, in Room 101 but succumb, briefly to the inevitable. It does not mean love does not exist, or freedom; it means that humanity is beautiful enough to be defeated by brutality. If it were not, it would live with brutality and be, itself, evil. Hence O Brien plays him the tape of his promising to "throw vitriol in a child's face" and breezily waves away his assumption of humanity. Winston, naively, as anyone (maybe - probably- I don't know) in such a world, assumes humanity comes from a single or the single deep feeling at one's heart. He carelessly discards other values - or, maybe more pertinently, has never known them.

He would not betray Julia. Of course he would; he says that only because it is uppermost in his mind, as it is in hers. She loves him, for reasons never quite made clear. He loves her too.

But he is not, until Room 101, properly confronted with what he knows the Party has held against him and all other Party members since time immemorial: the thing he *most* fears. This is no big deal as far as the Thought Police are concerned; it is just a matter of locating it in any individual.

*Which opens the possibility of a Mule type character (out of Asimov's Foundation) being the one to defeat the Party - perhaps??*

In that final place Winston merely accepts what he has so far learned and not quite revised properly; that the kind of love that is required is self-abasement, a kind of religious worship, but of the ecstatic, mystical kind, such that the personality is moved out. It is not betraying Julia that does this, that is just a side effect, it is the facing of one's worst fear.

So it is that fear is a vital element of life, for sound self-preservation reasons (we are organic and irrational after all, and *not* machines); for some that is avoiding jam, or The Jam, or spiders, or spider diagrams, or whatever. Facing our fears - and by extension, the "talking cure" is not the way to go - these things are suppressed for a reason.

Suppressing his fear of rats, he loves and enjoys Julia in a room he *knows* to be crawling with the fuckers. Face to face, as it were, he cannot exist at all. He is destroyed, not by his actof betrayal but by his entirely human, or even entirely animal, instinct. This is precisely what the Party are attempting to demonstrate: you are an animal, and a piss-poor one at that ("if you are a man, Winston, you are the last man"). Let us liberate ourselves from the purely animal in our enjoyment of your suffering. It is this which moves us beyond lust into a realm of abstract power. We have changed you, which is what we wanted to do; over and above the infliction of pain, it is the fact that we have changed you that matters. That, not the "making him suffer", gives power. We have power, we change you. We change all.

So the people who desire change desire power.

Sexcrime, like thoughtcrime, is insidious. It creeps slowly into your marrow until you no longer realise it is there, but it is sinking your blood into a firey earth. Sexcrime becomes your being, into your dreams and your work; it slow-burns your heart into nothing. Sexcrime is all, in a free society.

When you have had enough of thoughtcrime, that is.




*from the soundtrack to Nineteen Eighty Four (1984) by Eurythmics.

You've Just Joined the Human Race

Not through mere existence: this is a ridiculous way of determining humanity. After all so many manners of subclasses exist and are disposable.

Which reminds me. I haven't put the bins out. Bugger.


Oh well.

No, I mean having a thoroughly shitty day at work, thereby reinforcing your status as a piss-poor cog in a broken wheel, your utter irrelevance, your wholly needless work which could and should be done by someone else: and then your relaxing into the not entirely fanstastical but certainly phantasmagorical world of alcohol. Oh truest of the true joys, oh maker of purpose, oh braver of cowardly feelings. Oh you salve my fear by making it real, oh you fantasise for me and bring it all through like a vomit of anxiety (with bits of fear-carrot).

Life without booze? Fuck me.

Or rather - there's the problem. Some bloggers write about the troubles of having sex, others are 13 again. *

Oi. Lawrence. Fuck off. Just because you don't have sex, it doesn't mean you're not a man. You're a fuckwit and your books are shite so just fuck right off back into the arseaching syllabus you came from. Where the fuck are my Sillitoe, Orwell, Amis (Sr & Jr), Larkin, Hughes (yes alright), Plath; where the fucking hell are my Greene books, my copy of Unman Wittering & Zigo; my Eliot; my VHS of Threads, my blog. Where is my blog? My Blog!!!


*Are yuz caalin me a fuckin vorgin?**

**Erm, for the avoidance of doubt, this post refers to my lack of sex in the modern age, not throughout time.***

***Not that that should be a problem to any discerning readers.****

****Not that I'm worried or anything.

The Girls They Love to See You Shoot

Sometimes...if it is the right time; if it is too soon, they don't. Obviously. Easier said than, er, well, you know what I, er...

I wonder if the great Gang of Four realised this application when they penned the title lyric of this post. It seems to ironize the entire song, the entire surface meaning of an otherwise easily comprehendable track. What's the point?


I wonder why I am hinting at my sexual failings over the internet. It is that truly odd mixture, that bizarre conflation of the intimate and the professional that one gets with the internet generally and email and blogging generally. Why do we find this space which is at once private and at once so utterly, tantalisingly, public? It is the day by day equivalent of the party you used to go to where you'd occasionally find someone who didn't even know your name, or who couldn't even see you, but was still interested in you, and the feeling, if it was that, was mutual.


Oh, well, it is the way it is. My arms ache, my tummy aches, all the bits of my body with no muscles ache, I am weak and stupid and in pain.

Exercise kills.

Kids - just say no to the gym!! Have a pie instead!

Body Image Update

See the post or two below. Bodies are odd things, most human bodies, of whatever sex, being of comic misshapenness, my own foremost among these. I have praised female bodies in one of today's posts, and the praise is entirely genuine. I do, however, think that pornography as we conceive it proves the lie of my adoration and conviction. The truth is we adore only certain bodies, and some bodies identify powerful desires, giving us the need for touch and warmth, while others don't (ie mine). whether this is societal or genetic or cultural I have, literally, no idea. Pornography really struggles to provide comedy or irony, though it tries: hence I think it means something, really tries to be modern rather than post-modern, and latches onto very real perceptions and dreams. Possibly it is the techonological working out of Freudian dreams and even subconscious fantasies ( big tits? milf?). I do think there's a distinction to be made between pornography and fashion. The two, at times, seem to be working in opposing directions. Whatever the truth of it, I think there is a lot more to come (ho ho) from pornography, both as a leisure activity and as a major source of release, as well as an increasingly powerful driver of body image. I speak here only of heterosexual pornography, which seems to have few problems with bald, ugly or overweight male performers, provided they have the requisite equipment. Or stamina. Or whatever. It needs someone rather more specialised than myself properly to conjecture whether or not pornography sets trends or works from them. What, exactly, is the extent of its influence? Judging from the number of playboy pencil cases, diaries, and other accessories I have seen in school (owned, with a crushing degree of inevitability, by girls) it's reasonably extensive.

Anyhow, I wanted to mention that there are only two working bits of my body left. 1) My brain. In fact this is not working, and only seems to be because it is keeping my heart beating. It has not really worked since 1998, when it was in pretty sharp condition. 2) My arse. In fact this doesn't work well either, but I find more satisfaction in its movements and ideas.

One might also argue that my spleen is working. I couldn't possibly comment. Also my liver is probably doing a good job. I daren't ask it, however...

Woman In Chains

So the nicking from Tears for Fears continues....

This is more of a thought than a post, really, which comes from a convesation I had yesterday with a very beautiful woman, who thinks she needs to lose weight. She does not. Her daughter, she says, suffers from real self-image problems for the same reason. Why does this happen in our "civilisation"? Why do young (and not so young) women seem to have such problems so often? I have yet to meet a heterosexual man who does not adore the curves and softnesses of a woman's mysterious, delightful body. I have curves myself of course, but then again they _shouldn't_ be there. I understand that sometimes these issues are caused by health concerns. Fair enough. That's the root of mine, as well as the fact that breasts are attractive on women and not on men. But otherwise - straight men love female bodies that move and undulate, that press against clothing, that can enfold them.

I guess I understand some of the myriad reasons for the problems that women have (including, probably, a male dominated world of media and pornography), but I ask, in all naivety and innocence: what is there not to love in a beautiful, curvy woman?

Another Damn Valentine

Piss off, you damnfool twats, with your pseudo-romantic moneymaking gestures, your slighting of commitment for the one off splash, your fuck-awful pictures of rotting personalities behind beautiful bodies, your ghastly insistence on appearances, your fuckwitted obeisance to the god of sexual attraction, whoever it may be, that idiot deity who really ought to be shot and buried in a shallow grave.

Fuck me: once, loving someone meant attaching yourself, stitching your bodies and souls together so that you made a stronger defence against the storm tides of chance and bastard time. Now, it means: is his cock better than the other guy's? Are her tits a bit saggy? How good is the pussy I'm getting? How long does the cock last? A broken heart means an empty snatch or a pair of balls like two tins of fussell's milk (copyright Viz).

No-one gives a toss, no-one cares a single fuck for the idea that two people can, or even ought to, find themselves in each other, share a mystical or inexplicable attraction that solidifies until there is no telling between the two: once it gets tough, once you stop being basically fuck-buddies and something higher or more permanent threatens the lightly stained glass of your lives; once some prick turns up in a BMW or with some fuckawful job that makes him boss all the other cunts around, that's it - the "love" is gone and the relationship is over. So what? It wasn't fun anymore, it wasn't going anywhere, you stopped satisfying me, we stopped making sense, I wasn't feeling the vibes, we just weren't right, you turned out to be someone else.

So what? Who gives an arse? We're not monogamous anyway and any attempts to prove otherwise are doomed to failure once you've seen Milf Sluts Go Nuts Vol 42, not that I have. Jeesus, she comes like a train! He can go all night and look how hard he comes! Pornstars are the modern gods, except that they're largely unspoken leaders of our aims and ideologies (although apparently Jenna Jameson declared her support for Hillary C: fucking hell if I were a Yank I wouldn't be able to vote for Mike Huckabee fast enough). We're all too ashamed to admit that porn drives our images of male and female and that anyone who doesn't match up can fuck right off. I'm not saying that I don't, or that I'm shit in bed: whatever - who gives a flying fuck anyway?

Valentine's Day? Go fuck yourself, sonny, like a whole load of us have to.

So what if I'm bitter? It's hardly a valid criticism of a lemon, now is it?