ULYSSES IV – an existence without existents and tits Any unethical act begins with someone’s brief experience of unhappiness. “I’m really sick of this! Dragging me up and down the road like that! Thought you just wanted a tea, fuck’s sake.” Police X-Factor, comma, Sussex Policing cuffing and hooding an 11-year-old disabled girl in celebration of the Queen’s 90th birthday. If I keep my website running I will never be asked again to leave Farmxit. WARNING! THIS IS A FARM… I mean, THIS IS A FARM WATCH AREA. Ask Sussex Police Serving Sussex if you don’t believe me. So get the fuck out of my Farmxit!! 4 da Cynics there woz no other life but that lived in virtue and in agreement with nature’s bars. Simple life free from all possessions and from every single demand those snails who never buy a fucking round make. Diogenes and Dr. Fox are the archetypal cynic wasters. Needless to say, it’s bloody difficult to eradicate any endemic tendency to be a professional cynic. Genuinely thinking, it’s twenty times faster to buy scratch cards on the dole’s queue. Two lesbians in a black 4 x 4 laughing as loud as your misogynist eardrums can take. What’s all that about? Let me tell ya what’s going on: human rights. March for England this weekend. I don’t oppose Fascism, I don’t want to. Makes things more interesting. Could be worse. Could be Mick Jagger playing cricket for the countryside alliance… in your back garden. Imagine that, my man. The Apocalypse on a Sunday Afternoon. All plastic tits and you are the last celibate alive in the planet. Napoleon had hemorrhoids. It’s all to do with pretty low levels of oxygen down there. It’s like the wind is deleting all the fucking epidermis’s data. Delete, delete, delete. I got an audience, so I go and draw a portrait of the Duke of Cuntbridge. What kind of shit is this? Result: smoking when pregnant causes bad drawing. And then some early mod version of a homo neanderthalensis at the pub uses the word “nigger” and I temporarily emigrate to the Dorset. I start to sing I Pagliacci. Mr. Lion is standing right behind me smoking one of his golden pipes. I’d like to shake hands with him and tell him how much I appreciate seeing his rainbow-coloured Jaguar parked outside Infinite Foods. Young eunuch waiter calls me darling after a brief look at my shoes. If only he knew they have more holes than the ladies’ door. Love feeling the contact of my wet socks with the pavement. Think I am becoming a mobile chesnut. Fucking Van Morrison on the speakers. Go back to the KKK pub for the final solution of the day. Fat ginger pub’s cat is taking a sunbath by the front door. He is a film star. The ooposite sex is gonna love ‘im. “What’s his name? What’s his name? He’s sooooo cute!! How old is him?” “48, and is staring at your tits. Talk to me, sweetie. I too have social media needs!” No replies. I might as well do a Bergson and shout loud over the ridiculous hair follicle of the mod clientele that the concept of nothingness is fucking equivalent to the idea of being crossed out as a gigolo feline. “Gentlemen, I am feeling rejected like a motherfucker in this city of you where even the most useless cats get more tit attention! Gonna fucking join the Foreign Legion!” “You already there, pal. Your strong accent can fucking prove it.” I leave the pub thinking that perhaps celibacy, as paradoxical as it might sound, might be the cure for my tit obsession. In other words, how long will it take for my brand new non-masturbatory way of living to eradicate this fucking awful titfixation? Brighton and Hove City Council – Investors in People? You serious! Can only see beardy-tattoed white socks and average
buskers about to be released into the jungle from the subterranean cells of the Church of the Seven Mighty Wet Farts. I was once in a Stephen Hawking’s documentary. Couple of casting shitheads were looking for pensive lookalikes. I was sitting right here, on this same spot at the Tit Pub, when them camera nubiles approached me. “Excuse me sir, would you like to be part of a…” “Of course, why not. Where’s the fucking release form?” Twenty minutes later. “It’s OK, sir. You don’t need to put your ciggie out. Can you pretend you thinking about something deep?” “Deep like what?” Deep like the secret behind any 10-piece Bob the Builder puzzle. That’s me after two stouts on a sunny afternoon when any word spoken appears to be made out from my sweaty genital area. “Is this meditative cock face good enough, guys?” Why am I so drunk? Bank Manager don’t deserve it. People are staring at me with a Country Life look. “You! So early and already sooooo wasted!” Wish I could sell them little Syrian babies. Bet they don’t know it’s quite normal being ginger in Syria. “What the fuck do we all know, anyway?”, says the incriminating mind. 2 + 2 = 4 and I slept with your mum. She didn’t enjoy it. Clearly thought the chicken drumsticks I prepared for her have more shape and length to offer. It’s freemasons’ meeting night at Sussex Lodge in two hours. Someone oughtta tell them that wearing cheap imitation shoes leads you to hell. Dandruff ain’t either an ethical response or a divine interpretation. I was once important, you know? I was an 8th degree Rosicrucian. Still, I don’t fully comprehend why a shoe in my left shoe is an imperative. I want a Japanese girlfriend. They seem to stare less. Perhaps it’s an optical illusion, but so it is carrying a ridiculously expensive camera on your chest. Fernand Pelloutier wrote once that we are what fucking politicians ain’t: full-time rebels. “Time is unredeemable”, said a pointing nose in Burnt Norton. Time equals a perpetual abstraction in a relative dimension traced by hand, equals a fast-motion journey scripted with fuckups and Chris Martin’s broken dreams. Neo-classicism: “I ain’t loyal to baby grownups. Some of them look like shit.” A drunk bastard yelling at you when the storm is over. Far from being popular, our bodies are temporarily sacrificed to alien divinities. “So why don’t you do self-portraits?” “Nah, every painting is a self-portrait in itself, or some shit like that.” I frequently hear them voices. Chain-smoking makes them less tit-tit and more rational to my over developed sense of hearing-whatever-the-fuck-I-don’t-want-to-hear as they travel their way in through my tympanic membrane and I am rating female nipples according to the size and shape of the same pair of breasts that house them. Depravado, depraved. No-one can deny that life could be more relaxing in a nippleless cosmos. According to Murdoch’s The New York Times, hipsterism is “irrevocably” losing cohesion. Gonna grow me a beard now. My dad used to tell me and my brothers when we was lost pigeons in an autocracy of gratuitous shit that if we were gonna grow a beard it shouldda be coz we wanted and not coz we was being fucking lazy. Think I will pick the latter. The Brexits are five minutes away from facing on the green pitch Chernenko, Chernobyl and Chechenian fuckers holding 1980s daggers with their rotten teeth. But the voices are still in my head. They tellin’ me not to start a fucking sentence
with the fucking conjunction “But…” I do whatever the fuck I want and this newly acclaimed hairy chin and cheeks of mine are the fucking final testament of it. Freedom, self-government and self-determination. The freedom of the whore, as painted by Mishima. She knows I’ll be leaving in the morning and a new battle against dozen of midlife crisis hippies buying shit at the Cyber Candy Shop will be forced upon me. Sometimes I’m inclined to write with my bare bum pointing at the female warrior of the celestial equator. And sometimes all I can see is nothing but the children of the Grateful Dead working the easy hour from 9 to 5 at Caffe Tandy in Brains Street whilst their digitalized media laptop faces adopt half of the colours of the rainbow if, and only if, them babies have not yet realized that growing organic turnips in a console is another type of zero-hour contract that no pretty mademoiselle out there will ever find sexually arousing. The 17th hour and the 25th minute: Eventually, I manage to have a decent mammal conversation in the drinking room. “Tell ya what, Louise. That Mark is such a fucking greedy cunt. Fucking hate his fucking pub.” “Is that why you are always drinking here?” “You seen what they fucking done now? They put a fucking suggestions box by the main door. Well, you fucking arsehole, I got one for ya: Why don’t you tattoo on your fucking forehead ‘Cunt at your service’?” “Shut your gob, Gonzalez. You are wasted again.” “Seriously, Louise. What a fucking…” CUNT, some 18th century writers refer to it as “the monosyllable”. In Middle English cunt, “female genitalia”; in Old Norse, kunta; and in Middle Low German kunte. Kinta Kunte, me and the pub’s manager. Although there’s also a suggested link with Latin cunens “wedge”. According to some farmer guy, any linguistic mind could find more than 500 synonyms of the very word in English slang and literature. Here’s some for ya, you fucking cunt of a pub manager: Botany Bay, coffee-shop, goatmilker, Itching Jenny, Low Countries, nature’s tufted treasure, prick-skinner, tickle-toby and end of the sentimental journey. Cacophonous drunkard. Free-raging non-masculine chaps are taking over our tables at the Cunty Dorsetbillie’s. Exercise your demons, she said. I went and raped her. Seemed to like it and asked for more. Little kiddie pooing in a potty in the corner did not look pissed off with us. Probably thought it’d keep her gob shut for once. “Now be a good boy and empty your tommy-tommy for mum in the special chair.” “Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone, you miserable tart?” “When I’m older I wanna go to Oxford uni to do a major in Logic so I can learn how to communicate with this greedy bunch of positivist cunts”, thought the toddler shit machine as he was launching his third smelly brownie. Shaggy tits was feeling ever so proud as the rape scene was wearing off. That did not mean the sentimental journey was over yet. Dan the Ripper had taken ketamine that evening and was proven to be quite a successful linguistic maverick. His head, like that of all those witnessing that night the tickle-toby violation scene, being impregnated with the semantic seeds of the lonely lunatic, sounded like this: “Intending to contribute to a --?— understanding of --?—CUNT. Theresa May comes as a surprise to those --?—who remember --?—CUNT. The status of the --?—object is taken for granted. Sexual feelings are more likely to --?--. A nice lad who understood the sensuous --?—of her CUNT. When he wore out he was replaced by --?--. The sufferings of the compulsive
shopper Jump The Gun are more present in this --?--. Libraries, the stable where our minds are free to --?—and where we can also meet CUNTS like --?--. I’ve always been inspired by CUNTS like you, CUNT.” Smoking causes no fatal CUNT cancer. “Stop organizing my life. I have no phone, but you may email me if necessary.” It’s so progressive here! I’m really lagging. Help yourself to my beer. I’m going to Southern Computers to buy me a type-writer. No, not an old one. An electric one will do. I used to have a type-writer-type. Loved typing shit like “Ever noticed traffic wardens ain’t allowed to have tattoos.” Brighton magazine, June 1994 issue. Gigs, clubs, comedy, funerals, music, shopping, arts, eating out, arts and gardening, arts and drinking in winter like some homeless polar bear rejecting any hibernating protocol, arts and barbers, and then some fine digestion after a full tray of greasy motherfucker pork chops for all them vegan velociraptors. SS Heinrich Comet. “Mate, let’s eat properly. It’s our last day in the planet!” Captain Scott applauds. Hitler too. Boris Johnson’s envy. Trump is a bald cunt. Bet you never guessed it. Festival can be tits too. Everywhere and at any time, mate. Blissfields, Bestival, Beestival, Wild Boar Life Festival, Camp Testical, Together the People Who Will Never Give a Shit Festival, in June, July, August and the best of what’s on in Happy Beardy Automata Land. I know why you are staring at me in disgust. It’s 11.17 am on a Tuesday morning and I’m already pissed. “Old man, don’t you have anything better to do?” But I ain’t gonna fulfill her bedroom’s sadistic fantasies. No Pedro, I ain’t gonna clean no fucking potty-potty after intercoursing momentaneously my way into her bed. Together the Troll Men Incestival, curated and produced by a group of Lancing-based business frogs and limping Buddhists who are passionate about croquettes and great entertainment. It’s probably best if I go to the office. Won’t be able to concentrate surrounded by all those 1990s unpacked boxes though. Is that Ben Elton? Man’s talk. We haven’t heard that in the public house in ages. Never done anything I’m ashamed of… but being Elton’s alter-ego in the library. So far today we’ve learnt that we must let ourselves be fucked by the Ladyboys of Bank-Cock. Of course, will feel like there is no connection. Heard last night on Mexican national TV that Angela Merkel does Air B N& B. Can you imagine that? Paying 10,000 Euros a night to masturbate in her bed. And what about sniffing her underwear? “Fucking knew it. She’s a lad!” Did you know that Anthony Hopkins makes music too? He tried to do some Mozart shit last year. “Isn’t that the same guy who refuses to read any letters that ain’t addressed to Sir Anthony whatever?” “No, that’s that baldy actor? What’s his face? That twat from Gandhi. Ben something.” Yeah, filming in a vault, drinking from a skull. That kind of shit and thunders coming out from the nostrils whilst dinosaurs struggle to know who they are. It does twist yin and yan, ying and yang, chick and jap a little bit. I ain’t got a fart to fart no mo’. There was once a French prick, an IT guy that loved singing the same tune over and over. I started to despise him. I wanted to smash his head up. Who the fuck are these people? I know how to take care of my receding hairline: Books. Books, what’s the fuzz about? Brighton Books. 01273 693845. For 40 million years, this pathetic city has witnessed an awe inspiring but totally brainless burst of shallow 1980s pop. Join us for a crowd surfing fantasia. Get your surfing board out and meet us
at the beheading of liberal morons. In the name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate: This is all it is. A button only. Don’t forget us in your prayers. Boooooooooooommmmmmm!! In those casual days, there were none but a few hipsters at the church. On one occasion, I blamed Whitesocked Phillip for the apparent decay of humankind. “You, above and below all, should bloody well know that a pair of Levi’s 501 is worth half a dozen human souls.” I said, “You, above and below all, ain’t competition at all for a local organic egg!” And there thou have not. And Gore Vidal stares back at the tit, at that big juicy hill in no-man’s land, to tell us a period joke whilst hipster-hipster dad realizes that he, the incompetent nipple’s rapist, may not be after all the eloquent circus ring master that we all had hoped for. Please, recite after me: “The nice thing about being now –this being the very period joke- is being right, (comma), and the bad thing about being then is being wrong, not to mention being forgotten… “ by the very mother who so parsimoniously offered us a sore nipple, coz surely all fathers love sucking from that which may guarantee eternal youth to our man in immaculate white socks, tight black jeans and a beard for all seasons. “Told ya, We got the old Gillette out and we finally won a fucking war.” April 1991, on a muddy trench somewhere near Verdun. We shall not surrender… to abstract concepts that instinctively accept no refutation. Art for art’s sake. Fuck off. Art for I will never be able to acknowledge my lack of ambition. As I stare from my suicide bench at The Queen’s Head at both P Constable This and P Constable That performing outside in their mid-afternoon cop TV show, my heart opens up for the last time: “let those who cain’t jump take a leak in yer studio, Gonzalez.” When I am older I want to grow standard ovations in my coffin. She said she saw two pigeons eating a puke on Thursday. Now I am at the Santander branch in North Street transferring dosh from two different toilet accounts. They all are ghostly or speculative notions. Should buy gold like Alex suggested. Young cashier seems to agree: “What a lovely day outside, Mr. Gonzalez. You been abroad recently? You have a wonderful tan.” “Nah, just been working outside. But listen, young lady. Ain’t no room for folly moods today. We just left Germany and the UK ain’t no more a composite made up of England, Wales and the Financial District.” “Do you want a receipt, Mr. Gonzalez?” Three badly drawn lions are playing Iceland on Saturday. I will limit myself to two lousy references: one being Vardy on attack and the other me buying a boat to sail to Alaska and claim for my illustrious surname a few rocks in the Bering Sea. Heard the Alaskan giant crab fetches $35in the greedy gut of modern culinary speculation. Would suggest that you put yourself literally and fictionally in my place in order to criticize me, bitch. Shelley, Prometheus unbound. “Leave man, even a leprous child is left, who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft of rocks, through which the might of healing spring is poured.” You wanted to become a sniper some time ago. “What ya think it’d be the Brexit’s soundtrack? Think about something pop, obviously. “I don’t know any fucking pop songs, but I guess it would be something like ‘I am in a new level’” Those fucking pigs always play their car’s siren just at the wrong time. I’m talking about a specific type of alcoholic that hasn’t been categorized yet. Is it about remote controls or something? They are mostly imitating police officers as they sing rap.
‘You got the guns, I got the pants!’ Never fuck with the Iberians, they will take your gold and rape your Cuban daughters. George was born into a noble and rich family. He was a small guy (is his grave in Palestine?) In Greek is Georgius, the “maker”. He slaughtered a crocodile in exchange for the town’s conversion to neo-liberalism. In one story, I heard, he asks a princess to throw her sanitary towel to the beast. But why did he convert too to HSBC? And how he died? Was he ever married? Why do girls always hold hands? Why do they refuse to hold mines? Do I look like an Armenian caiman about to suck the red fluids of a Sainsbury’s Local’s Tampax? Taking me close to half a century to realize that them gals will only hold hands with me if some humble guru pothead manages first to inflate the actual value of my constant look of desperation. “At Cunt-Fire Convention, we believe that there is a desire for a vital new space” –how about a barber and sandwich shop where you pay with dirty toilet tissue that, alternatively, you may wrap around your head to prevent any more fucking dull commercial ideas from dominating your loser’s existence. “We are creating environments where members can facilitate personal and social change, free of the restrictions associated with fucking dosh accumulation. In an idyllic location at Bitch Inn, musician, writer and visual partist Brian Eno will be doing something, perhaps sing Goering’s favorite aviation tunes.” Drinking feels animalistic. It’s something caveman would do. You do it whenever there’s a victory. You do it with your cock and elbows. From bad to worse. End of days. Like Boris Johnson charging for sucking my ex’s tits. I never win, and that’s the first prick stance in any honest syllogism. Adonais: An Elegy by Shelley Upon the Death Of Keats. Here lieth two pals whose names were writ on crack heroine: British First. Dead man syndrome. Linguistics, political thought, microbiology, technology, software programming, Marxism, logical thought, logical sex, psychoanalysis, psycho-anal-ISIS, writing, tagging, pubbing… I, Caligula, insist upon the fact that any chit-chat implies a valid attempt to put into question the intellectual capacity of great apes at 2AM. Sir Roger Carr, Chairman of AGM: “You can be feminine and be an engineer.” 2.8 billion of weapon sales were licensed by Prince Phillip’s government. Strict ethical guidelines were encouraged. And all that because it’s a new style of music festival including live acts, storytelling, cash point intercourse, networking, campfire, air raids, civilian deaths, displaced people &/or hipsters, starving children, detentions, torture and executions. Line-up is provisional and subject to change. Brian Eno and Brian Ferry: “As you imagine, things are not simple.” But apes surely are. Focus, focus, no time for glory. “We provide bespoke saucy loans. Get in touch with Sebastian, our branch manager, and see what he can do for you.” Quarrels and fuck-ups cannot be wished out of existence.. Little Jenny goes downstairs to check out her new room. Her dad just been selected for the new manager post available at KT13 0ZW. Little Polly stumbles and falls the fuck down. Daddy acts as a potential witness. Little Polly cries loud. Daddy makes no fuzzzzzzzzzzzz coz life is complex and plenty of more falls to come. Mummy makes no fuzzzzzzzzz either. “Mummy, why aren’t you upset? My baby sister just broke her lip!!” “Coz your daddy is a cunt and is having an affair with untie Liz. Would you believe it! With my own fucking sister!” Any temporary &/or sexual
gratification dissipates by an exchange of insults. Poisoning the other half of the rotten orange used to be considered a wise alternative. Many of you, hairy apes of a dubious nature, would own a large variety of homemade recipes which could be tried out in readiness for the next bedroom vendetta. Sexual communism is a fuck trait not found anywhere except among the howler monkeys. I wish I could include some pics in this poem. Fucking Internet is useless. Poetry and Jack Doobee-Doobee too. Fear, violence and social control. Facebook, ten Budweisers and the opening of another Sainsbury’s Local in your bedroom. Oh yeah, in that very cubicle where the insignificant man in you shagged untie Liz. You gotta be honest from time to fuck. Briefly, we all are fucking bold howlers living in large political units called football federations, fed with tedious arbitrary solutions delivered by the Amazon’s sales department. Let me tell you something, young man: A monkey is only brave when he stands up against the state’s invisible aggression with his cock out and demands, drunk or not, respect, stability and a free account in Netflix plus the right to be part of the Icelandic national team. Tools of the main heart: Any law to be flawless if, and only if, any regulation of drinking hours can be added to any regulation of paid working hours. All the shit we work for –let’s include here condoms, Tampax, download porn and Amstels, must not be sold to us at some increasingly high cost. All of life’s essentials should not be funded with our wages. Shit, no more fucking rain, please! Get the olives out, Pedro! Smiling back at you was my finest hour. Did not get intimidated by your tight leopard-skin panties. Any red lipstick conveniently applied fails not to open up my public charming mannerisms. For that cannibalistic smile of you I’d even listen to Peter Frampton’s classic hits. Passive Aggressive, PassGrass ain’t working today. He was a regular at Madness’ Xmas party. Me too, when I thought I was someone coz untie Liz proved me with over rated screams that there was a fully functioning Tescos in her bedroom. The tools of the main heart were def. flawed. (singing): “Laptop this, laptop that. When will you show us your pretty ass?” “The problem with Muslims these days is that they are the most divided molecular compound in the whole damned universe.” It’s the emotions that carry away the words, says T. There’s a song that goes: “Sticky situation, it’s a sticky situation.” There’s an elegy that goes: “Dear Mr. Gonzalez, we recognize that financial difficulty can often arise from external factors such as unemployment, a loss in work hours, a relation breakdown or living the life of the living dead. From the first time we speak to our bad, bad boys, we take the time to understand their finances and apathy and agree an affordable payment plan based on the hours you spend watching shit in YouTube. Please, contact us on 01737 666 666 to discuss the repayment options available to you.Yours sincerely, Ezra Pound, Collections Director.” “And wild desire falls like black lightning. O bewildered heart, though every branch have back what last year lost, she, Gonzalez, who moved here amid the cyclamen, moves only now a clinging tenuous ghost.” Pound was born in Idaho in 1880 something. During the Fourth World War he made a series of Fascist broadcasts over Radio Nazi Olive, for which he was tried in the Confederate States and subsequently committed to a mental asylum. He died in the City of the Pissing Smelly Waters in 1972. “He
who is now vacant dust was once the slave of one passion:” Four little wheels. Coz it’s obvious that when Gonzalez ain’t concerned with his white socks, he loves to turn his attention to the glamorous barmaids that he’s found in the pubs around him. He has undoubtedly brought more character, more socialist misogynist thinking, and above all more skateboard’s lateral cognition into his vagabond’s creditor paintings than into his professional existence as an unqualified builder . Credit Solutions LTD., in conjunction with HSBC Debt Collecting Department, are the fortunate possessors of one of Gonzalez’s most successful studies of middle-class hippie hoping hipsterism so cynically but painfully reproduced in Existence Without Existents and Tits.” O man, why are you always so fucking bitter?? I recently saw Her Modesty the Queen Bitch being greeted by the Prince of the Welsh as she arrived for the final orgy of her 90th birthday celebrations at the Amex Stadium. That’s how fucking bitter I am. Spielberg included a scene of Her Modesty the Queen Bitch breaking wind in his dreadful adaptation of Donald Duck’s The BFG because he thought Elizabeth would bloody love it. That’s how fucking bitter I am. What about my farts, Steven? Why do I never count? I’m getting closed to extinction by oblivion here. Hop on, hop off, Old Steine. Hop on, hop off, Palace Pier. Hop on, hop off, Santander branch in London Road. Hop on, hop off, Tramp’s, Terminus Street. There was a time when no one knew our names either, claims the genius behind the new Stella Artois’ ad campaign. When you are as old as me your name is the last thing you wanna remember. Only professional immaturity and the smell of the left-wing Fisherman’s shoes can keep you sane. On Sunday, from the pulpit, I sometimes smell for my congregation Jesus’s Nikes whilst ordering prayers for the eternal glory of our Lady of the Giggling Hysteria. Man, we leaving the continent! What the fuck are we gonna do now? We gonna be left with nothing but a K2 of cucumber sandwiches and three old farts demanding that the Kingdom remain unchanged for two hundred years. Theresa May: For God’s Sake, acknowledge the classics, Manuel! Manuel listens, blinking sleepily. He wishes he had met Teresa when she was in her early twenties. Bet she was a juicy bombon. Choco truffles in strong pink underwear. He’d have made her happy 4eva. But now he’s leaving the country to plant his weather forecast olives somewhere else. Theresa May: Please, don’t leave me! My own people made me do it. Promise you that I will let you grow chickpeas and Picassos in my… Speechless rage. The writer’s about to break some balls. He’s 48, single but no longer living with himself. He’s to spend the best part of the year mixing concrete cement with sharp sand. He too wishes he had met May in a Victorian opium harem. Shortly after 11.30pm, Gonzalez and Theresa had sex in a crack house in Islington. She panicked: “I see no way out, Gonzalez! No flipping escape! You get your hairy cock in… and I get all the hairy Latinos out!”
The old tramp has prepared a farewell speech to deliver at the Eurotunnel. “Dear Nazis and Communists: This fucking idiot who’s leaving for good is the result of years of his own research, daily idiocy and cheese and onion dried bread sandwiches. When I was on the dole and living in Kemptown, I used to feed myself with Happy Shopper’s noodles and foreign literature borrowed from the public library. Did not take me long to realized that my laborious methods as well as preoccupation with developing the perfect bum state of mind would ultimately buy me some real time before Theresa had completed her PHD on providing homoxenoxylophonic opinions about the people of the Funny Accent Land. There ain’t neither sincerity nor regret on my departure. I don’t give a solemn fuck about happy endings. We shall not triumph in the end.” “That could very well be”, says the old fart who clearly understands why I went to the trouble of telling these fucking morons the truth. TRUTH: noun, the freaky quality of being true. Eg. Henry Kissinger ordered the dropping of 3.7 million tons of bombs in Indofuckingchina. TRUTH, noun that which is in accordance with reality. Eg. Her Modesty the Queen has a personal net worth of $550 million, $10 billion worth of real estate and an annual government freebie of $12.9 million. Why give these figures in dollars? John 17:17 – “Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth!” Twice a year I cross naked the Thames in my sleep. Do not know why, I’d rather walk through Hyde Park on an autumn day. I’m glad to hear no one of you is having sex in cold and putrid waters in your dreams. In mines I’m always starving and looking for the next blonde chick that might fancy a swim fuck. We be pervy swans on da stretches of the Thames, like those the Crown has been claiming ownership for nearly a thousand years. Swam meat was considered a delicacy in the 12th century. Anyway, them dreams of mine always end with me wearing a Richard Ashcroft tee at a gallery opening. Took me sometime to understand why funded public art can never work. It’s all in your dreams, wrote Freud before he was killed by his doctor with three morphine doses. Although, to be fair, he only sold some 300 copies of the Interpretation of Wet River Dreams in its first six years. Fucking loser. Anyone who’s willing to mix wet t-shirts orgies with the factual recreation of the wettest of all dreams (that being the bombing by Ho Chi Minh’s aviation of Balmoral Castle), deserves to be put to sleep with heroine. Fucking losers. Audience bored. Hand over the MDMA, you bloody lot! But with their genitalia currently exposed, they give up nothing but recycled JB Sports bags. Their lives are packed with little insignificant stories that only the Chief Editor at the Bus Travel magazine would consider censor before publication. I, who was already born fucked, cannot deny that all my life memories deserve to sink back in a 1920s widow’s armchair. Demons are a product of our implacable resilience. “WE DELIVER: We can deliver on delicious Roman pizzas and fucking soul-destroying faces to your home or office.” “If I had a tattoo in my leg I’d have to wear shorts in winter”, said him, the soul-destroying Deliveroo guy shaking his head like a fat pig watching on national TV the decline of the farming industry. “God, why are you always so fucking bitter?” Mate, that interrogation will surely justify my propensity to eat pork chops. Like that until the end of the days of the raising and breeding of resentful baconised animalia. As I’m
writing these lines, I can see my shadow’s right hand squeezing Porky Pig’s left metatarsophalangeal joints. Disgusting, I now sound like Will Self. All Indian men expect their Indian partners to cook for them at least two meals a day. That’s the last time I let the Looney Tune’s pig say something… in front of the tellie. Our City Ambassadors look too like pigs these days. They ain’t fit to join the Police. And our cops ain’t fit to join those responsible for all the civilian casualties in Irak. And those responsible for the death in the land of the Tigris and the Euphrates ain’t fit either to fight Allah is Great. And Allah could perhaps be Great ain’t fit enough to bear three openings in a row in any of the city’s public art galleries. Sweet mujahidin of mine, I rather tattoo both my legs’ calves! “Gosh, you are always so fucking bitter, Latino!!” The brilliance of man is made up of all those drinking sessions in the past that refrained him from thinking he had genius. Believe it or not, drinking is a sanctifying art. Let’s build a holy shrine in our public houses. Don’t be afraid, you will never end up pissed and looking like Saint Teresa of Calcutta. “There’s something beautiful”, said she, “in seeing the poor accept their lot. To suffer is like Christ’s passion. The world gains much from their suffering.” C’mon Calcutta, join us in the WC! Satisfied at length by the last exclamation, I get up and leave The Quadrant in search of a new endeavour that will not jeopardize my dipsomaniac sainthood. Why do I write? Why fucking bother? Who and where am I? Who’s Georges Perec? Why did he write? What was all the fuzz about? What was his face up to? Do we both still need protection? And if so, from what? From the Ethical Writing Rooms of Brighton? Are you fucking serious? “No Unauthorised Access. 1045 volts. Importante: This writer should be periodically inspected and a report on his alcoholic and mental conditions obtained as prescribed in the IEE Writing Regulation BNP 7671.” I write because I love going to the shop periodically to buy expensive writing, but in my case no writing, pens and notepads. I write because I love dating the first page of any newly purchased notepad half a minute before I’ve already made up my mind and go for the non-writing-situation-today-mate coz I rather drink a beer and wait for some red lipstick to ask me if I’m a writer and I will lift my Uni Pin Fine Line and stare at Lipstick with that type of majestic smile of the author who bloody well knows that only 50,000 words separates him from giving birth and papers to some sort of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men. “So, no darling, I’m definitely not a writer –just doing my shopping list. You are ever so welcome to give us a hand with this masterpiece. ‘Ere, grab this red pen.” Yeah, what the fuck do I write for? Writing is a fucking waste of time. It’s bloody poisonous and like the father of Je suis né once suggested from his desk at the pinball bazaar in the Parisian Left Bank: You’re better off grabbing a sledge-hammer and do what weekend gardeners do to liberate themselves from the fucking inferno of the conjoined words. Also, there’s certainly more pleasure in allowing other slaves do it for ya. You are just too fucking arrogant to understand you’ve always lacked self-discipline and creative talent. Vamos Manuel, have another roll-up and leave it for today. Simon Webster hair, that’s a prolific writer for you. Cyber Candy Brighton, that’s another fucking good sssledge-hammeree too. Bik Chief, The T-Chest, Vegetarian Shoes, Toby Tiger, The Chilies Shop, and little ginger,
walking down Bond Street all jolly, he, or she, but still unaffected by the results of the second round of voting for the new conservative cunt PM, they all are good writers too. Years in the Making, Happy Shopper’s noodles and self-imposed barriers that kept the writer from realizing his greatest dream: the dating of the first blank page in a Ryman’s notepad for customized Bik Chief poets. Oh you, ugly monsters. I have tried my worst to demonstrate that all I’ve getting from you is the spelling out of the economy of my intellectual immaturity. One must always question wonderbras and the nature of the audience. The time for fair poetry is never a rockabilly revival. Avoid the simulacrum A tit is a tit, and a four-nipple pair of breasts glorifying the comeback of the mod scene in the village says a lot about you as an accidental member of a passive audience. Fuck classical idealism. God or Darwin gave us the don of amnesia so we could spend 2/3 of our salary on badly cut psychobilly 45s. It is advisable to permanently think that arthritis can also invite itself in your cerebral cortex. No more lub in your central nervous system. Shit, I really need to grow up. How many times over the last decade have I heard that? And how can one correlate the number of fucks he/she has ever had right after having heard that he/she needs to grow up in inches. All living organisms who own a mirror survive on a diet of Christian copulating sessions. Fact. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck me, you fucking infantile. Any given moment, however far off, I will formalize my junior cognitos by accepting that I am a qualified kid if your insults in bed lead us two to the safest place of all: The Durex Chambers. Although morally absent, I can promise ya that I will be constantly present and hence fully functioning for the sake of any amount of seminal liquid I will objectively be capable to correlate for the Journal of Idiosyncratic Sexual Behaviour Among Great Sapiens Apes. “Perhaps, it’d make us good if we clear first certain misunderstandings”, said she “All right then”, said I. “Even if I said in passing that you are a fucking arsehole and that it would benefit us greatly if you stopped playing with your Luke Skywalker light saber when I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you, that does not mean that I don’t want us to…” Deconstructing George Lucas’s corporative cock manners. Confusion. Shall I leave? Shall I pretend I’m too busy writing? Shall I go Elephant Man and request a sympathy vote? Can I be a poet? Do I give a shit? How does one (number 1) model oneself after one (number 1, 2 & all) has been fairly scrutinized and the audience, directly or not, is expecting him or her to buy them a round? May as well call it Infections of the Growth Generative System, one manifestation of which is the ever popular Colles’ Law, i.e. A daddy with a syphilitic political mind and no serious cock may father a fetus showing similar political views. In this case, miscarriage in first pregnancy is a fact; but as daddy carries on shagging with the same mademoiselle, baby with a syphilitic cuntservative mind is finally born and can suck from mummy’s tit coz she’s just got clean thanks to the 9 ½ lives of the woman who can put up with any shit and order sempiternum rerum, order always prevails. Le Corbusier’s The Modulor. Let’s build council states following as an architectural model the golden mean of the human dick. Let’s harmonize poverty and drinking needs. “Authority intervenes here,” says the man, “adopting a principle and dimension which
imply a certain order of things: a choice which might be regarded as an arbitrary decision.” Intelligent Cock Police Brigade or how to explain citizens the dangers of mentioning the wrong kind of disease. “Surely they don’t want wise penises in council estates?” “When theorizing about desperate bricks on the dole looking for casual sex one must not praise the use of widespread opinions”, says to our school kids Police Senior Officer Roberts three weeks and two days before he is suspended after anonymous allegations of racist and offensive behavior in a public setting. I feel sorry for Roberts, he could have been someone too. A teenage Goth in a green city, for example, a reliable picture of a pathetic attempt to self-harm any ridiculous feelings of being inadequate and misrepresented in society. Happy end, Roberts joins the Orange League in Lewes. He is a liberal now and I won’t comment on that. “You all never understood what a moth has to put up with on a daily basis”, said Roberts on his farewell speech. Met many moth-goths in Viking territory over the years, me. It’d be fair to say that a large majority of them came across as too stupid to comprehend that the image behind their laptop wasn’t that of a fully functioning electric bulb but that of a 14-year-old girl wearing black lipstick. They were all passive paedophiles in the making who I’d personally sentence to two years in an army barrack with no access to the Internet or to any Scandinavian death metal albums. I consider myself a decent drunk catholic. Belting people at midnight felt usually right. “On your knees, Roberts! The Honorable Legion of the Lifelong Hypo-Hypochondriacs are running the state now. It will be our job to tell you from now on what you must eat, for our freezers are packed with all the poison a man should try whenever our kids are fast asleep.” “Don’t listen to them”, suggests he, a highly moral being, a pitted green olive with the moral standards of a Scandinavian paella tapa. “Do not listen to them, I repeat”, says he, the man who thinks Japanese males cannot run properly; says he, the man, who stated the land of the overrated sushi is an archipelago made of some 7000 islands and 126 million beings that cannot run proper proper. Consider this: seventy of those unorthodox runners will kill themselves everyday… presumably due to poor performance in either the workplace or the racetrack. Fucking wise arse. Discover more exciting facts at markandspenser.com. Between 2013 and 1014 female suicide rates in England increased by 14%. How come, they usually do good at the Olympic trials? That makes no bloody sense. Anyway, you may download the 2016 Suicide Statistics Report from www.samaritans4japanrunners.org. One might reasonably hypothesized that running before killing oneself can be classified as a fucking waste of time.. Listen sunshine, if you running style ain’t good enough you can always join the Home Office to let them drive you around in one of their black armored Mercedes. Saw Jeffrey Archer talking some shit about his private art collection on BBC iPlayer this afternoon. Tell ya what, that cunt could run the fuck out of us. Reckon we should send him as an special envoy to Fukushima’s exclusion zone to teach that lot a few athletic tricks. That’s the thing about being found guilty by the Crown of perverting the course of justice when you are a peer. Once you leave Belmarsh Prison a million of new opportunities will lie ahead so you can take a grip on your life once again. “Ok guys, lemme
show you how to sprint. First, don’t fuck up and focus on posture core and willingness to engage in fast perverted sexual practices. Second, note the absence of peers on the track? What’s that telling you? A) they don’t like Asian runners; b) they don’t give a shit for they are about to pervert the trials of modern justice and get away with it; or c) you are a free man running comically in a free but comic world where in order to preserve your freedom you must elect every now and then the elite coz them fuckers know by birth how to handle your liberties and rights, your gas bill and the professional league of sexual promiscuity you are about to join in. When Irish Murdoch was asked what would be the first thing she’d do if she were living in a free land she left the room and went to the toilet. She died in a nursing home on February 8, 1999, precisely 56 years after the Japanese 100m sprinters evacuated Guadalcanal leaving that tropical island in Yankee hands; and precisely five years before McDonalds opened its first fucking restaurant in Ho Chi Minh. The son-in-law of Vietnam’s prime minister was the first manager of that beef house. Oh man, we all are at it. Ephemeral, late 16th century, from Greek ephemeros, meaning lasting for a short time, summing like that red liquid that lubricates the moral principles governing a person’s &/or a nation’s conduct. February 8th, 1952: Princess Ellie proclaims herself Queen and Head of the Commonwealth & Defender of the Faith. There’s nothing to stop me from imagining things, situations, financial debts, women that are neither real nor abstract. I can allow myself to dream for awhile even if I don’t have anything in particular to aspire to. Niccolo Machiavelli’s door must remain open. Setting aside any annoying scruple, I shall fight to death for any personal ambition that will save my fucking boring life. All men are prone to evil; me, to a bed and a pillow. Trying to come up with something that might resemble freedom from anything that continues to taste like some cheap turd cooked at the Mossad’s headquarters has no use for me. Seen many good soldiers fall on Western Road; Fluoxetine and the Clintons being the main cause of their decline. Unless you are one of those fortunate arseholes with a zen-like face prone to theoretical thinking one minute and 37 seconds after you have consumed you first cup of green tea, you will find that the right to behave, speak, think or fuck as you please is a lottery ticket on a pissed blind man’s hand. We all are fucked and that face of disapproval of you put us all on our way to the great commuting fallacy. Freedom fighters as a residual species are inclined to… Motorola ringing. “Allo. Who’s that?” It’s Theresa May, calling from her daddy’s parish in Oxfordshire. We met in 1981. I was about to fail for the third time in four years a math exam at school and, to my embarrassment, she’d just been appointed extra-curricular teacher to help those pupils who only stay on track when the situation involved hairy hormones chasing bouncing spheroids. -Theresa: How you coping, Olive? -Gonzalez: Pretty well, thank you fucking much. Bought myself a farm in Teresilla’s and now I spend my time growing dreams of grandeur 24/7. -Theresa: Oh dear, I’m sorry this happened… It must be so difficult for you. After all, nobody wants to return to the borders of the past, said she at Stormont Castle during her first visit to
Northern Ireland as PM. “Swettie,” said Gonzalez, “I reckon we must approach it in the context of imposed self-annihilation. It’s indeed a fucking uncertain period for me.” Twenty seconds and two bacon rolls later separate Theresa from authorizing a nuclear attack on Tortilla lands. Evil to do good. Goodies to do evil. Free Willy, the killer whale. It is stimulating to laugh at people who love too much too precariously. I am pretty well aware of what’s behind any “I will buy you a ring” tacky situation: far too many missing sessions at Miss Barner-Smith’s, accredited member of the British Association for Psychotherapy, counseling in a safe, televised by confidential but judgemental 2 x 2 sqr m room, blah, blah, blah… Same could be said about the way monkeys approach freedom, freedom as in “I do whatever the fuck I want coz my loving divorced parents told me so and I am hooked to lay in bed late every fucking night asking myself how the fuck did I let TV License Detective Inspector catch me watching Sky Sports’ Liverpool 3 – Lokomotiv of Belgrade 2 last Tuesday. “Excuse me, sir. When was the last time you purchase our valid license powering the right for your TV to self-determine its modus operandi? It costs £145.50 for a colour TV fuck. Failure to get one can lead to prosecution and a fine of up to £1000, plus that nauseous feeling of acknowledging your life’s being run by non-consensual legal costs. You fill me?” “But it was only a fucking football game, sir!”, replied the Cunt of Montecristo right after having being liberated by his ex girlfriend (she married a TV executive during her lover’s incarceration)… Love…! Partners…! REAL people…! Freedom and TV penalties… Prone to condescension, Gulliver travels no more coz any previous sagacious thinking he ever done usally degenerated into an inflatable banana with the rationale of a cup of babyccino. You fill me? “Would you like a copy of today’s The Argus, gentleman?” “No really. But I tell you what, young lady. I would kill for five fucking minutes of public privacy.” Microwaved Chicago Pizza addict giving copies of our micro local paper would like to admit that she ain’t no longer that pretty jewel of the crown her adorable divorced parents once claimed she was at one point of the biggest lie of all. She’s actually just like us –a fucking bore, a misanthrope by accident who’d hate your guts because a general feeling of abomination has polluted every single pore of her skin. She cannot spell her name anymore. She ain’t a sentient being no mo’. She does all her loving online. “I’ve become part of a subspecies”, confesses she. And the German deaf composer loses all respect for Bonaparte and screams: “He is nothing more than a fucking ordinary being!!” The only way to understand a catholic is by becoming one, preferably before birth. A head start always helps. Let shame and guilt proliferate in a perfect balance with your neo-liberal-but-always-a-hippie soul. “Make no mistake”, said Bush Jnr. to a packed audience of cowards and white-collar scoundrels, “in our free world almost nothing definitive has been made concerning the eradication of the Roman Catholic League of Serial Killers on the Loose. Do not misunderestimated Him, the baby Jesus of the Vaticano was a full-time mischief-maker. Let’s bomb with napalm and Jacklondons all the Jesuit universities. Celibacy ain’t the cure for
masturbation.” There are four conditions associated with chills, fever and general weakness. Inherited Catholicism and over-exposure to press briefings by the White-Socked House haven’t been categorized yet. One still wonders… why Japanese girls are taller than their male counterparts.