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Wednesday, August 27, 2008

enslaved animals

true story.
I had rabbits when i was about 8.
my dad got them from a friend of his at work, and they were the first proper pet I ever had.
I had a goldfish, but they arent proper pets. Fish arent pets. They are high maintainance decoration.
I was literally more interested in the
shipwreck in the bottom of the tank. and the clam that made the bubbles. the opening and closing of the clam was less predictable than the fish.
i remember being actually quite relieved when it died. because you could just see it shitting everywhere. The tank wasnt even a foot long, so by the end of its life it had shat everywhere it had ever been. and i had to clean it out. knowing that it was that very shit, and nothing else that was making the water get murkier by the day.
Rubbish pet.
But rabbits are actually a great pet for a child. Small little lovely furry animals, that just require a bit of lettuce now and again, and you can reap the benefits of having a pet. you cant stroke a fish.
well, you can but it would be very worrying behaviour, even for a child of eight.
Not nearly as nice as a fuzzy little rabbit.
I was so excited when we picked up these two little black and white bunnies. I named them babs and buster, and we hurried home, grinning into the big cardboard box we were transporting them in. I couldnt wait to be the human overlord of some sentient beings. or at least that is how I would imagine an 8 year old me would react to the situation, based on how I am now.
We didnt have a shelter for them so my dad made one.
and it looked like a fine hutch when he was done. he made it all himself by hand finally getting a chance to use the all the miscellaneous wood in his shed. it was a beautiful two door affair, with a mesh panelled viewing bay, a little rabbit open plan kitchen/lounge, and on suite hay for crapping in. with a door so i didnt have to see it. They were truly living the life a bunny would slaughter the innocent to live.
but then that all changed rather suddenly...
i remember after about a week or so, just when this lagomorph mansion was finally fully complete, all the finishing touches had been applied and the leporidae lovebirds were settling in nicely, my dad came in one night, head bowed, ashen faced, looking sombre. My tinted memory tells me he had a cloth flat cap clutched in his trembling hands, but that probably wasnt the case.He told me "babs and buster...are dead. the fox got them. im sorry"
I was devestated. I cried, and mourned their passing, and we buried them at the back of the garden.
now, it didnt give it too much thought at the time, but at the time of burial, the rabbits were awfully in tact and uneaten for a fox attack.
i just assumed foxes were just cold blooded murdering stealth assassins. maybe they crept in during the dead of night, and smothered the victims. maybe "the fox was a codename", i didnt know their methods, all i knew was that my rabbits were dead, and i was devastated.
i found out some years later that my dad, in all his good intentions had waterproofed the hutch, inside and out, with creosote and it gassed the poor little buggers to death.
to his credit, the hutch remains bone dry to this very day...
3:57 pm - 2 comments - 4 Kudos
Thursday, December 13, 2007


Current mood: Philosophical

theres a theory that we as individual minds dont exist, and we are actually all just one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. our bodies (and everything in the universe) are actually just physical manifestations of this "collective consciousness".

as a result of this, an individual can never die per se, because we all stem from the same singular consciousness.

the body dies, but the mind (or at least the bundle of energy that is us) lives on, manifesting itself elsewhere.

on a molecular level this actually rings kinda true. everything in the universe is made up of a collection of atoms (EVERYTHING. air, people, trees, water etc etc). these atoms are the same when looked at on their own, but the collection of atoms that makes up me looks different to the collection of atoms that make up my telephone, or my computer.

if all these atoms could be seen by the naked eye, and were all the same colour and shape etc (lets say hypothetically that they are little red spheres), the universe would be nothing but a box of little red spheres.
just like one, massive bucket of sand

look at dust in the wind. to us its just dust floating about, but if clumps of dust kept a fairly uniform shape and colour, we would see these clumps as seperate entities going about their path, instead of just one big cloud of dust (if you get what i mean).
when two clumps collide, they form a new one, thats neither part of its sums, it just exists as something else.

just thought id share that with you...

*passes bong*
4:46 pm - 7 comments - 4 Kudos
Thursday, October 11, 2007

The Clipboard Mafia

Current mood: Bitter

Central London. Busy place. lots of people, most of them cunts that arent worth even worth shooting with one of my patented looks of disgust.
Luckily however, almost everyone harbours similar levels of hatred and contempt for their neighbours. the majority of people you encounter have a mutual "no eye contact, no interaction: no worries" kind of relationship. A kind of perverse community spirit.
I say most people, because everywhere you go theres always the people who take it upon themselves to overstep the line. to encroach on others personal space.
By and large, these people are harmless. kinda like benign social tumours. yeah, they are a pain, but at least im not gonna lose a kidney over it.
These people range from the homeless fella on the street who calls out the odd "alright mate?" in the vain hope that youll chuck him some coppers so he doesnt stab you, right down to the cheery "hello" from the guy from the office upstairs that calls me craig.
for the most part, i can deal with these people, with a forced smile, a nod, and slight accelleration in the opposite direction.
The people i cant stand however, is the bucket shakers, the clipboard mafia...
...the charity workers.
now, as you've probably guessed, im no bleeding heart, but im also not a completely insensitive arsehole, so on more than one occasion i've found myself snared by them.
they walk along side you, firing out their cause at you, and if you show any weakness, you are fucked. slow down by a fraction of a MPH, and they will leap in your path, and ambush you, like some sort of smiley, oversized, poorly printed t-shirt wearing dick turpin.
if you stop, you are fucked. theres no going back from that. you either have to stand, listen, and waste half a lunch break, or risk looking like some miserly scrooge infront of londons 7million commuters.
The problem is, you often see them waay too late to escape, and when they catch your glance, they hunt you out like some sort of evil military technology, and then its all over.
to try and get around this, i bought the biggest pair of headphones i could find, thinking "if this doesnt show them i couldnt give a shit about the world around me, then nothing will". These headphones were big. i mean really big. they had their own postcode, monarchy and indigenous animals.
So big, that im not even sure the permanent neck damage i'll sustain from wearing them is worth avoiding a few of these charity guys, but, much like lung cancer, i'll worry about that when im/if i get to be an old man.
This headphones were one of the worst purchases i have ever made. for one thing, the bass response is terrible, they make my ears hotter than the surface of the sun, and worst of all they did NOTHING to deter those leaflet flinging bastards. if anything it made them try harder to get my attention, so that was 25 quid down the piss pot.
By now, anyone reading this is probably thinking "just give them some change you cheap fucker", and my response to that is an epic STFU, and GTFO.
these people dont want change, they want bank details. they want a direct debit set up so i can send 3 quid a month to an admin office in slough, that may or may not send the money to a country that ends in "stan"
i have several problems with this.
1. The fact that my 3 quid a month will probably cover admin fees
2. That they expect people to do this and go home (to a 3/4 of a million pound flat in chelsea) with a warm fuzzy feeling like they are mother theresa, really making a difference to the "little people".
3. These unscrupulous, sharking bastards are getting PAID to do this. thats right, PAID TO STAND IN THE STREET, HASSLING PASSERS BY AND BEGGING FOR MONEY.
its a fairly good wage too. some of them are on about 7 - 8 pounds an hour (14 - 16 dollars for the yanks).
And they have the bollocks to look down on you for not throwing bundles of money at them when they ask for it.
I've been stitched up by these morality thugs once, and i'll never let it happen again.
I was walking to get some lunch, when i was attacked with the "Excuse me sir" (buttering me up with formalities) "but, can i interest you in signing up for a charity fun run?"
I paused for a moment, which is when she pounced.
through that forced smile, and trowelled on chipper attitude, she said "its for disabled children"
thats where i came unstuck.
i paused again to think, which gave her enough time to really sink the claws in.
the next 15 or so minutes is a bit of a blur. all i can remember. is a flurry of papers, then a pen was thrust in my hand, and before i knew it, my signature was down, and i was fucked.
im no runner. (lifes a journey, not a race), and i've never come first any sort of run before (fun or otherwise), so i tried to look on the bright side. she DID say it was for disabled kids, so i should win this one easily. instant self esteem. finally a charity where i can reap the rewards.
it was only when i turned up on the day, reached the starting line and didnt see ONE fucking wheelchair, that i realised i hadnt quite understood what she'd meant...
11:39 am - 0 comments - 0 Kudos
Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Jamming: Not so cool in the long run

Current mood: pessimistic

I Love Jamming, me.
It's like casual sex with three other people. You ring them up any time you're feeling frisky in the 'musical creativity' department, you grease up your instruments , head to a seedy looking establisment with toilets that time (and apparently the cleaners) forgot, hire out a damp, smelly, grotty little room, and thrash about for a few hours making sweet, sweet music. That is of course until one day when you feel totally comfortable with eachother, you dispose of the contraceptive barrier that encompasses your ideas, and its a beautiful thing. The little ditty sperm merrily swim into the lyrical womb, marinating in the amniotic fluid of a polished bassline, feeding on memorable guitar hooks and rolling beats through a P.A. umbilical chord. Then you realise it just got serious. you have to be a man, you have to commit! You move out of the shithole where conception took place to a fancy new studio. It costs a little more but you have responsibilities now. You tell all your friends that you are now publically spoken for (music wise) and despite the little niggles (you're too young, you dont have the money, what if it grows up to be a worthless little turd who costs more than it makes) you are happy.
Then it is born....
One night of pushing and the song has shuffled onto this mortal coil. A beautiful shiny little CD baby.
You try to raise it right, pouring your attention over it, loving it, nurturing and masterin it until, in your eyes, it is the pinnacle of perfection.
You unleash it on the world.
How will it be percieved? will it be popular? will it be loved? will it be edgy, deep, profound, witty and thought provoking?
It is...

You are elated!

It makes people happy!

and with it comes hundreds of little foster kids in the shape of fans that cling to your every word, follow you around and generally just revere you as some sort of rock deity.
Alas though, the spark between the parents is gone.
You try and keep it together for the kids but the first born becomes a battle that inevitably comes down to money and pathetic one upmanship.
You tell the littluns that the love is gone. they cry wishing for a tour that never comes, maybe a few even commit suicide
The ones that survive get lured away by simon cowell and his catchy band of sirens and they forget that music once had integrity.
EMI steps in, and snaps up your royalty rights for a (pretty small) one off payment. You feel like a whore, putting a price on creativity and gradually slip into a vortex of whiskey and shattered memories......
.........maybe i'm looking a little too far into this.....
3:47 pm - 3 comments - 0 Kudos