Aberdeen Journal, 31st August 2037:
The suburb of Gilcomston, which last week fell to the Gibleteers (one time of Holburn), is to be destroyed this evening at 6PM. The last team of arbiters, which left the area at noon on the 30th, complained bitterly at the state to which the citizens of "unoccupied” Aberdeen have been reduced.
"It stands to reason," said Chief Moderator Frunkie Meldrum, "that when one section of a populace lay claim to such a large proportion of the pies, the rest will begin to bray for blood."
And this is exactly what has happened. Mothers yesterday welcomed the move, and "single-operative-parents" (SOPs) gathered from Kittybrewster and Garthdee, to stone and to boo/hiss the Gilcomstonian population after it is herded out after the rout. Several mothers' groups have been calling for the storming of Gilcomston for some weeks now. "Aboot fichen time ken," said Dana Hattons, ex of The Corther. “Wor kids hae nae hid nae pies fir weeks ken, and at's shite."
For the last 4 weeks the lack of mince pie in the Northeast has been critical, and Angus Dung-dee Substitute has proved unpopular with the people, who have largely refused to even feed it to their dogs (although the kids don't seem to mind). Aberdeen Football Club's benefit single "Our Goad is Mince" (B side : Billy Dodds’ Avatar sings : Mincey-Wincey Spider) raised funds to feed Tullos Academy pies for school lunches, for one week, but with the price of meat now exceeding the price of bus fares, even charity is uneconomical.
"Rumour is they've struck mince," said A. A. Milne of Texaco Drilling Co. "We for one sold them twenty million pounds of chopped onion." But the controversy will rage no longer, and arbitration has reached the dead-end field at the fuck-end of bad behaviour, and the Militia move in at 6PM.
"They'll absail down St Nicholas House," said Special Dowser Barney "Premium Cut" Sillerton, "and break through the cordons at Wolmanhill Hospital. The troops will stage a faked move on the Old Age Compound erected at Rosemount, and while this is going on, the Beef Dump will be drained by our special Cornhill Crack Squad, using only straws."
Should the raid be successful, and the peoples of Gilcomston routed, then we could once again be enjoying our pies," said Councillor Alwyn Lamb (age 6).
In the meantime, experiments continue. Scientists are working on a new substitute known as Diced Forfar Briney, and the last cow is to be auctioned at the Beach Ballroom, in a special ceremony tonight, hosted by Nicki Campbell IV (under the armed protection of the Beef Volunteer Reserve Force).
This is my favourite photograph of Marcel Duchamp. It sometimes goes under the title of 'Marchel Duchamp's Departure for America'. An artist like Duchamp is unique in everything, and sometimes that comes down to the pure ephemera such as this photograph represents.
Let us look at it in detail.
One night Peter drank so much that he farted in the car port. Standing in the Fettercairned remains of his once sober world .... holding the bottle by the neck .... and swaying in the shit-marracked ruin of his one time holy body .... he shouted out that he was syruped to bits .... at which he took his self back to bed, to finish what of the drink was left.
In bed Peter imagined all sorts of pish-caked beings who came at him from the alcoholic contents of the glass. These were snotty alkys and heavy breathing gyno-doctors, pod swallowers and several dog-headed male and female nurses.
A leading figure in Peter's imaginings however was the brewer Mr Jack Daniels who came to Peter through the covers, threatening to force yet more poison into the poor boy's mouth. "Go to Vegas," said Jack Daniels, "and there I will punish you by making wolves ride you til you are sick."
But Peter refused to go to Vegas and so Jack Daniels got larger and loomed over the bed and filled the Peter's view.
Jack Daniels was a big beardy American with a black bush frothing from his face and Peter quavered when Jack Daniels breathed on him. Smelling Jack's breath, Peter wished then truly that he'd opted for the Vegas option.
"You will drink of me and vomit spangled root parts," said Jack as his frontier style beard waved in the moonlight. "You are not fit for any more of my brew tonight, and so you must finish it in the morning."
And so Peter rose the next day and trailed through the cigarette ash remains of his ruined life, tripping on broken and smashed items as he did so. And reclaiming the bottle from the trash can, Peter sat at his barrels and relished once more, the wooden-mouthed flavour of the garse broth that had killed his daughter.
And it was little wonder that Peter himself died two days later after his final vision, which was of a rusted steel tank … and this was an image of the brewery itself from where steamed the mince like brew which had got him so pot-nastied in the first place. And it had Jack's name on it.
How can I forget Tony Blair on his hind legs preaching WAR to his flock?
In a haze of David Icke Mauve that made him look like a retired Turkish whore rebranding herself as the Mufti of Ankara, very spiritual, very soigné.
How many colour therapists and their inevitable Japanese companions were employed dreaming up that putrid set, in which even his tie matched, even his lies matched?
"We campaigned in Doggerel. We govern in Gibberish. Jack Straw is on pills for his nerves, living in his Jag, drinking Bells through a Shitty Clout. Way to go Jackie Baby."
New Labour twisted my mother's mind so that now she cooks HAGGIS and is thinking of buying me a KILT for my birthday, and my father found that, mirabile dictu, her overwhelming urge to vote SNP was not grounds for divorce under Scots Law.
NO WAY TO THE THIRD WAY!
I'm having it tattooed on my chest next Wednesday (in Govan, at Mucky Malky's Tattoos and Neeps Parlour, just behind the municipal gleaming chrome palace of the BBC)...
Ludwig Hatzer / Conrad Treger / Felicity / Blaurer / Clemet Ziegler / Micahel Sattler / Sebastian Franck / Capito / Wilsnack, where the three hosts Frau Wibrandis / Anna Sohmes
- Written by Peter Burnett Peter Burnett
“The exchange between what one / puts on view [the whole / setting up to put on view (all areas)] / and the glacial regard of the public (which sees / and forgets immediately) / Very often / this exchange has the value / of an infra thin separation / (meaning that the more / a thing is admired / and looked at the less there is an inf. T. / sep)."
Marcel Duchamp, Notes, note 10A
The DRINKARD's Aberdoniensus
The Combined Technical Jargon of Bev
These are all words and phrase which we have picked up from researches into the Scottish-Aberdonian way of speaking. We are three American students from New York who are in Scotland because of the unique words which they use here, and the Peter Burnett Website has let us publish what we have collected so far.
We hope that you enjoy the words and that you send us more if you hear any while you are in Aberdeen!
This snippet concerns the origins of the Aikey Fair, or Aikey Brae Fair.
But on the event of the first Aikey fair, which must have been in the early 1800s, the tinker lady who brought her wares dropped them while crossing the Ugie, and laid them out on the grass to dry, thus offering the locals a chance to browse them. This led to the development of the fair as a venue for people to purchase trinkets, baskets, pegs and tinwares.
Rutilius and Dante, meeting Brunetto Latini on the lip of hell:
What chance or fate hath brought thee, to this place
Ere thy last day? . . .
Yonder above, I said, in the clear life
I lost myself in a valley, before my years were full.
In the traditional account of the Buddha, when he realised the extreme pointlessness of asceticism, he accepted a reasonable meal and sat down to look for another path. In effect, the Buddha accepted a still relatively disciplined asceticism, but one which supplied him with the correct balance of minerals, nutrients and vitamins to reach the required nirvanic heights.
The Buddha was soon to designate this more measured asceticism "The Middle Path", for it was a route which avoided the heights of sensual indulgence and the self-mortification he had realised as harmful, and one which also provided him with a balanced mental pleasure. All of this, the Buddha found under a tree, and within a bowl of soup - and although the tree is long dead, the soup is just the same today as it was 2500 years ago.
Campbell's Cream of Buddha™ is a richly meditative soup which can help you resolve the contradictions of daily life. While providing the healthy and balanced nutrition that your body needs, Cream of Buddha also tastes as delicious as undelimited space.
Try a bowl of Campbell's and you'll feel ready to extinguish your soul. "Thirst and craving," said the Buddha Gotama, "is that which drives the whole mass of suffering forward," - so drive yourself home tonight, and drown away the tanhã by seeking the Noble Path to Campbell's Cream of Buddha.™
I wish I'd heard James Kelman's Saltire acceptance speech. I read about it ... it raised an eyebrow. I searched the net but nobody had published it, though I did find this quote:
Our culture is as rich as any culture and it’s shocking to me that our children, and the likes of myself at the age of 66, have to struggle to fucking express it.
It was enough! I don't know if James Kelman said that or not, but that is what I heard.
There isn't much competition for quality writing, I mean among people that are alive. James Kelman has pretty much being holding the lot of it down, singlehanded for Scotland since the 1980s, with nobody that I've seen or heard writing anything as good.
What I mean by good I'll have to express later. I'd never thought of Kelman as struggling to express his Scottishness, and I don't know what he means about our children.
In the public-house to die
Is my resolution;
Let wine to my lips be nigh
At life's dissolution:
That will make the angels cry,
With glad elocution,
"Grant this toper, God on high,
Grace and absolution!"
The content and purpose of dreams are not definitively understood, though they have been a topic of scientific speculation and a subject of philosophical and religious interest throughout recorded history:
In the Mews flat, with a new computer : I didn't really want to live there, and worse, it seemed like I had a choice. I put my ear to the computer while the others moved in furniture. I was asked questions by the landlord. No : I didn't want a sound card for the computer; I didn't want anything. Are you sure you know how to use it? he kept asking, and I reassured him that I did. The people who sold me the machine came on all facetious. What was the point of such a lovely Mews flat, with flowers in tubs, cobbles, and this lovely new computer? The computer could be used as a telephone, but I was happier putting my ear to it and listening to the voices this way. Are you sure you know what you're doing? the landlord asked; but I was boss. Another call came through : someone's friend wanted their boat moved into the market, and all the men were to go and help. So : we moved off down the hill, descending until I realised that I had to return and put in a call to my wife. I had an excellent method of clambering back, a variety of crawl which allowed me to move low over the ground, in a manner of sliding, reaching upwards with momentum until at the summit I was able to break into a sprint. When I got up back to my Mews flat the landlord had taken the computer, and was driving off through the mud. I didn't chase him. I couldn't even find the flat any more.
Now is the time to decide if you're going to host a super summer party, and if you are, you should make sure that your guests RUE THE VERY DAY they ever showed up at your house.
And who better to give you tips to make yours the most unpleasant invitation in town, than Alison Weekend Cutlet, party organiser to the clinically depressed.
Here, exclusively for readers of peterburnett.info, the woman who designed Sir Elton John's wonderful 1997 suicide attempt, offers some original ideas guaranteed to create a fabulous whimper to highlight the summer gloom.
Envy, lust, sensuality, lies, and all known vices are the negative, "dark" aspect of journalism, which can manifest itself in two ways. In the positive sense, it appears as a "humourous piece," creatively animating the opponent of the writer, and smearing them for entertainment.
These are the writer's rights that have been mentioned so often...
In the negative sense, the same writing manifests itself as a spirit of attack on all of society, as a drive to destroy, and enslave.
As has already been pointed out, the journalists who personify these vices as "the spirit of Murdoch" and called it, with no good reason, objective reporting, have contributed to the genuine journalistic duplex (the two-faced, dual effort) we receive. We are not the media, any more than we are Scottish Power, General Motors, or any other corporate interest.
For Ten Years This Important Image Lay on the Homepage of My Website
to survive a destructive book is no less painful
for the reader than for the author
LF Celine: Voyage to the End of the Night / Death on Credit / Guignol's Band / Rigadon
Wyndham Lewis: Men Without Art / The Complete Wild Body / The Apes of God
Giacomo Leopardi: Operette Morali
Thomas Bernhard: The Loser / The Voice Imitator / Extinction / Gathering Evidence / Wittgenstein's Nephew