Dear Fellow English Speaker,
An ominous spectre has arisen over the sunlit valleys and mountains of SCOCHIA. This week's decision by the Scots Parliament to promote the speaking of "Scotch" through the indoctrination of children in public schools is but one more tyrannical step to the eradication of the biblical norm of heterosexual relationships and English speaking family life, centred around beef and good detective fiction.
The radical Scotch lobby, under the guise of egalitarian blather, seeks domination over all competing value systems which deem their morally anarchic behaviour repulsive, reprehensible, and beyond the cope of normative and wholesome deportment. Scotch Governor and Spaverman Stovies Duffus MSP, a leading activist for the bill, is eager to sign the same into law. With the stroke of his pen, the heavy hand of Stovies Duffus will attempt to win converts to, and propagate the mission of perversion by introducing the raddled Scotch into the queen's pure tongue, and by doing it HARD.
Here is the Jesus Christmas Blessing:
Ö Bless us all, as the season leaves us every one behind, there is a fat chance that cold and lonely we will succumb to Christmas confusion, and in that famous glow, get light and merry to return to glum in January.
And Ö Bless us all, as the season leaves us every one a cold turkey, there is a fat chance that peace presents a memorial quandary as lonely we will succumb to Christmas longing; bang on the day, and in that famous glow, get light and lighter until our sections are unique.
May you all go glumbo to your dinners; where sacred and alone, hold by those others of the self-same birth raft, you supply your company. AMEN
Falling asleep, and cortical vigilance doesn't fall at a uniform rate, it shifts up and down, tending to becoming lower in steps. Alpha rhythms rise in bursts but less often and with longer periods of slow waves, and little by little ideas escape us. In intervals we return to attention realising that we've just had some weird thoughts about something that weren't even related to the thoughts previous to them, and we feel we are talking inwardly to ourselves and that we've just said something that doesn't make sense, or is a made up word or phrase. The voice is accompanied by an equally unfamiliar but striking display of visual imagination. Faces are common, sometimes moving. Abstract forms, patterns, nature scenes, becoming more complex, until they are brought to an abrupt end . . .
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.
Lager Shanty: In that order. Another evening of wein, weib und gesang in Sordid Glasgow. And after "Gies a Tune" with DJ Malky Brogan on Radio Clype, and the flicking back and forth of the television in a yawning half-contemptuous manner, what could we do other than run up the starry path to meet Oblivion coming down? Later on, this typical Glasgow scene comes complete with the two shandied lovers slipping each others' tight leashes to go separately in the night, each to an off-sales of their choosing, for more of the Same.
I wrote this out of the pride and vanity of my own mind, out of my disdain for the mutherkind. I wrote this at my table while human society talked about the good of man. Yea, my temporal goods were excluded from the composition. Yea, my weekends spent in inkie dollars then minky dollars. Yea I wrote this as I have often wished to write, with the same ease with which I drink it I can spit it back. None of this I saw coming. Give me leave to wonder now if I am bothered to pick it back up again.
We do not go to church and are not religious in what we refer to as "the conventional sense." We do believe in a "higher power" and in a transcendent morality and we love to see the sun shining through stained glass windows. We love beautiful old rhyme but prefer to spend Sunday morning in bed, or with our eyes upon the newspaper.
We approve of the Elizabethan concept of immutability, but it does not run in the blood. Life is not nasty, brutish and short. We are intrepid in opinions we have heard and which can be backed up by at least two separate arguments. We often argue that religion is dangerous or bad, so we rely on journalists to bring order to the lack of cause or consequence in the world.
We are of the sprint and not the marathon. Tremendous excitement is what we mean by joy and when we sit down to our dinner, or to watch our television, we fully expect to be there 25 years later. When forced to choose we panic and settle on the immediate material, and although God is off the radar, we still secretly require something to lend authority to our morals.
Passengers on one of Peter Burnett's delightful Skip Canyon Flys were stunned last week when Peter suddenly aimed the Cessner he was piloting straight for the pines.
Abruptly turning his light aircraft into a nose dive, and staring into the timber, Peter smiled his leathered face for the very last time.
Passengers were held securely in their berths as the aeroplane tumbled towards the hillside, where Peter aimed to sandwich it between the porch of his ex-wife's Sierra County retreat, and her nearby chicken run.
The passengers screamed loudly, and the final process of their deaths took a total 24 seconds. In the wreckage of the house, the eerie ruins of Peter's plane were later found to contain traces of tears and urine, and on Peter's face itself, a lot of human spit.
There is an undefinable air of nostalgia in the wild landscape now. Sierra County comprises not only beautiful scenery but tragic memories. Click here if you wish to travel further and partake of the journey, as a qualified and emotionally stable team of experts take you through the ruins.
The Tesco lager was an almost translucent, yellow colour, with a good amount of carbonation and short-lived, white head. The immediate aroma was of floral hops with some grassy tones, followed by a little graininess, and some faint malt in the background. Shortly after that I was flinging CDs across the room at Tadg, who was trying to play the trombone.
This year’s conference will follow this agenda:
Registration - on arrival please make your way to the Strathchunty hall where you will need to check in at the registration desks. Our conference team will be there to provide you with conference clothing.
Coffee - Move to the Fixed Mercury room for coffee and miniature Danish pastries.
Seminar - The Frippery of the Elves Revealed. A presentation by the court of the Elf King.
Coffee Interval - During coffee in the Killy Lounge, the elves will be on hand to answer general questions.
Are you going to Brian Baxter's party said Terry and I said EH Brian Baxter's pairty like? and he says AYE it's this weekend and I says EH and Terry says AYE MIN Brian Baxter says that it's his party LIKE this weekend and I just says well it's NAE LIKE I WANT TO GO OR ANYTHING and Terry says NIH and I didn't think you would LIKE and then I said well what the fucker you telling me for LIKE? and Terry says well I just said I would like to Brian Baxter’s like and I said EH WELL THEN and goes down to the offie like thinking that if it was Brian Baxter's pairty LIKE I'd better get to the offie fast before Brian Baxter's guests get there and fucking buy all the booze and I was laughing thinking that's MENTAL imagine if all the booze had been bought from the offie like and I was LAUGHING and thinking aye the FAGS AND ALL.
Naff Dress Code
"Potomas Porch", "Horsey House" and "Lama Lodge" are still available
FLIGHT PATHS OF MAJOR AIRPORTS
Germane Auditories, Obverse Excuses for exploitation,
(with Minor devils)
And being a flourishing branch of the noble family of, we will also be performing
(with all night)
Bones, Hairs, Nails and Teeth
The ownership of a bank account excites a sage contempt for social morality. Customers too, I’d be the doormat of the decade if only they had a vote. And yet people had me down as this weakling, just because my anarchism never scared anybody. They were all slavering dogs, they liked to frighten people, or at least they didn’t mind. Me though, I just can’t get tough. I don’t feel the rage so much any more. I just get the anger. I’m no good at it though, really no good. Can I still be an anarchist, I wonder? You’d think then that this was the moment, but it wasn’t. How many pages have I written? I still haven’t attacked the state. How did I become such a coward?
In Byzantium, in the middle centuries of the First Millenium, the passion for chariot racing and the competition between (savour the irony!) the Blues and the Greens, ran so high that the Empire was decided on the predominance of Chariot Factions - jobs in the state, and ultimately with Justinian, the Emperor's position itself, being decided by the Colour of your favour. More than religion (itself, eventually split between the Blues and the Greens), racing filled the hearts of the populace with the necessary adrenalin to slaughter each other, to carve their slogans of hate on each other's chests, to rape and torture.
So omnivorous was the Racing Cancer that, on two occasions, The Empire almost fell to the Barbarians as the army was riven and useless to defend the city. Luck and bad weather alone saved it. Seeing at last the folly of the Racing Mania, after a particularly grueseome week of riots during which most of the faction leaders were murdered, this 'sport' was extirpated for once and for all. RENOUNCE SPORT AND ITS WAYS. Pull down this god of inanity, this art whose best creation is a tongue-tied teenage moron with an expensive haircut...