Saturday, 1 February 2020

Nothing More

There is nothing more cuddly than a grumpy German.


This is my newest post.
But what if it isn’t my newest post? What if when the reader is reading this - cos that’s what readers do, they read things - like I said, what if when the reader is reading this it is no longer my newest post, that there are newer ones?
Ok, I’ll try again.
This is my newest post, but this is only the case if you are reading this now.

Saturday, 21 December 2019


Is this a question?

Sunday, 30 June 2019


Journal your thoughts, someone said, everyday. But what if I don't have any thoughts, and anyway who has thoughts everyday? Well yes, all of us do, endlessly more or less, but those kind of thoughts are hardly worth keeping track of, transcribing. Most of them are only fit for the rubbish heap.
But couldn't they be recycled? Recycled? Why would we want to recycle rubbish? They were bad enough the first time around.

Saturday, 30 March 2019


"If you could be in two places at once and one of them was a shit-hole, what would be the other place you'd pick?"
"What would be the other place you'd pick."
"Besides a shit-hole?"
"Why would I be choosing to be in a shit-hole in the first place?"
"I don't know. That's up to you."

Wednesday, 27 March 2019

Wednesday, 20 March 2019


There was a drop of water and it was very proud of itself, but then came the heat and it evaporated.

Friday, 26 October 2018


"Will there be television in heaven?"
"I suppose so. Sure what else would we do all day?"
"How about mobile phones? Will they be there too?"
"There'll be no need. All the information will be instantly hard-wired into our brains."
"That sounds amazing."
"It'll be amazing all right."

Wednesday, 29 August 2018


In a rather surprisingly slow to ensue but surely inevitable development and corollary to the use of the term 'African-American', 'white' Americans are henceforth to be known as 'European-Americans', arising ethnically as of course they do from Europe. Besides of course various other denominations, as it were, it is of note to remind the reader that a 'Native American' is from now to described as an 'American-American.'

All very clear and obvious though much excitement has arisen in the cases of offsprings of mixed ethnicity. How is one to designate someone, to be crude, of a black father and white mother? 'African-American-European-American-American'? Perhaps, and with the order reversed if the father were white and mother black. And this primacy of the masculine element is itself also of course a very thorny issue. But allowing those murky gender waters to rest a while, what, to extend things a little, if an American-American were to mate with an African-American-European-American-American? Would the child be an American-American-African-American-European-American-American-American? At that point one might even argue that things are beginning to border on the ridiculous, though until one is sure of oneself and where things stand, it might be safer to keep one's silence or at least speak very quietly about such matters.

Tuesday, 26 June 2018

Free Will

Does man,woman have free will - or to put it another way, is man free?

Only an unfree person would ask the question, so no, the person wondering if he is free is clearly not free.

Wednesday, 16 May 2018


I should write this down.

Friday, 4 May 2018


"You know that thing, 'Two Gentlemen of Verona'?'"
"That was written by your man wasn't it?"
"It was yeah."
"He wrote some very good stuff in fairness."
"He did all right. But he wrote some awful rubbish as well."
"He did I suppose."

Monday, 19 March 2018

Being Irish

"How does it feel like to be Irish?"
"Ah it feels great."
"It does, doesn't it."
"It does yeah. Everyone loves us."
"We're fucking brilliant."

Tuesday, 30 January 2018


"I object, Your Honour, to the detective referring to my client in that manner."
"Why so?"
"Surely it is obvious that it is prejudicial to his interests to be referred to in front of the jury as "Lump Hammer Dan."

Monday, 13 November 2017


Another loose track I must have done sometime:


Thursday, 26 October 2017

Late Shopping


Another piece though besides the sound quality these things are also just pretty loose in the moment recordings rather than anything like proper finished pieces.



Half my music equipment  and my pc for doing music on is on the blink which has prompted me to try to get a bit of use out of a portable recorder I have. Little idea how best to use it so audio quality will probably be on the dreadful side but anyway.

Monday, 9 October 2017

Monday, 2 October 2017


"200 mililitres - what do you think of it?"
"What do you mean what do I think of it?"
"I mean what's your opinion of 200 mililitres."
"My opinion of 200 mililitres? I don't really understand the question."
"God you're not feeling too sharp today, are you!? Out late is it!? All I'm asking is what is your opinion of 200 mililitres. Nothing more, nothing less."
"What do you mean like - of the quantity is it?"
"I can't make it any clearer."
"I suppose it's a reasonable quantity."
"There now, how hard was that?"

The Unconscious

[Just a re-posting of an earlier piece.]

It is my conviction, that is not so much a conviction as, well, not a conviction at all in fact, but simply an idea, an idea for which I feel no bonds of affiliation, this idea merely being a thought, and why bind yourself to a thought - these things which appear and disappear and whose periods of absence are generally far greater than their presences - and anyway this thought is a thing of little import, perhaps more whimsical than anything else, a thought that silently rose up out of the darkness and burst forth humbly but without shame into the light of conscious knowing . . . But, wherever the hell we're going and before we go any further along the route, who was thinking this thought that arose from the invisible and oblivious depths? I, that is 'I', that which we call I and which dwells up here in the visible firmament, as it were, was wholly unaware of any goings-on in these depths from which burst forth the thought. I wasn't even aware of the existence of these depths, and who knows, perhaps all this 'depths' is mere conjecture; this implied dark matter of the soul, this great unconscious, for when you come to think of it the moment we are talking of the unconscious, well then we're in the land of the conscious, not unconscious, and how could it be otherwise?

A man was in search of absolute blackness and so descended into a cave that burrowed into the very belly of the earth. "But this is no use!" he exclaimed. "I can't see anything!" So he turned on his torch and with great satisfaction proclaimed, "Ah, now I see. How wonderful it is. Though this blackness is not half so mysterious and black once you give it a proper look."

You can't flash a torch into darkness and go on calling what you're looking at 'the darkness'. And what's more, the analogy might suggest all too much, as unlike this cave the unconscious never becomes visible. All we have is the conscious. Otherwise how could it be unconscious? I'm not saying it isn't there but what's the good in getting worked up about it, creating some kind of narcissistic fetish out of it, obsessing about this great unconscious, all the while it's actually the conscious you're wallowing in.

I have moved far from this conviction or idea which bubbled up to the surface, though you may be wondering if this idea was merely a literary device, a means towards an end - the end having something to write about, and the means the writing. Words were placed in sequence, how else could they be placed, in the expectation, or perhaps just hope, that some inspiration would in the process be ushered forth from the dark depths...we're back to these depths. There seems, for now, no getting away from them. No, I don't doubt their existence at all, but it's this unnatural, urban, civilized fetishisation of oneself I can't stand. A mental self-lust, a kind of perverted mysticism where instead of release from one's self-imagined self, one wallows endlessly within it. And perhaps that's what in essence this is all about: the intelligentsia seek intellectual justification for masturbation. That seems to me very true, though exactly why I am as yet unsure, but if true it can't be too mysterious.

Their own personality is their greatest love. Deep down (in the depths) even they realise it's a false, sterile kingdom, but they wish to conquer this thought and to rule or dwell in full confidence and complacency within this personality's domains. So all this Freudian self-wallowing wishes to prove that this personality and its desires is all fully real and fascinating, and indeed all there is. It is from the deeper silence that the intimation of the falseness of this remorseless selfhood, this personality, its self-engendering, is felt and therefore to cover up this silence is the task at hand, to silence its silence, so to speak, and to convince oneself one is doing the opposite.

But to cover it up with what? Endless thought, and, entwined mixture of cunning and stupidity that is this 'self', announce that all these words you produce are actually this enemy, the Silence, which you label the Unconscious. You make a load of noise about silence and announce that the noise you produce is this very silence, and what's so special about this silence after all- just a load of noise. And also what could be better than to persuade oneself that this silence is actually something grubby, mere base desires; rationalise it as so and only so. So the very alleged silence, this Unconscious, proffers the justification for this corrupt self-wallowing individual to continue wallowing in itself as you've declared it and its desires absolute reality. And the civilized short-sighted animal proclaims with pride: "We have tamed the animal, the Great Beyond! The rational self is king! We may masturbate with full self-esteem!" For what after all else is there?

How's that for psycho-analysis?

Sunday, 1 October 2017


I've just made a few small changes to this piece below, previously posted, so here it about to be is:


A universe, all of it, was encased in glass. However, those dwelling in a certain world within this universe didn’t know they were so encased for the glass was perfectly transparent and gave away at a distance nothing of itself. If they had been less unaware, who knows, they might have been blissfully so.
“In glass? Wonderful!”
           But if over time, gathering dust and various wandering rubbish to itself, the glass becoming muddied and the universe within becoming dimmer, would the inhabitants begin to guess at all the glass? “The light is fading,” some wail. “We are polluting the atmosphere,” whilst others again, thoughtful, deduce the sun to be consuming itself, drawing low on its own reserves, and so this fading a precursor, in itself harmless, of the real disaster to come. But it's much more likely I suppose that instead this dimming, if there was any dimming, would be both so slow and so faint as to go altogether unnoticed.
              Something though that didn't go so unnoticed was the appearance of a crack in the glass. Why a crack? Because a stone had been thrown from somewhere causing this crack. Thrown from inside or outside? Outside it seems. The glass was of a scale that anything hitting it from inside would have presumably been far too weak to have caused a scratch, never mind a crack, and so it must be from outside it came.
               And so a stone was thrown, accidentally or malignantly, or maybe just unconsciously, that is inanimately, an unthinking movement of unthinking matter, and regardless, however, a great big crack appeared, clearly visible from all points within the glass, or at least visible if wherever whoever was looking from was immersed in night and the crack above unobscured by clouds, and so, whatever the source, shafts of light could be seen striking the edges of the crack, creating an incredible, fearful, even mystical effect.
            And with this immense, obscure appearance across the night sky, confusion, terror, people on their knees, floods of prayers sent into the void, and amongst whatever else, a great rush to interpret the appearance, but none in their interpreting proving inspired enough to surmise either glass or crack.
              But so anyway, amidst and regardless of their ignorance there it was, this wild, jagged line, unexplained across the heavens. “Heavens”, by the way, was enjoying a renaissance, and you could even make a case for now dividing people into two halves - one for those still saying sky when talking of such, and the other for those now saying heavens when talking of same - this use maybe natural or innocent at first, but pointedly soon enough after, autobiographical, a statement. There were though also a few of what you might call agnostics, who found themselves in the awkward position of not knowing what word to use, heavens or sky, the use of either seeming to place you firmly within one of the two camps, and so they tried to mix between both terms equally, but rather than being applauded for their delicacy they ended up more or less just annoying everyone.
         So the archaic style was back, portentous, poetical; in some hands serious, unforced, earnest, in others more of a fashion accessory, perhaps in others again sarcastic, even if this sarcasm might now seem a bit unsure of itself. Phrases like, “The starry vault has been sundered,” became almost a commonplace; things you might hear, never mind behind closed doors, out on the street in the middle of the day. The likes of Nostradamus was poured over, preferably by candlelight, lines produced, discussed, thought about, perhaps the biggest fuss made over the following:

A jug spills, milk disappears.
A horseman descends, fearsome and hungry.

Whatever about the Frenchman's disappearing milk and descending horseman, that this was the kind of thing you could now mention in normal life without fear, or much of it, of being thought mad was, you could say, an emblem of the times, the times distilled.
              And so now, on the cusp of these strange times, there they were, waiting . . .

But what happened in time with this waiting but more or less nothing - no Apocalypse, no dawning New Age, as said - nothing. And back out from the shadows began to emerge the sarcastic, slowly at first and looking about them, but then beginning to swagger, and finally in a surging rush. They had the floor to themselves. “Go on with your Apocalypse!” they jeered, and began, with an awful lot of noise, to enjoy themselves. Whether there was really much enjoyment at the other end of all the noise I can't really say, maybe just a lot of noise signifying enjoyment, but that's the theory anyway: in the absence of an apocalypse you enjoy yourself. There may have been some still waiting, but if they were, they were mostly keeping their waiting to themselves.
         So a return to something like normality, the crack becoming part of the furniture, no longer so novel, soon to be not novel at all, its prolonged existence proof of its banality. Relief, disappointment, a sense of futility and emptiness, some weird triumphant sense of vengeance - all mingled. The coming time hadn't come, the great harbinger had foretold nothing and the archaic style faded back away. You might still hear something like “The starry vault has been sundered,” but this time in a certain tone, followed by laughter.
              Interpretations became more a matter of idle intellectual musing than apocalyptic sooth-saying; money still being poured into scientific alleyways, the crack had become, one was given to understand, the personal property of the learned, debated in smooth, antiseptic tones, and in a leisurely manner. It was, they might concede, yes, for now, genuinely quite interesting; a bit of an anomaly, but we had all the time in the world and there was nothing particularly at stake - or if you like there was something very particular at stake, the anomaly bit, but it would soon be an anomaly no more and no rush about it.    
                 From those exalted and intellectual quarters, stern or amused looks arrowed themselves downwards now towards any remarks about the crack rising up from regions beneath. If someone from below had for instance insisted on the great thing across the sky's still being a deep mystery and was honoured enough to receive in response to these words other words coming back down rather than just a descending look, those words would probably go something like: “A mystery? Only because we don't yet know what it is.” If this someone beneath were stupid enough to persist with his mystery, not realising he'd been crushed, he would probably find himself enclosed in a silence hard to get out of. And so all in all, the crack in the distant glass still a riddle, but people a lot less concerned. Many disappointed, many not, tension eased but things a bit boring.
This relaxing of tension was dealt a very cruel blow though when another stone struck the outside of the glass, sending another, but this time far larger, crack scything across the surface. If in their observing our people had been anywhere near the glass, they would have also heard a huge sharp, simultaneous crack, but being so far away they didn't. Light informed them of the terrifying event long before any revealing noise, but the noise didn't just lie down and instead rumbled its immense way across space, gaining if anything it seemed rather than losing in mass, before finally rolling hugely over the humble world, flattening all other sound and terrifying everything upon it evolved enough to have got as far as things like terror. And, as if this weren't enough, as the huge roar slowly moved off on its way, fading at last to a low rumble, up struck across the continents a chorus of howling dogs, accompanied in places by howls more primal and awful again, human ones, pouring themselves out of abysses deeper than history. Pardon the poetics.
          When terror subsided enough to allow thought pour back in they tried to make sense of what had happened, to fit it into some conceivable map of existence, many even still in spite of all hoping this map could somehow be a reassuring one. Even the cynics though were shaken very deep.
“Now this is serious.”
“Yes, this time it really is serious.”
“I thought it was serious the first time.”
“But” — some other exchange — “you don't think it could have been some kind of thunder?”
“Thunder? That was no thunder.”

 And so religion on the rise again, more floods of prayers, a sense of catastrophic and impending doom, some souls strangely exhilarated, more terrified, some few even trying to let on to be amused by it all - the cracks, the noise, the howls, the terror - but these efforts now all too obviously strained, and inclined more towards the hysterical in the mad sense than the humorous.
“Who knows what will happen next — the sun might explode.”
“Still, we might get a tan. Ha! ha!”
            And still they hadn't figured out they were encased in glass. But then another stone struck the outside of the glass, and this time the glass shattered outright; great shards descend upon the formerly enclosed spaces, sending everything - suns, moons, planets - that they smash into flying; and finally, the shards descending, the now horrifying, previously harmless truth of the universe's crystal encasement begins to dawn.

     And . . . Apocalypse? But the strange truth is, no matter how doomed our planet appeared, however certain various collisions appeared, it defied perhaps all logic and escaped without a scratch. All shards and splinters passed it by. And so, the danger passed, aware at last they had been encased in glass, they were encased no more.

Saturday, 30 September 2017

Friday, 29 September 2017

More Stairs

I'm sure I've written stair based stuff for whatever reasons before but not letting that stop me, here's another one.

There were these stairs.
Were they going up or going down?
Well both, it would depend on which way you were going. If you were going up they were going up, if down down.
How do they do that?
Do what?
Have them going up and down at the same time. Like if one person is going up and another is going down, what happens. Or would the guy going down have to go up with the fella going up and then come back down?
But the stairs don't go anywhere!
But what good are they so if they don't go anywhere?
Yes but they're not moving. They're static.
And how do they manage that?
Manage what?
Having them static.
They just fecking build them out of concrete or something!
And there's nothing to make them move?
God that's amazing.
Amazing that they don't move?
Yeah. But what's the point in them so if they don't move?
It's the people who move!
By bloody walking!
Ah, with their legs is it, that's how the stairs go up and down at the same time. That's ingenious. And what if they don't move?
The people?
Yes. How would they get anywhere then?
They wouldn't.
They'd just be stuck would they? And if there was enough of them not moving, just standing around, I suppose that would mess everything up. There'd be no space for anyone to get past in the end.
Yeah but why would that happen? People go on stairs to get somewhere, not to hang about.
But they might be waiting for them to move. And maybe if they wait around long enough they forget they were going anywhere.
That'd never happen.
It might.

[No more time for now so that's it, also for now.]

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

A line

Just to write a great line someone told me, "I would never deny a man his rock bottom."

Monday, 25 September 2017

Friday, 7 July 2017

Friday, 30 June 2017


There was a large net into which if things fell they didn't get out, but the net it turned out worked too well and in time so many things were caught in it that the strain became too great, the mesh tore apart and all fell out.

Saturday, 22 April 2017

Hamlet Again

"What is Hamlet's major character flaw?"
"He's an asshole."

Maybe I should expand a little. Hamlet is extraordinarily intelligent and perhaps spiritually sensitive, but intelligence doesn't excuse all else, and perhaps even the contrary. So why does whoever above say Hamlet's major character flaw isn't indecisiveness or some such but is rather the more complete state of being an asshole? Does he behave badly - if for the sake of argument he does indeed do so - simply because he is pretending to be mad in his efforts to avenge his father? Before we go down that fascinating path, how does pretending to be mad help anything? What does it achieve? It seems it allows Hamlet to behave as the above-mentioned total asshole, but other than that . . . well there is no other than that, that is all it achieves, and there is no sense that it is helping achieve anything else.

But I'm being far too wilfully harsh surely. We get to see Hamlet's intelligence unfettered to the conventions of ordinary decorum and discourse, and engage in wild wordplay and so on. We do I suppose. We also see him behave absolutely horribly to Ophelia who he has professed to be in love with, and who is herself very much in love with him. This is naturally devastating to her. He also kills her father virtually on a whim when hearing someone behind a curtain. His response to this murder or manslaughter is to immediately attack Gertrude, his mother, for her terrible behaviour which has upset him so much. He doesn't seem too bothered about the dead body at his feet though in the midst of his verbal assault on his mother he does mention in passing to be sorry about it. He then makes very witty jokes about Polonius' soon to be stinking body to those trying to find out where he has hidden the corpse.

I don't want to be giving a summary of the play but he returns to Elsinore later and comes upon Ophelia's funeral, whose death he is basically wholly responsible for after she lost her wits due to her love Hamlet's vile behaviour towards her, and also his more or less without remorse killing of her father. Hamlet goes into a screaming rage when he sees her brother Laertes declaring his grief at the grave. He has in obvious effect ended the lives of Laertes' father and sister but Hamlet's rage is at the idea Laertes' grief in any sense compares to his own. This Laertes needs putting in his place.

The next scene we don't see much evidence of this grief and Hamlet is mocking with much self-delight the flaws of a very minor character, Osric. Hamlet tells Horatio he earlier turned the plans of his father-in-law on their head and arranged by falsifying a letter to arrange the murders of his childhood friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They I believe were not knowingly trying to do any harm to Hamlet but when he hears of their deaths, he says this means nothing to him and his conscience as they were meddlers.

His great profession of some kind of guilt is before his fencing with Laertes where he tells him he is sorry for having killed his father but he did it when mad so it would be stupid to blame him for it, and in fact rather than the one in the wrong, Hamlet is one of the wronged. We know however he claimed he would only be pretending to be mad but anyway such remorse rends the heart. However if more credence is leant to this idea than may seem merited - that Hamlet's behaviour during the course of the play is of someone mad and not responsible for his actions, well how much interest is there  left in such a character and play - a central character not responsible for his actions as he's mad? Not much. As a work of art & investigation into the human world, it would be almost entirely self-negating.

So anyway, I might return to the start of things having fleshed out the contours somewhat.

"What is Hamlet's major character flaw?"
"He's an asshole."

Friday, 21 April 2017


"What is Hamlet's major character flaw?"
"He's an asshole."

More on it here.

Saturday, 8 April 2017


"Do you prefer Vladimir Nabakov's work as a butterfly killer or as a writer?"
"You know the famous butterfly killer Nabakov who also wrote Lolita."
"Is that about killing butterflies?"
"No, no! It's about a paedophile."
"And are there any butterflies in it?"
"Maybe just the odd reference."
"Why did he hate butterflies so much?"
"Oh no! you have it all wrong. He didn't hate them. He loved them."

Rembrandt Link

I was asked to provide a link to this page for my many millions of readers, many of whom are passionate about Rembrandt so here it is

Thursday, 6 April 2017

Death Watch

"Did you ever hear of the death watch beetle?"
"I did I suppose yeah."
"That's a terrible name to inflict on a creature."
"Is it?!"
"Think about it man! Of course it is!"

Wednesday, 29 March 2017