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Monday, August 29, 2016

Tuesday, August 16, 2016


fashion is not my bag.

though bags do play a large part in my fashion choices.

i live by the jobs/zuckerberg school of dressing – i just throw a little more variety into it. instead of large walk in closets filled with numerous versions of the same style and colour tops, and bottoms of the same colour and style. i operate under the two bag system – one bag contains the clean clothes and the other contains the dirty clothes. a quick dive into the clean bag brings out the clean top, pants and socks for the day, the bottoms being used for several days. easy peasey. sadly i haven't invented a new style of computing or social media with all the time i have saved through my streamlined dressing).

(and no while i might look like i have dressed from the dirty bag, even i don't make that mistake.)

so me and fashion are not even close to being pals.

probably the last time i was in fashion was when i was in nappies, because nappies are pretty universal (and i am not talking about adult baby fantasy here). the last 54 years me and fashion have parted company.

of course my lack of fashion sense or interest doesn't stop me from looking at some fashion choices and think what the fuck, no really what the fuck.

seriously why has the low slung jeans/ trousers become a fashion staple, why did it ever become popular in the first place? most people who sport the fashion do not have the body for it and as they shuffle charlie chaplin like down the street doing the i have shat my pants waddle. of course if you are young and have a gym honed body then perhaps you can carry it off, and the makers of the pants you are wearing are pleased for the extra publicity. the majority of wears tend not to be like this and seemingly they don't necessarily want the pants either. in a large number of cases you are confronted low jeans, no pants and a flabby arse with a dirty crack of doom. trust me that isn't a look anyone wants to be having. more to the point it is a look that most of us don't want to see.

gents put your arses away and pull those strides up.

the current fashion craze i don't understand harks back to something i loved as a kid/teenager: ripped jeans. back when i had ripped jeans it was because i had done something to wear the material out, it was a badge of effort. those ripped knees were a sign you had been out being active. now such rips and tears are fashion statement – except it doesn't stop at rips and tears it is whole chunks of the jeans that are missing, and it isn't just one rip or tear it is loads of them, in some cases there are more holes than there is jeans.

why? what is so special about tramp chic? other than you are showing the world you have more money than sense and you can afford to dress shabbily and all your peer group and other fashionistas will congratulate you on your brand choice and admire your taste for looking just like them.

maybe that is the point – it is a signifier that you belong with the others who wear jeans that are torn to shreds and have large holes all over them (of maybe more accurately – they have a bit of jeans defining empty space of the fashion statement.

to me clothes are something i have to wear, so something easy, practical and comfortable to wear. no hassle, pluck it from the bag and put it on. i don't want to be navigating holes to make sure i don't rip the item any more than it already is, after all i wouldn't want to ruin the look of such stylish clothes.

maybe it is best that i stick with sensible bland clothing as i am pretty sure that old chubby blokes shouldn't be trying to make fashion statements.  ever.

Wednesday, August 03, 2016


going into the referendum there was a dream, a hope that result would have far reaching repercussions. oh how right we were.

only problem is they were not the repercussions i wanted.

ok here was my dream scenario. june 23rd the votes would be cast and during the morning of june 24th i would enjoy listening to the results being announced, early in the morning victory for remain would be declared so i could sleep. throughout the day we would be treated to the smug face of david cameron as he wittered on about how wonderful it was that remain had won the day and that the country had spoken and we were staying in europe. yays all round. over the weekend all those eurosceptic tories would kick up a fuss, rebel and basically make cameron's small majority virtually useless leading to a general election and us all happily dancing on the grave of the now fractured and useless tory party.

i can dream can''t i?

didn't quite happen that way.

boris switches sides, brexit campaigners indulge in a bit of number manipulation, much of the media was for leaving and there were a number of voters who decided that june 23rd was time to give the government/ elites/ establishment a bit of a kicking so chose to vote against remain and for getting out of europe.

and come the early morning of june 24th out of europe we were going.

david cameron resigns and for a brief glorious period it looked as if the tories were going to destroy themselves with infighting, but no a few scares and then bish bosh they have their leadership election and instead of boris, theresa may is handed the poison chalice of getting us through the article 50 negotiations.

already she looks like a steady eddie keeping the tories on an even keel and moving forward.

meanwhile over in the labour camp chaos rules.

in an effort to shake up the party and to weaken the unions ed milliband changed how the leader was elected: it was changed to one member one vote. all very democratic all very sensible.

fast forward to the election of a new leader and jeremy corbyn throwing his hat into the ring and suddenly there is a huge surge in membership and before you know it they have all gone and voted corbyn as leader.

road to hell, no good deed, unintended consequences – you choose.

corbyn wanting a new type of politics– a less combative style. the whole brexit debate was the end his honeymoon period, with many of the labour parliamentarians being disappointed at his half

hearted defence of european membership.

while he has the mass support of the new membership he does not have the support of his mps. an odd situation.

some are calling a coup (though some might argue that what the corbynistas have done has been a coup of the labour party), and if it is it is the slowest and most advertised in history, and weeks after the referendum we are still embroiled in what to many is a foregone conclusion: corbyn re-elected as leader of the labour party.

the danger of the corbyn leadership is that it is more interested in ideological purity than it is the practicalities of being elected, or even of being an effective opposition. just when the tories might have been at their weakest the labour party has decided to commit suicide. yet for some of them they will be happy that they haven't compromised their principles and ideals and instead of being a political force they are just as unelectable as the socialist workers party and others of that ilk (george galloway's respect party success being a unique case). reduced in effect to being a party of protest, slogans and banners.

my dream was we stayed in europe and tory party was in turmoil. instead i have the nightmare of an extended period of tory rule just because the labour party is prepared to immolate itself rather than work together to hold the tories to account.

still it does mean that the lib dems might get some votes at the next election.

Tuesday, August 02, 2016


not to get too personal (or too graphic) but i am constipated. i am bunged up – i can feel a very large chunk of turd loitering, but like a reluctant bride it isn't ready to come down the aisle just yet. i have a history of annoying bowel troubles – started young (and in a freudian jungian kleinian way probably explains many of my quirks), after all you try to recover from a trip to the doctors when you are still in short trousers only to have a finger inserted in your arse and then wiggled and before you cry abuse – he did lube up and give me a sweetie afterwards. and that doesn't sound much better does it.

this was followed by a course of visits from the district nurse who happily and joyfully (and perhaps a little too erotically – no just making that bit up, really, no really) administered a series of daily enemas.
which by the end of would clear me out – yet also plant the seeds of dark erotic leanings for the future and allow me to be sympathetic towards alien abductees who had been probed.

while this sorted out the immediate problem – my movements have never been what one could call regular.
every so often there would be a period where nothing would exit the back passage. even though i hadn't developed a phobia of probing district nurses and doctors with lubed fingers as i got older i was a little more reluctant to allow things to be inserted into my arse, some might call this probophobia i called it personal preference.

when confronted with another bout of constipation various remedies would be called upon. ex lax and senokot would be used, get the dose wrong and well you could be caught short dumping a load into your britches and doing the charlie chaplin shuffle. only happened a couple of times but that is still one time too many.
with the loss of medicines other avenues had to be investigated.
a change in diet to include pooh friendly foods, bananas for instance. an increase in high fibre food such as shreddies or all bran. stronger coffee (a personal fave – and no not as an enema, but one day maybe...).
next up is a change in lifestyle – some exercising just to get the body moving and churning the insides up and therefore (hopefully) out.
or the final option – move into the toilet with a stack of comics and books, sit down and wait for nature and gravity to do their thing and after an unspecified amount of time a whoosh slash and sigh – the sounds of mission accomplished. however as this would be a patient long game there would be no jumping to my feet and a loud yell of triumph – no that would have to wait until later, until i had recovered from the dead legs, until then i would have to continue my toilet bound ruminations of life and the price of coffee. of course i would be peeling myself off the toilet seat and as my arse would be melded to the toilet seat and when i finally get to my feet i would have an indentation of the toilet seat firmly embedded in my arse cheeks, for a few hours i would be a walking work of art ready for rachel whiteread to do a cast of the negative space of my arse and the toilet seat. (it would have won the turner prize – and who knows it might just happen).

i am still waiting for the whoosh splash sigh of a successful dump. i keep telling myself it will happen on my next visit to the throne room, as yet no real luck, a rabbit dropping here or there but no real dambuster style emptying.

every time i go in there to cogitate and read i am conscious of elvis’s last words and in the back of my mind the mad bad thought that the turd monster might get me and i would be found slumped clutching a copy of the latest instalment of the executioner series in my hand.
i hope that is this should happen i have remembered to have left a copy of moby dick or the complete poems of t h lawrence in there. just a bit of class.