Nothing wrong with that except that it came from a Frenchman who tucks his sweater into leather (lace -up fly) trousers.
Ouch!
Monday, 10 May 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
St George: Whatever happened to chivalry?
Roped to a tree was a white gowned damsel. A damsel most certainly in distress. Leering over her was a dragon. there was the usual smoke from the nostrils and stench of rotting flesh.
The knight dismounted, approached the dragon while unsheathing his sword.
'Stop!' Cried the damsel and dragon in unison. 'If you kill the dragon you will kill us both for we are two halves of the same beast'.
'But if I do not kill the dragon it will surely kill you'. The knight said to the damsel.
'No it won't'. She replied. 'This is just a game we play to entertain ourselves'.
The knight sheathed his sword, mounted his horse and rode away to the sound of jeering from the damsel and dragon.
The last words he heard were: Whatever happened to chivalry.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Haircut and love.
To Tristan's place this evening. He had asked me round to cut his hair... Sure, no problem, glad to.
As a barber I had expected to talk of holidays and something for the weekend and did you see that film called Tony ( fuck I've plugged it again) you know the one with the serial killer with the bonkers haircut and if you don't tip me proper I'll give you one of those.
But no. He wanted to talk about poetry and love and the best kind of . As if I would know.
Shit. I'm only the barber mate. what do I know.
'Jan.' He said. 'I hope you know not to run at me with those scissors'.
Ok. I said. I'll walk. That way I can be more accurate.
Anything for the weekend?
S & M
Self flagellation used to be the preserve of the religious fanatic.
Not so any longer... I knew a man who has been beating himself up since his father stopped.
The same guy had a girlfriend who was doing the same thing for the same reason. They met on common ground.
They split up when she realised that he was never going to beat her and he realised that all she wanted to do was beat him up rather than herself because she didn't want to damage her looks.
Time and memory are beating them up now.
Time is merciless.
As is god of course, if you believe that shit.
What goes around comes around... With a whip.
Postcards from Rusty No: 46
Rusty sends this, it is an image of Evelyn Beatrice Hall.
On it he writes: I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.
On it he writes: I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.
Ethics and property rights
Another conversation with Tristan on the subject of ethics.
Warning: This could be boring.
'Was I unethical in writing that letter?'
'No. In so much that it was the truth. But it could be seen as unethical for me to publish it'.
'Why is that?'
'Because it is acceptable to have a thought but totally uncool to express it. Even if it is the truth. Society today is based on everyone telling each other lies (what they want to hear) and living in comfortable denial. The truth is an uncomfortable intrusion. The truth forces one to look at oneself and this can be an ugly, uncomfortable experience'.
'So I should have bitten the bullet, allowed myself to be slandered and libelled, responded with love (as Spinoza would have me do),. I should have lied to protect the lies already in place in order that the status quo may be maintained and no other reputation tarnished (other than my own). That doesn't seem very fair'.
'Since when has man concerned himself with fairness? Look around you'.
'But Spinoza said'...
'Bugger Spinoza. His ethics demand an absolute belief in god... Remove God (or references to God) from his book and what are you left with. NOTHING. Or at best a twee little pamphlet about property rights.
And that is what modern ethics boil down to: Property rights.
So you are perfectly within your rights to express your thoughts but be prepared to be hated for it, even though it is the truth'.
Alarm
A curious sight this morning: I had been woken by strange sounds coming from the roof. I climbed the ladder and peered out. Feathers everywhere; a cat had somehow managed to get among the pigeons.
Respect.
We are more relaxed with people we do not respect.
We just do not make any effort.
Unless it is a psychopath with a knife...
Then we sit up, pay attention and wonder how we got into this in the first place.
Suddenly the pub seems welcoming if only for the relaxed atmosphere advertised on the A board.
Holy communion, cocaine and showbiz.
Tristan called in late this evening. He'd had a long day, we opened beers,opened mouths and opened hearts.
The letter to Cynthia is still a fresh bruise.
Tristan had spent the afternoon as an extra on a shoot with Marc Henri, a Belgian friend. He spent three hours being fed the body of Christ by Charles Dance in a local church. Thank god the body of Christ ain't fattening; there would be no Catholic supermodels... All those outrageous confessions lost forever.
Marc Henri asked Tristan to look more serious. He tried but when Charles intoned: 'The body of Christ and if you believe that you will believe any thing' Tristan lost it somewhat...
Oh the wacky world of showbiz eh!
Tristan had then gone on to a party in the west end, in a private members club. He said it was all too well scrubbed. There were speeches however; the restaurateur mentioned his restaurants and the BBC guy mentioned his producer.
One overheard conversation of note though:
Her: 'Do you want a line of cocaine?'
Him: 'You know, I can't be bothered'.
Suggests the drugs ain't working so well.
This reminded Tristan of something he overheard outside the Cow the other night: Three eurotrash guys were discussing where to go next. One said: 'Let's go to the Electric and see if there are some cock teasers around'. Obviously a sign that they are doing too much virtual sex. In my day you avoided cock teasers.
You do not need to make it up around here.
Oh and by the way. God couldn't get Tristan into a church but the movies could.
The film is called Fatherly love and I will naturally review it when it is released.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Election nonsense.
Hugh Grant was in the pub tonight. a friend tapped him on the shoulder then went off and voted Conservative. This sadly set the tone for the rest of the evening.
Whatever happened to the Nick Clegg X factor?
I cannot be bothered to sit up for any more anticlimax. I shall no doubt awake to a hung parliament scenario which in turn will lead to another election soon enough.
The TV coverage is farcical. Especially the BBC CGI obsession.
The cock ups at polling stations smack of third world elections.
Britain... Good grief.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
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