Heedless Acts

I once had my hair plaited into cornrows following a bonkers decision to allow a friend to plait my hair into cornrows. I went to a first-year seminar on Troilus and Cressida looking for all the world like an alabaster Craig David, rosy scalped and tit-like. The look didn’t last long, and thankfully there is no photographic evidence. But cornrow comedown is a capricious beast, and I was beset with a King-like ‘fro that took many washes to dampen. Yet another life-event to be filed away under Heedless Acts, perhaps. Much like the time I spacked a wad of Florints on a furryball equivalent of Find The Lady on a hillside path in some distant Eastern European capital. Or perhaps that misty evening in East London when I was struck down by a pizza delivery scooter only to be rescued by Kevin Whately and his wife. It is an ever-growing and bewildering category, possibly of booklength.

There are times, though, when this Heedlessness pays some sort of dividend. My recent appearance in a local independent film, Yum Cha Gweilo, is a good example, and one which has seen my (imagined) showreel extend by a third in duration. I now have a skillset including and limited to: eating competently under pressure, jumping on command (see below), and impersonating a physics geekboy drinking in a London bar. My hairslicked nerd-flick completed the transformation from bookwormpansy to wormholeshowoff and I delivered my lines with all the aplomb of an untrained novice actor. Fortunately (and stereotypically) they were looking for a wooden and pipelike (nerdlinger) delivery, so it took very little effort and I was done within four or five immaculate takes.

“I love quantum electrodynamics and the potential implications of string theory … So this is what you should do. Don’t call her today, wait about a week, maybe two, and then just when she thinks you’ve forgotten about her …” Acting go(l)d.

And speaking of glorious glowing deities:

Syntaxless BKK

NHS spectacles, unwashed moustaches, men of the register; the paedo-sheek of Hoxton Square wrought citywide. sleazy wheezies at the ATM: phlumk, bounce, bounce … bounce. phlumk, bouncebounce. The Drain of the World. “See, it’s real!” Ladies and gentlemen, please: drinkupquick, nothing to see here. click, pfffsssssssst! KNO3s and paps, mammas and pappas; cashslaps and slappers. just drinkupquick. pop! Shweeeee … pussyclubsoda bills and beaks.          bye.

Groovesharked

When you have the temerity to live in Hong Kong (or some other place situated stubbornly outside of the UK), trying to listen to free music online—via things like Spotify—has always been a ball-ache par excellence (i.e. impossible). And now that Last.fm has decided to start charging its users (or perhaps that should be ‘customers’) to use its service, the opportunity to spaff away great chunks of the working day to music has been limited to YouTube, which, when it comes to things like playlists, albums or sound quality, is about as useful as a marzipan dildo (to borrow a simile from Malcolm Tucker).

Enter the terribly named (but wonderful) Grooveshark.

Like all these things, I’m way behind the curve: it’s been going since 2009, has 400,000 users a month, and has already been involved in several high-profile copyright infringement cases (don’t go there looking for Pink Floyd, for instance). But working on the basis that there are probably (or possibly) people less clued-up than me, I thought it was worth a quick mention.

This is why I like it: it has an impressive catalogue of songs (see, for example, this and this), you can queue stuff up for weeks on end, and—if you use Firefox and download the Adblock Plus add-on—hardly any advertisements to contend with. (There aren’t any of those right-into-your-bloody-ear adverts in-between tracks either, which, from memory, there are on Spotify.)

With all these advantages to be had, I’m sure that somebody, somewhere is being totally screwed by Grooveshark, and like usual, it’s probably the smallest artists who take the biggest hit, but (I think, at least) it has to be better than raiding Pirate Bay or Mediafire. Hardly a ringing endorsement, I realise, but you can make up your own stupid minds.

A Gregg Wallace dungeon? Yes, please!

Writing a fabricated sex-scandal about a relatively well-known (and largely disliked) British television celebrity—see my Gregg Wallace post(s) a few weeks back—grants an unsettling insight into people’s off-the-cuff Google habits, which display, on almost a daily basis, an ardent belief (or maybe that should be “desire”) that anyone off the telly is a philandering sex-pest (among many other things).

This insight comes virtue of the WordPress.com stats package, which ensures that every time someone stumbles upon my site via Google (or any other search engine for that matter) I am told exactly what was keyed in to get them (t)here. Below are the search terms and hits relating only to our brave, bald pioneer:

Search term(s)	Hits
greg wallace	365
greg masterchef	30
gregg wallace scandal	14
greg wallace sex scandal	12
greg wallace scandal	8
greg from masterchef	5
gregg wallace sex scandal	4
greg wallace pics	4
greg wallace hat	2
wallace barrel	2
greg wallace picture	2
pictures of greg wallace	2
greg wallace sex	1
gregg wallace + gay	1
greg wallace glasses	1
gregg wallace face	1
bald rich	1
greg wallace smile	1
gregg wallace sex	1
masterchef judges england	1
greg wallace big eyes	1
greg masterchef photo	1
famous bald people wearing glasses	1
bald rich man smiling	1
masterchef wiki	1
greg wallace cup	1
greg masterchef spoon in mouth	1
greg wallis masterchef	1
greg wallace photo	1
bald masterchef	1
greg wallace pictures	1
greg wallace images	1
greg wallace dungeon	1
bald masterchef judge	1
is greg wallace gay?	1
gregg wallace gay	1
is gregg wallace gay	1
is greg wallace gay	1
masterchef judge wallace	1
gregg wallace kerb crawler	1

There is a chance, of course, during my absence from the UK, that Gregg Wallace has acquired a media personality whereby connotations of sexual depravity, solicitation and homosexuality are par for the course. Maybe, à la Richard Keys and Andy Gray, our hero Wallace was seen rutting near the bread-bin in-between takes, or carving up a turkey with his hands behind his back.

These things I cannot claim to know.

What I can be sure of, however, is that my post on the (imagined) matter back in August hasn’t spawned this flurry of rumour and hearsay—I know how few people visit this blog—which suggests that there is a committed band of internet snoopers constantly on the lookout for the next celebrity scandal to dribble out of the internet and into our gaping brains.

Hmm … I wonder if there’s anything about Adrian Chiles’ reach-around hell? A Sooty and Sweep love-hotel, you say? I’d better check. And what’s that? Jamie Theakston has admitted he has a vagina growing on his arm? Well I’ll be!

God bless the internet.

On discourse, and swimming out of my depth

Given the spate of civil uprisings across North Africa and the Middle East (together with a muted affair in China, which is at least evidence that the Great Firewall has its limitations), the press in the West has been particularly keen to show front-page images of burning buildings, massed civilians and military brutality. Yet as these images of ordinary people fighting subjugation and autocracy have circulated, one thing has struck me again and again: national revolution and religious conformity can quite happily coexist. It is more than possible to overthrow a tyrannical government whilst still maintaining allegiance to a religious doctrine which on the face of it works to transpose national autocratic power onto the domestic sphere.

And here I can already feel the ground give way beneath my feet—this is, after all, a view sponsored by Western media outlets, and comes freshly baked from the oven of religious ignorance. But untenable position aside, there still seems to be something quite interesting happening here, which is the distinct separation of national politics from religious doctrine (and, concomitantly, gender inequality). Some discourses are evidently stronger than others; some voices can still shout above the din.

But then why should it be otherwise? Religious faith should by its very nature outstrip national concerns. And it is wholly right, in times of violence and oppression, when life on Earth seems oh so transient, that those who are religious should cling to their faith in an afterlife with ever more ferocity and commitment. This is the logic which the mujahid suicide bomber takes to the extreme. Its power is unquestionable.

It is equally possible, of course, that local religious authorities are a far more intimidating (and pervasive) presence than pro-government military forces, and that the clean dichotomy of Government vs. The People, when down-scaled to the level of religious governance in the community, results in a stifling entanglement of power relations and vested interests. Possible too is that there has been a decision not to fight on too many fronts at once, and that civil action on a national scale might eventually percolate through to action over gendered religious adherence and societal inequality more generally. A further possibility is that none of this is even an issue for the women in question.

Whatever the case, though, images like the one above demonstrate ably how different discourses of power are differently embodied throughout any given society, and how religious doctrine—replete with an inequality and oppression analogous with the nation at large—is able to maintain its leverage whilst all around it descends into chaos.

Become enlightened; join BAMME

At the Baptist Ministry for the Materially Enlightened (BAMME) we are committed to your future, both within and beyond the mortal plane. It is our belief that it is only through a deep understanding of BAMME’s teachings that true salvation can be obtained, and that material enlightenment can translate into spiritual magnificence.

Free your mind, live beyond +0

According to our consecrated texts, our human existence is organised into seven elemental levels, or strata, each of which represents an ionic-concatenation within our core-psyche. Most people live their lives within just one of these strata, the irreal, and as a result are limited to a life of wage-earning subservience, utility bills and hardship. In other words, the daily grind of what we like to call a “+0 existence”.

This life probably seems familiar to you. But it needn’t do for much longer. Here at the Baptist Ministry for the Materially Enlightened we can help you move beyond the tiresome drudgery of your +0 existence. All that you hold to be so obdurately “real”—states like exhaustion, anxiety and stress; emotions like sadness, frustration and fear—are mere constructs of this base-level ionic stratum, and like all earthly constructs, they can be dismantled using the right tools.

We at the Baptist Ministry for the Materially Enlightened are committed to the facilitation of this life-enabling dismantlement, and Demystification Seminars are held on a monthly basis to ensure that all members of the Ministry obtain the highest possible levels of the Sigma-1 ME Integer—a numeric scale adopted specifically by BAMME to measure our members’ ionic plane progression.

Beyond Demystification there exists only spiritual wonder and plenitude. And as your Sigma-1 ME Integer continues to advance, from the irreal imprisonment of 0.1 through to the syncretic awe-bliss of 1.0—taking in paean, sonos, delphic, phasar and xanu levels along the way—all earthly concerns will dissipate into nothingness, and you shall achieve what is known in the Ministry as “Spiritual Abundance”.

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Is this really an opportunity you can afford to miss?

Juvenilia: 16th September 1996

On their 6music radio show some time last year Adam and Joe asked listeners to send in stories and poems which were penned during childhood. These efforts—dubbed “Juvenilia”—were then read out and generally marvelled at due to their ingenuity and inventiveness. Some of my favourites were a book of poetry called “Say it with Snails”, an Arnold Schwarzenegger magazine, and a mildly racist comic strip called “Judge Fred”. I think they put some of them up on their website.

Anyway, I say this by way of introduction to my own little piece of recently discovered juvenilia, “Escape from Fort-Socks”—a swashbuckling adventure yarn committed to paper by the fresh-faced 11-year-old boy that I once was. Remarkably, the (unedited) extract below is only 1/5 of the total story, and as far as I can make out, serves as the introductory chapter to the tale at large. I can still vaguely recall writing the thing, although my (slightly worrying) logic for calling the protagonist “Beer Garden” currently escapes me.

It seems I wasn’t much of a speller, and I appear to take a pretty cavalier attitude to grammar much of the time too (particularly in the final paragraph, which descends into a blitz of Joycean experimentation) …

Escape from Fort-Socks (extract)

It was a dark misty night, search lights scoured the pale, green grass at a rapid speed. Fort Socks is a high security jail in Dunstable. Down in the celler there are four brave men and their leader is the man called Beer Garden. Beer Garden is a brave warrior and will stop at nothing to get the plans back to Slinsil. There are two countries seperated by a river, Krasnir and Slinsil. Krasnir is planning on attacking Slinsil and the’ve sent the spies to see were there going to attack.

The other four men are extremely brave. there is Boxer who only has a blunt battle axe, but he has a magic bottle which only Beer Garden can use on Boxer because Boxers arms are to short to reach. He is knicknamed Boxer because he always wears a cardboard box so his arms can’t reach his weapons.

Suddenly they heard a click they all drew there weapons and darted to the door, the door opened, Crossbones switched on his automatic drill and his electric ball and chain. The others stepped back. Crossbones is a right hard nut and never gives up, his ball and chain had reached maximum speed of 909 mph. A guard opened the door. The ball and chain hit him on the armour and he flew through the air at a great speed and landed in the cat food bowl (knocked out). He shut the door and they got back to looking at the plans. Stretcharmstrong is a wizard, he is the main spy of the group he can stech to 19 metres 33 cm. He can turn evil people into stone but it only works for five minutes and it doesn’t work near water. He can turn invisible which is a great help.

Last of all there is Lollyman he is very quick on his feet but gets tired easily he has a little helper called Harry the hamster who is always there to help. Harry holds a missile launcher which fires hamster nuts, which helps alot. The cellar was dark and a musty smell filled the air. Harry was nibbleling on a piece of cheese in the corner when suddenly his fur stood up on end and he squeked. The walls rumbled and ten or so door ways appeared. Ten armoured men appeared all with a gleaming sword (the size of LollyMan). They surrounded the spies like wolves around a rabbit, nobody moved. “Get them” shrieked one of the guards they all charged and before the spies could move they were tied up with balls and chains on there feet. They were taken to the dungeon. Bread and water were slid under the door a strange man was sitting in the corner we tried to speak to him but he wouldn’t talk he was really getting on our nerves Crossbones went over to him and stared into his eyes he stared back and all of a sudden he slowly began to fade away slowly but surely he went until only one of his broken shoes was left on his bunk bed. “This is getting very, very weird and Lollyman and the rest of us fell asleep and only the gentle sound of snoring could be heard coming from the dungeon.

(Possibly) to be continued …

After the storm

Like the American military who killed all those kids at Waco, I think I’ve gone too far. In my haste to get the job done, I’ve metaphorically trapped all my old school friends—among many others—in a Texan-themed facebook compound and then set fire to it, leaving no survivors. And not a single David Koresh among them to ease the guilt. (Although there were at least two people I knew of who were members of the English Defense League, who I can use as stand-ins.)

But what can be done? Nothing, that’s what. It’s like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm—any attempt at reparation can only make things worse. (A really bad episode, of course, where nothing of any significance happens, and all you see, for 30 minutes, is me clicking on a mouse and sweating.) Nobody’s going to re-befriend a spineless, belly-crawling wretch like me anyway. I’ve made my corpse-ridden bed, and now I’m going to have to play Scrabble in it.

All this really shows, of course, is the extent to which facebook has replaced our—or do I mean my?—ordinary socialisation. Although I’ve said much to the contrary, I haven’t actually killed these people—they’re still roaming about the planet quite happily … probably—so it’s odd that I should feel uneasy. I did tell a friend about a couple of the deceased, though, and he was genuinely shocked at my callousness, which shows that there is real significance accorded to these virtual friendships. (Baudrillard would have a field day.)

Maybe I’ll just see if they’re on Twitter instead.

Callin’ for a cullin’

In the microcosmic world of facebook, the signifier “Friends” has an awful lot of work to do. In most cases “Acquaintances” would probably be better, but this still seems far-fetched … “People you know”? … Hmm … This is pretty vague, but still wouldn’t cover everyone—I mean, do you still know someone you haven’t seen for 10 years? Do you even “know” people you work with? Probably not. “People you have known” probably falls by the wayside too … “People you’ve seen or spoken to over your lifetime” is approaching accurate, but then this still wouldn’t account for people you’ve met on the internet, or people with the same name as you that you added when you were drunk … Erm … “People you have known of, or spoken to, via any communicative mode, over the course of your lifetime”? I think that might do for now. But it’s not very snappy. I’m not even sure it’d fit in that little blue bar above the pictures … And lumping family members in among the slurry probably wouldn’t go down too well either. Hpmh … “Friends” it is then, but something has to give …

The Cull

I approached the cull cautiously at first, just timidly nibbling around the edges of the mass—sniping off an odd one or two who I wouldn’t even be able to pick out of a line-up. Before long though, the blood-lust got to me, and I was slashing away with impunity, html code up the walls, macerated pages all around me. 50 dead, then 80, then 100, 150, 200! Dead! All dead and gone!

Actually, that’s not quite accurate. There were moments of reflection—ethical dilemmas that emerged over the course of the process that shook me to my very core. Considerations such as:

1. Can you kill close friends’ girlfriends if you don’t know them at all well?
2. If you kill one ex-colleague, then should you plough on and murder the lot of them?
3. Is it wrong to spare the life of a schoolfriend just because you enjoy reading about their mildly car-crash existence?
4. How long should you wait until bludgeoning to death an acquaintance you know you’ll never see again?
5. Do distant relatives get special dispensation, or are they buried in the garden with the riffraff?

Important questions all. And not at all usual for a Tuesday lunchtime. As for the answers? Well, I was probably a little trigger happy if truth be told, but then god-like power will do that to a man—some I saved, others I smote. Still others were delivered plagues of locusts. Such was my duty.

The Call

What I can say, however, is that such mindless violence and blood-thirsty rampage is joyously cathartic, cleansing and does wonders for the appetite. And it is for this reason that I call on you all to do the same. Even if it means you smite me just as I smote others.

There’s plenty of smitin’ to go round.

 

Euphonic memory glitch (with soundtrack)

I’ve been in Hong Kong nearly two years now, which means it’s about four years since I left London for Brighton, and a full seven years since I left Suffolk to begin my university career at Queen Mary in the badlands of Mile End. Seven years. Seven dirty great hunks of calendrical time spaffed up the wall of memory, some fragments sticking, others coalescing, some not really making the journey at all. Odds and ends splishing and splash-slapping all up my brain, making me me, for better or worse.

I guess it’s pointless feeling gloomy about the passing of time—you may as well worry about rain or beards or bears or somesuch—especially if you’re happy with how the time’s been spent. Nostalgia always has a whiff of the weep about it, sure, but as long as you can lid it up all tight with the rest of your suppressed anxieties, then no harm done. And there’s always high-speed international air-travel—one more log for the anxiety pyre—to bring you closer to that homeland feeling, in map-wise terms at least. Feeling geographically proximate to old, sepia imprints of yourself or selves as you popped about from place to place—from pub to house to beach to school, from shop to car to park to pool—is always pleasant.

In a similar vein, I was listening to music just now and my voice blared out of the past and right into my ears: waves crashing in from over nine years ago, dashing out memories of hospitals, Avent, gig seating and Steve in Witham. Sprigs of time mashed up in binary, careening down my ear-holes, slipping and skidding about, trying to take hold in some adequately remembered narrative of my past. Our music was misguided, perhaps, and very often artless, but so well-recalled that all inequities of style and substance melt into warm goo. Sepia-folks now in Southampton, London, Weston-super-Mare, Bury St Edmunds, Seoul and Hong Kong, teaching, managing, studying and practising, and all held hard like Ambered insects in some memory-sense past just waiting to crack out and start moving to music.