Saturday, 24 August 2002


i've just put myself through the torment of watching one of those crappy itv 'streakers' programmes. if ever there was a meme-war airstike targetting any ground gained through naked protesting, then this was it.

a 40 minute slice of prime time saturday night telly, crammed with exhibitionists, full frontal saucyness, people motivated by 5 minutes of fame, people paid by fucking advertisers to strip, a talking-head psychologist who must have graduated from the murdoch institute of tabloid psychiatry and someone who once joined a naked protest 2 years ago.

i wouldn't have minded if they'd just stuck with the people who run naked at sports events. but no, just like their previous 'streakers' show, they recklessly muddy a small segment of naked protest into the mix, yet fail to bother including anyone articulating anything of weight on the subject. our messages are drowned in the dominant frivolity of the show. surely the simple implications of our human appearances being illegal, or mere sites of novelty and amusement, is an issue worth giving some time to.

i think my next major campaign will involve the maiming and torture of tv programme makers. in court i'll giggle coyly as accounts of their mutilations are read out, and instead of an intelligent defence i'll plead that it was all just a bit of fun.


Thursday, 22 August 2002


those bloody Enetation comments buttons keep dissappearing. plus you can't see what your fucking typing even when they are available. need to replace them.

Wednesday, 21 August 2002


i long to meet someone whose core knee-jerk beliefs are founded upon something other than 18th century romanticism and the work ethic.

there are far too many people fundamentally driven by the romantic concept that suffering is of greater value than pleasure. this, combined with the industrial concept of worthiness-through-productivity, ensures that people waste time pickling their minds in guilt unless they're bee-ing busy busy busy.

similarly i'm so tired of that romantic cliche the noble savage. a zomboid belief-concept so deeply and unquestionably accepted as fundamental truth, rather than just another 18th century mind-contagion. how much longer will i have to endure people stating with all sincerity and without hesitation that green nature is ultimately richer, more spiritual, more natural than technology? blah blah blah.

middle class bloody hippies, me-generation managers and ultra-anal health and youthfullness obsessives. its taken your plague breed a couple of centuries to conquer the world, but surely now your time is up. surely its time to start thinking again.

CYBORG = cybernetic organism, a hybrid of machine and organism, a creature of social reality as well as a creature of fiction

“the boundary between science fiction and social reality is a construction”
preferably after machine stitching their eyelids closed and applying hot curling-tongs to their tongues.

why is it that in bubblegum mags like Heat, whenever a grown-up celeb appears to have got dressed all by themselves they're ridiculed as 'worst dressed'. While the majority of celebs featured, wearing outfits that my 69 year old tory voting mother would be proud of, are to be aspired to as the height of fashion cool.

its an insidiously poisonous message of homogenised timidity, perpetuated by a dominant alliance of seemingly innocuous magazines, tv, ultra safe labels and "expert" advisors. it feeds upon low self esteem, whilst it incapacitates imagination and individuality.

Tuesday, 20 August 2002

Robotic Upgraded Soldier Skilled in Exploration and Logical Learning

courtesy of brunching shuttlecock

Saturday, 10 August 2002


must sleep now. but wanted to get the "me me me" photo link uploaded. it needs sorting out, but will suffice for now.

i'm having a problem with how my fonts appear on the rest of this site. its like each letter has been chewed and spat out onto the screen.

S is back from dublin, desperately heartbroken.

spoke to mum on the phone, she's had a stairlift installed.

my sisters' baby is imminent.

time to sleep.

Friday, 9 August 2002

the man sat next to me earlier this evening, in a circle around a fire, likes jokes. twice i even heard him phone people to tell them the one about the 2 rats in the sewer, where one rat says "fuck this shit, i'm going on the piss."

i hate it when people start telling jokes, because its rarely long before their repertoire becomes racist, and mr. joker next to me was no exception. i hate it because, if the joke is founded on a redundant stereotype, then my consistently blank reaction becomes spotlighted within the ritualised confines of friendly lightheartedness. all the more when everyone else is straightforwardly entertained. its not disaproval that i'm registering, its undiluted resentment that i can't get up and escape mid-joke, without such action becoming a grand statement.

often enough i don't even get the punchline anyway, because its prejudicial premise simply does not compute.

for example, one of his jokes began "there were two ethnics on a bridge....". 2 ETHNICS!? and the punchline relied upon a shared understanding that black men have huge cocks. i need to articulate that i'm not being politically-correct here, it just would never occur to me to think in terms of black men having big cocks. why does anybody think they might have? why am i the only one not laughing? why am i sat right next to son-of jim davidson?

the whole concept of pc in fact clouds my effort here to articulate my non-response in these situations. firstly pc will undoubtedly be the tidy package that the amused folk will bundle me into. secondly, pc is, i believe, a deliberate concious stance. where as i feel more like someone taken hostage at gunpoint against my will. i just don't want to be there and i didn't ask to be made to stand out by retaining the non-laughing face that i had before the joke began.

at its root, i guess, i naively believe that pointless stereotypes are as outdated as a shared understanding of chaucerian language. its the 21st century for fucks sake.

Wednesday, 7 August 2002

J has just left to go out and enjoy the thunder and rain. he told me that on his way here he popped into a nearby abandoned building to have a wank.

while discussing reality-tv, surveillance and privacy, i brought up the recent occaision when he knocked at my frontdoor and after my not replying he called through the letter box that he "wasn't gonna stay for long". but i still didn't reply.

we're already fine with the fact that there are times i just want solitude and its ok that i don't answer the door, even if its obvious that i am in. but i needed to articulate that it doesn't matter how long he or anyone else intends to stay, its about me not wanting to change my mental space at the time. not wanting to shift into human interaction nor adjust myself for the witness / judgement presence of another person.

the larger issue is that we, all of us, keep each other within prescribed social boundaries. we are friendly cctv-wetware. we are the well trained thought police and the patrolling prison guards of mutual reality. its an efficient and, most importantly, a cheap means of generally controlling ever expanding mass populations. especially now that omnipresence and hellfire alone will no longer suffice. we worry about the more blatant implications of increased technological surveillance, but i think that's a case of stable doors and bolted horses. i am a camera. you are a camera. he/she/it is a camera. hey kids, lets put on a show.
now my comments buttons have disappeared. does this mean i can only put it once on a page, rather than after each blog?

i've blogged, i've learnt how to put in links, i've added a comments button....though don't yet know how to add the enetations' gif, i'll learn that tomorrow.