A trip down to the shops.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Monday, July 28, 2003
What I did on my holidays.
"Brace. Brace. Brace." The order finally came. How the hell did I get myself into this? What did I do on my holiday in Ibiza to deserve this? Things begain to flash before my eyes, as is often said to happen moments before death. Death. It sounds so final, so severe...
Wednesday Night: ...We sat at SugarSea next to Savannah with our drinks in front of us. I was drinking what had become a 'usual', a vodka-and-Coke and a fresh-orange juice. She was drinking a 'Screaming Orgasm', the dark velvety fluid sliding up the straw and into her mouth like an open sewage pipe gushing into a tooth-filled sea, making a stark contrast with the pure blue seas lapping mere feet from where we sat. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the lighthouse on the rocky island in front of the bay blinked eratically. The cooling breeze coming scross San Antonio Bay was a God-send, the only let-up in the relentless heat, even at night when that violent fiery orb had disappeared its effects were still felt like a firmly swung bludgeon to the testicles. We knew what we were going to do that night. Lashed at Eden with Lisa Lashes. We had drunk plenty in preparation, and purchased our tickets from a young blonde girls who was always to be found in that one spot. She accepted our custom happily, unlike the many Ibizan prostitute girls that we saw who underwent the soul-less task of intercourse with little emotion. We continued up the street and met the two at 'The Viper' again. His hair had finally been cut...
Sunday Night: ...Most of the night evades me. It started with copious vodka-and-Cokes in the pool, although I now feel ashamed of the blatant rule breaking... Strange how these things cross your mind in such perilous situations, the fuselage of the large aircraft shuddering and lights blinking. But the memories flood over one another, flashes coming faster and more vivid... We got a taxi to the West-End and we must have eaten pizza at an outdoor restaurant. I can see it now through the alcoholic fuzzyness. What did we do next? Eden? My father's name, odd...
Thursday Night: ...Our entertainment arose from an impromptu swim taken by a yaghtswoman attempting to jump from the landing raft to the shore at Cafe Del Mar. After a round of applause she bowed and returned, dripping to her yaght in the dinghy that had brought her to the raft in the first place. We'd been to Ibiza Town. It smelt of hippies. Everywhere it smelled of hippies in Ibiza Town, and the dogs...
Saturday Night: ...Will the coach ever come? We had to leave the room that we had to call home for seven nights at midday but the coach only came to pick us up at quarter to midnight. Maybe it was some kind of punishment for the enjoyment that we had had over the past four nights? For not letting the heat, the water, the Welsh in the pool ruin our holiday? But it's worth the wait. Thomas Cook provide air-conditioned coaches at least even if the apartments were noticeably lacking. God the heat. Anthony, a guy we met on the outgoing flight put us up in his room for a few hours at least, his punishment was the bottle of champagne...
Thursday Night: ...We left Cafe Del Mar and went into the back streets to shop for tat. So much tat. A lucky-lucky man took 40 euros from us and provied a small block of poor-quality cannabis. Crumbled like shit. Smelt like shit. Shit shit... Shit. The engines are whining like crazy horses. Baggage is dropping a few rows in front of us. Why always me... So much tat. Ashtrays, lighters, all manner of jewellery, it was like a paradise for us. Money and goods changed hands with abandon. We even succumbed to an offer off two drinks for the price of one and a free bottle of champagne to boot. It was likely the most vile bottle of piss that had ever dared to call itself champagne, but we were never going to drink it...
Tuesday Night: ...My recovery wasn't complete. A day at the beach outside the apartments had helped but I still felt sick, hot and uneasy. We managed to get down to the sunset-strip in an attempt to watch a sunset, but alas the weather conditions were not conducive. An oppressive haze blanked out the lower portion of sky, even troubling the powerful stare of the lighthouse...
Sunday Night: ...We had staggered to a bar called 'The Viper'. There a man and woman employed to sell tickets and get custom into the bar engaged us in conversation. She was quick to announce that it was her birthday and that the man was in dire need of a haircut. He had acknowledged this and assured her that one was planned the next day. Eden was our destination, and he was not going to hold us up...
Monday Night: ...No. I can't do this. Drained, the once agile and incorrigible form is a mere shadow. 97% water, all sweat? Eyes stinging with salt... With tears? "Brace. Brace. Brace." It comes again. Jerking me away from what was once reality to what is now reality. The shaking is worse. The forces on my body battering it like a rag-doll in my sitting foetal position. Behind the wing gives most chance of survival. Let first-class absorb the impact...
Friday Night: ...Similar to Thursday night, but different. Dinner at Savannah, with the cool breeze washing over us. Finally, a most glorious sunset. Deep crimson, pinks and orange. A heat haze on the horizon, the heat washing over my face... The crunching, booming noise. The smell of burning jet-fuel. A final impact. A glorious sunset...
Thursday, July 10, 2003
I know I was supposed to be working from home today, and actually I did... but... I also read and finished Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I am left slightly none the better for having read it.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Punishment, and Crime.
I'm in a particularly awkward position, lined up with five other men I've never even met before. I'm reminded somewhat of a public convenience, the mirrored wall in front of us, above our imaginary urinals absorbing our attention for fear of making eye-contact with each other, or heaven forbid; getting caught glancing at a fellow urinators' penis. There seem to be quite a few unwritten rules here, none of which I was ever told to expect. Look straight ahead, hands by your sides, no speaking, back against the wall, even blinking seemed to be frowned upon.
Through my flimsy shirt I can feel small, chipped, fifty-pee sized indentations in the brickwork as the uniformed 'orchestrator of proceedings' pushes me back into it, ensuring my position is correct. A dirty rusty-brown stain catches my attention out of the corner of my eye, but as I tilt my head slightly to see if the stain really was what I thought it was the orchestrator notices.
"Eyes straight ahead son." He shouts, barking a glob of spittle onto my face as he does. He can see the chord of sputum hanging from my cheek, I'm sure, but he continues nonetheless. "When my colleagues arrive we can make it easy for you, but you have to follow the rules, you understand?"
It was a question, but one he didn't want an answer for. Any kind of response would have shown that I didn't understand, and the thought that they could make things anything other than 'easy' fills my head with anxiety. What's it going to be like? I go numb as the handle of the door starts to turn, the insatiable itch from the blob of spit on my cheek the only thing telling me I'm still alive.
In they marched, the uniformed lackeys that do the real dirty work with none of the malice. To them it's just a job, but they wear the insignia of opression all the same. They point their arms' to the floor, but I know that they will soon be raised, followed by them finishing their job by hauling my carcass out of this room to . . . wherever it's taken.
I close my eyes, knowing that the inevitable is about to happen and that only a miracle can save me now. I've been such an idiot, but I never thought that this would happen, but you never do I suppose. If the orchestrator is displeased with my closed eyes I cannot see, but he probably is, people like him can never be pleased about anything. Can he give a silent signal to his colleagues to tell them to make it worse for me? I noticed on entering the room there are numbers above each of our positions, maybe they are for the signal. Three fingers extended on the left hand tells them it's three that's to get it worst, that's the kind of system I would have . . .
My thoughts in the darkness of my own head are cut short by a rattle and a clicking. I know that sound. I know what's going to come; any second.
Seconds extend for days, hours are like aeons, as good as an eternity. It must come, the miracle surely can't have actually happened, could it?
My eyes open and they instantly fix on that old woman looking at me with fear fixed on her face.
"That's him, that's the man officer. I'll never forget that face, with that young girl. The screaming, oh..." At this point the old lady breaks down and has to be led out by the accompanying WPC.
Monday, July 07, 2003
Atomic weapons, what a mess!
The year is 1945. The atomic bomb has just annihilated two of Japan's major cities. Fallout gathers in large clouds passing over the pulverised targets and rain dumps it into the valleys of the Gujo-Khun province of China with the help of the prevailing winds. This is the start of a disasterous series of events that was to result in Songtao Pei, the dirtiest man in the world.
Whilst a propensity to filth in humans is as yet an unrecognised side-effect of atomic detonations the evidence certainly points in that direction, and the science behind its theory is impeccable. Professor Mascarpone Caratine of MIT explains:
"It's really very simple indeed. When an atomic bomb explodes it can be thought of rather like a breakdown of matter into a disseminary globulescence of unsavoury isotopes, including active toxoids and tryto-bobules. These retundulatory particulates osmise into the di-hydro-oxi-vapour in the atmosphere via electrostatic di-polar processes. Ultimately these combined molecules are taken to the Gujo-Khun province of China under the power of Huj-Wang, the local westerly air currents."
Stephen Hawking, the world's first cyborg and Britain's most famous motor-neurone disease sufferer continues:
"In laymans terms in can be thought of as more of a large bang that whooshed up a lot of bad things which the clouds swallowed, only later to be dumped onto China after being blown there by the wind. These nasty materials would have gathered in the river Man-Tit via tributaries and sunk into the sediments where the river flows the slowest. In the province of Gujo-Khun there is only one place where the river flows slowly enough for the sediments to gather to dangerous concentrations of bad atomic bits, one molecule in particular being Mongolium (chemical symbol [Jd]), and that's a one mile stretch just before the small village of Ngh-Hnung. By the year of 1980 these concentrations were at a peak, but dissipated soon after due to excessive urine content in the river."
Mongolium was only discovered in 1996 at the new punctuation-accelerator in Italy. A full-stop and a comma were smashed into each other at an incredible ninety miles-per-second, and in the resulting debris traces of an unknown chemical were found, later to be dubbed Mongolium by its discoverer, Dr. Blitt Flikka. Studies in mice, rats and vulva-leech all showed that Mongolium caused a sudden depletion in preening time only hours after initial exposure. On continued exposure the subjects begin to show absolutely no consideration for their caged companions or their living quarters.
"It was like they had become hippies overnight!" Dr. Flikka exclaimed in a recent publication.
After tests on a child purchased over the black-market Dr. Flikka confirmed that these traits would develop in humans if the dose of Mongolium exceeded twelve parts-per-million. The child was destroyed at the age of three, but enough data had been collected to show alarming behavioral abnormalities had built up in the exposed child when compared to the control child, all concerning hygiene and health deficiencies.
In 1980 the concentrations in the sediment of the river Man-Tit were nearer five-hundred parts-per-million, right around the time an old peasant-woman was going into labour in a bamboo hut in Ngh-Hnung. Yuhata Pei was a local 'seamstress' whose impotent and sterile husband, Gei Pei, a fisherman, was much overjoyed at his miraculous blessing, a son that could do what he never could, move to the free-world. The son was named Songtao Pei, which means 'Charles Manson' in his home tongue and was brought up on a diet of nothing but fried fish, fried rice and fried dog.
It was the fish that was to be the final link in this chain of atomic misery. The bottom-feeding fish were to continue the legacy of Japan's terrifying chastisement, the sediments they filtered leaving behind the Mongolium to saturate their flesh and oils, the same flesh and oils that were fried and shovelled into the face of Songtao Pei every mealtime. His parents only ate small amounts of the fish as they were traditionalists who preferred dog, but Gei Pei was determined to accustom his son to western dishes, and fish was the nearest thing he could get hold of, being a true peasant himself.
The traits that Dr. Flikka saw in his test subjects began to manifest in Songtao Pei and his parents, but on a scale like nothing that had ever been seen before. As the rest of the village died off due to Mongolium poisoning the Pei family, unbeknownst to them developed an immunity for the substance. In the middle of 1983 the Pei family were all that was left in Hng-Hnung, but had anybody been with them they would have been envying the dead and praying for a swift end to such a horrific nightmare. Sanitation, hygiene and sewage disposal were all unheard of. Their personal grooming habits stretched to no more than picking at a stray pubic hair to nibble. The stench was unimaginable, as was the general level of degredation that could beat any episode of 'A Life Of Grime' you care to choose, but Gei Pei had not forgotten his dream.
By 2002 the Gujo-Khun province of China had been almost entirely consumed by the ever expanding blanket of filth exuded by the Pei family. Over three million people died and 40,000 square miles of farm-land had been rendered toxic in Gujo-Khun between 1980 and 2002 as a direct result of Songtao Pei and his parents' and so a plea was made to Premier Zhu, China's illustrious leader. The people were on the brink of revolting, something drastic had to be done to rid the country of this plague-like infestation, and so the decision was made.
Songtao Pei, along with a hazardous-materials team and his mother left the country in September of 2003. Their destination? Anywere so long as it was on a completely different continent to China. An island was decided to be the ideal place for him, in the hope that the sea will form a natural barrier to his foulness. Governmental reports hinted that Britain was to be the unlucky recipient of this repulsive progeny of radioactive hell, but that is where the trail goes cold.
If this report is to be believed then God help us all. Perhaps it is we who are to pay the ultimate price for dabbling with nuclear energies that we can neither control nor fully comprehend. A grim legacy indeed.
Friday, July 04, 2003
Thursday, July 03, 2003
A. Frank Diary.
This brief snippet of a diary entry was recovered after Hitler's troops withdrew from Poland. Presented here, lest we ever forget.
October 28th 1940.
The Nazis came again last night, searching and banging around just outside the secret door of our cramped hiding place. They left without finding much, only a packet of nylon stockings and my uncle Hershel, both of which I'm sure I'll never see again. This is the thirteenth month of my family's self incarceration, and luckily only the fifth Nazi search we have experienced. Poland isn't one of the nicest place to grow up in right now, but then the minority that I belong to is certainly frowned upon by Mr. Hitler somewhat.
Before the German invasion my family and I used to be able to walk freely in the streets, or as freely as our religion allowed. Now that the heavy jack-boot of the Nazis' has crushed the will of our people we only have two options open to us. Option one, the option we have chosen is to hide, hope that our opressors never find us and that one day we may be able to walk out in the sun again, let our pasty faces feel the warmth of that glorious mother-orb. Option two is the easy way out. We give ourselves up to the Nazis and get shipped off to the consideration camps for their particular brand of 'repatriation'.
Having said all that, at least we aren't Jewish, they're getting it worse than we are.
No, life as a modern mime-artist in Poland is grim indeed. The SS have been told to shoot-on-sight anybody pretending to be trapped behind an invisible wall, and god help you if you find that your incredibly light bag won't move from one position in space no matter how hard you look as if you're tugging. They have operatives everywhere, so we must hide, I've heard the kind of things they do in the consideration camps; things that would make your face-paint run.
The mime-camps, or consideration camps are a far cry from the concentration camps that Hitler sends all his Jewish victims, but no less horrific. It's said that anybody caught pretending to be fighting against a blowing gale would be sent to Flasturgshtach, one of the worst. There they beat the mime with a branch until at least seven bones of five inches or longer are broken. I can only hope that this fate does not befall me.
I must stop writing now, the Nazis have returned and the scratching of my meagre pencil may alert them to our whereabo...
Today this evil still lurks in global society, and pockets of resistance to mime artists are growing. Why, only recently a mime from my very home city of York was brutally attacked in Syria by a gang of anti-mimetic thugs. The futility continues...