17 Again

I am currently watching Zac Efron in the American trash teen film, 17 Again. Having bought this affront to the film industry for a fiver at Tesco, I thought that the opportunity to watch the querilous man-boy that is Efron run around shirtless for two hours was money well spent.

I plan to blog as I watch the film, making comments each time the film becomes annoying. I suspect this will be a long, long post, as I am four minutes in and already incensed enough to have begun my online tirade.

The film opens with the teen heart-throb throwing balls into a hoop. Shirtless. Surprise, surprise. Unfortunately he looks like a doll, and as I am not an agalmatophile, that does not do anything for me. Also, the witless and painfully American dialogue (the coach even refers to the basketball team as 'jockstraps'. HOMOEROTIC SUBTEXT!) is not aided by a charmless performance by the ailing actor (actually probably in his thirties) masquerading as a young-looking 17-year-old. The absence of any form of script is evidenced by the arse-achingly clicheed choreography of the dance routine done by the cheerleaders that Efron mysteriously knows and joins in on, looking like the smug wanker he is.

At 4 minutes, Efron's girlfriend (blonde, of course) imparts some unfortunate news that we do not hear. Just as well, as the dialogue is so bad it makes my eyes bleed. What follows is an obvious shift to grey tinted camera stuff (as Efron's acting is clearly not up to conveying worry). His massive burden (probably that his bitch is pregnant with his smug doll-children) affects his basketball. But oh no! The scout is in and he has to play well in order to get a full basketball scholarship (although I resent the term 'scholarship' being used about sports). Some dramatic tension was - I think - supposed to be created as his simpering whore delayed telling him, saying 'this is your night. Go enjoy the game'. What a sensitive little slut. Efron (who, it is rumoured, has never grown pubic hair) insists she tells him - the reason seems to be that his character is wholesome, awesome, and absolutely the sort of person all stupid American girls will fall in love with immediately, due to his ceaseless conformity to good family values. Makes me sick. Will return in a mo to see if my prediction that she's pregnant (if this film actually has a twist and isn't morosely predictable I will eat my own scrotum in a hollandaise sauce) is correct...

Ah-hah! Everyone is now screaming at Efron (in slow-mo, of course) and he is looking at his girlfriend who is clutching her womb like it's just about to drop right out. Ah, the subtle nuances of this film, really, I might weep. And now the scout is shaking his head just in case the audience don't pick up on the massive pressure weighing down on Efron's (really rather sweaty) shoulders. Also, the music is so dramatic I am expecting Bambi's mother to burst on to the screen and be gunned down. Horns blaring semitones. This is so tense I might actually have a breakdown.

And now Efron, facing his responsibilities, throws the ball over his shoulder which the camera films bouncing in slo-mo as the horns still oscilate between their two notes of woe.

Then, Efron chases down his loose-moralled (and loose-cunted) girlfriend, declaring that the baby is his future. He kisses her (which is kinda sexy) and then trumpets begin a silly little fanfare leading into…

A contrasting scene. Matthew Perry of Friends fame is asleep. Then, ho-ho, he is having breakfast with a man dressed as a Vulcan. Hilarious! Then, there is the obligatory reference to American brands (in this case a cereal called ‘Cap’n Crunch’. A small joke is made about this bastion of American popular culture and the film continues where, through impeccable dialogue, it is made transparently clear that the protagonist’s life has gone to shit. I kid, you not. The lines ‘Scarlet kicking you out the house and the kids wanting nothing to do with you’ are just subtly crowbarred in there. When will America develop some sense of taste?

And – get this – Perry works for a pharmaceutical company. Nothing like American’s to glorify capitalism. I am almost expecting some form of terrible erection joke. Oh, wait, there already is! ‘Maybe a four hour erection isn’t such a bad thing.’ This is milked (pardon the expression) even further, by a woman in the office writing ‘erection – good ’ and yes, she really did do the smiley face.

Perry is expecting a promotion. The massive build up before it is announced means he won’t get it. Perry sits looking smug and making asides to those around him implying he will get it. But he won’t. Oh no.

29 minutes in. Perry has transformed into a teenager due to the wishes of his spirit guide. After a hugely illogical and unnecessary fight scene, there is now a montage of Efron clips. Mainly just him strutting round as girls lay their ovaries in lust. I hate him. What an absolute, total wanker. His car was horrible as well. So nah-nah nah-nah-nah. That told him.

At 40 minutes I have had enough. This film is too bad to watch in one go.


50 Cent Reveals he Wants to Punch Kanye West in the Face

50 Cent has recently gone onto American television (dressed in the uniform of bling and hit-dat-esque linen) and mentioned in an interview that he would like to punch Kanye West in the face for his treatment of talentless wailer Taylor Swift. Or, more accurately, he said 'balck his eye.' Now, I don't know if Mr. Cent has looked at Kanye West recently, but it seems to have passed him by that Mr. West's eyes are already black.

Hot, hot, HOT celebrity news site said 'how 50 Cent fervently (and surprisingly eloquently), talks about what Kanye did to Taylor.' We at the thought flannel speculate that Americans are, firstly, easily surprised, and secondly, don't have a fucking clue what eloquence means.

In the video, Mr. Cent claims that he has been overlooked in 13 Grammy nominations beacause he told the hard truth (in a way that the Americans might think of as 'eloquent'). We at the thought flannel think he has, in actuality, been overlooked beacuase he is shit.

In 2004, the fiscally-named artist was not chosen to win the award, as Evanescence won best newcomer. He boasts fo how many records he has sold. Unfortunately, he seems to have overlooked that Grammy judges do not give out prizrs based on record sales, but on talent. Bless.

Having watched the above film, if you would like to kill yourself, do feel free to, but the Thought Falnnel is not held responsible for injury caused by reading this blog.


Breaking News: Jordan Raped

Sources have informed us that Katie Price, mother and celebrity has been cruelly raped, the Thought Flannel can disclose.

Some may argue that she had this brutal ordeal 'coming all along', says Margaret Higgins from Scunthorpe Bus Station Stand G. 'I means she's a whore, isn't she. Everyone knows that. Whith boobs bigger than any standard brazier could handle - the one's I've seen at Marks and Spencer, anyway.'

And indeed, the celebrity may be milking her new image as a good-girl a little bit 'he broke my hymen' she told our reporters through teary eyes (that she never allowed to overflow and wash the tan from her face. Convenient...)

She was also so distraught at her experience that the very next day she had to do an exclusive with Hello! Magazine. Poor bitch - I mean, whore - I mean, lady.

Since her divorce from singing sensation and pop trailblazer Peter Andre, the celebrity has found no other outlet for her despair than 24-hour cock binges in back alleys around Essex. 'I just feel so bad for my children' she told our reporters. 'I just worry about how they are taking it'. Probably not up the arse like their mother, our reporters speculate.

She says 'I think that all rapists should be bent over and raped themselves.' She also voices support for gay marriages. Well, you would need the gays to carry out the punishments on the rapists...

'I'm sorry if some people think that's as extreme as my tits' she adds (we paraphrase here), 'but I'm very strict.'

In I'm a Z-list Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!!!!!!!!!!!!! she claimed that she was very strict also when it came to lovers, and said she thought it should be a delicate and romantic experience. 'Geezers have gotta gimme all loads of well nice chocolate and shit before they can stick their dick up my twat' she intoned lyrically.

Her dulcet tones also added 'I'm not all about tits. Some people look at me and they can't get past the tits. But I've got a mega twat an' all.'

I hope this article has silenced all her critics, and we would like to end on this note. While Jordan may seem immensely stupid, crass, promiscuous, talentless, ugly, common and absurd, you must bear in mind that she is also a human being who just needs a bit of love in her life. Or a bullet in her brain. You decide.

Falling Flat in my Flat will not Fall Flat of Expectation Methinks

Well, I have been for a look round my flat. It is green. Need I say more? I imagine you would find it helpful so I will indulge you, you lucky hunks of brain-on-legs.

Green is a colour that the depressed people who design quilt-covers do not seem to warm to. The closest they seem to have managed is a rather insipid turquoise blue and I must admit I would rather hang myself from the doorframe with a measure of piano-wire about my (I'm sure you'll agree) rather snoggable neck.

So, the search for a green quilt-cover continues. If you find one do please let me know, but bear in mind that if I get within ten feet of a 'contemporary' design I am uncontrollably sick, so, to save myself the dry-cleaning costs, please do not recommend anything in that vain.

However, the room itself is splendid, with a large desk and unexpectedly ample bookshelving (although I will have to take more), and a swivel chair that allows me to sweep round the room like an overly-pretentious General Practitioner (please note: I will administer a full psysical for a competative price of £5, wear nice underpants, no time-wasters please.)

The bed is a double (handy!) and the headrest is deep but low and promises a few cracks on the head in the first few weeks.

However, I have an en-suite 'pod' which is small enough for showering and shitting to occur simultaneously (both convenient and time-efficient) but is most admirable in design.

The kitchen boasts an extractor fan with a button labelled PURGE on it - what it does I have no idea but I greatly anticipate finding out - and two fride-freezers, which between five of us is pretty good going.

Security are positively huggable, yet fierce (so everything you could want in security, I feel) and trams stop just outside the flats (the stop is Shalesmoor).

All in all, fairly groovy, I'm sure you'll agree, my delicious readers.

Also, just bought a book by Banachek about psychophysiological mind-reading, the arrival of which I have soiled myself in anticipation of.

Hope all is going well for those wholly-nibbleable readers who are venturing into the great abyss of academia, and one word of advice: buy something in tweed!

Cyber-love, hugs, and frotting,

Your amiable chum,

Robert 'pucker up, Mildred!' Clark xxxxxx



Ahhh, the mammarian world of the Great Unwashed invites me to nestle in its great cleavage and drink the milk of education. How very exciting!

Having obsessively researched the city of Sheffield to find everything I will need (i.e. the tobacconists on Exchange Street, the coffee shop on Eccleshall Road and an amusing street name: the street where the police station headquarters is located - Letsby Avenue - I shit you not), I feel I am now fully prepared to press my cup to this educational tit and cry 'fill me up!"

I have spent most of the recent days engrossed in shopping, where I have acquired a range of snazzy new vetements des flaneurs, and little bits and pieces to colour me a proper student.

And I have a few pieces of information for those of you going to university.

Firstly, buy some red peppers. They are great raw in salads and can spice up even the most boring pie (i.e. lentil) plus they are really good for you!

Secondly, do not look at internet porn. It would be awful to come away from uni (excuse the expression) and think you could have done better had you spent less time wanking, and the world of adult entertainment is one designed to keep you in its grip (again, excuse the expression).

Thirdly, drink lots of water.

Fourthly, come visit me. Without this final, and most important point you are sure to forget me, and it is scientifically proven that when I am consigned to the subconscious I become utterly irresistable to the point where you will sudenly think of me during orgasm without any logical explanation. By the way, I realise some of you may already think of me during sex to delay orgasm, but that's not what I mean - and frankly, if you do, I am offended!

I am also going to see Julian Clary and Eddie Izzard at the Sheffield Arena and am tres exited about that!

Love xxx

Inglourious Basterds

With spelling like this I am surprised that tarantino can manage to spell his own, quite complicated, name.

As a pacifist my conscious mind was telling me throughout that I should abhor the flagrant aestheticism of violence, the pro-America depiction of the war when in actuality they trotted along at the end to give the Jerrys and their allies (most notably the Japanese) two fingers for Pearl Harbor. However, I loved it. As anyone who has seen the end will know, Tarantino was clearly not going for historical accuracy. And the film was gloriously made.

After his last few box office flops, one might expect Quent's newest endeavour to fall flat also, but from the opening titles, and it's great spaghetti-western-esque theme music given a smartly-executed French twist, it was clear that he was back in the driving seat, his trademarks boisterously pervading the entire film. It has all the wit that he is famous for, but he has filled the film with it - bringing the film to border almost on black comedy. Farcical elements such as Lande's pipe in the opening scene, the film divided into 'chapters' and, of course, the darkly comic and gratuitous violence reminiscent of Reservoir Dogs' famous 'ear' scene.

But in attention to detail the director has surpassed himself: in terms of characterisation, Lande is made both sympathetic ans pseudo-admirable through his fierce intelligence and culture evocative of Hannibal Lecter, but also grotesque through his huge aforementioned pipe and the exaggeration of his eating and drinking noises.

Brad Pitt offers a surprisingly novel performance as 'Apache Leader' of the Basterds, with cartoonish acting of the (rather cartoonish) character, yet with enough pathos to keep viewers from writing him off as a dickhead.

More of a fun film than a moving war epic, and more arthouse than fun film, this big-budget film is quirky enough to ostracise the brainless mainstreamers and intelligent enough to give the aspiring flaneur something to get his teeth into, with the added benefit of masquerading as light entertainment.

It's just a great film that, while it may be too violent for some and too inaccurate for others, does offer the audence a gripping two-hours with the intellectual peas hidden beneath the laugh-a-minute mashed potato. Only the most stubborn or stupid child could push their plate away.

Go see it in a cinema while it's on: this is a film made for the big screen and that is where it should be viewed. Why go to the zoo when you can go on safari?

Yours over-analogously,



I have become a monk.

Well, not quite, as any sort of religious affiliation would turn my (now somewhat shrivelled) stomach.

However, I have turned vegan and concieve it complete madness that I didn't stick to it in the first place. This has led to a staggering weight loss which was sorely needed, and now allows me to gig with an open shirt without my breasts, cleaved by hair, being put on display like two strange and intriguing Victorian jellies.

However, I have found that introspective contemplation on life and the 'self' leads only to a Hobbesian conclusion that life - essentially - sucks. Quite what it sucks I am unclear, but I like to imagine it as a large Slush Puppy (if that is even a brand of slushy; I am inexpert in the field.)

Also, it seems, introvertedness leads to more of the same until you swing from the branch of melancholy on an all-too-real rope. But being from the North is that not the law?

Passion for parties and heavy drinking, vomiting and hangovers turns to self-disgust, and I have now pinned my life down to five pleasures:

1. Books
2. Music
3. Tea
4. Cigarettes
5. Film

And having done this I notice that they are all solitary pursuits. I have found most strangers to be very displeasing to the social palate, and most friends to be tedious, unreliable, self-obsessed, ignorant, stupid, or a combination of the lot.

Given the choice I would probably only leave the house to collect groceries and to visit the few friends who are actually decent human beings.

Speaking of which, I have now discovered that the marvellous RG and her eloquent brother are attending Latidude where I am headed in a few weeks, which made me smile as, if you haven't met her, you really should; there are not enough clever, funny, well-read and considerate people about.

Having spent the last few days sleeping - and, for the most part, living - in a tent with only my typewriter I feel gloriously refreshed and very, very happy.

As some nut who spent yonks beneath a tree said: all life is suffering, and the answer is detachment.

How right he was! I would recommend to everyone: decide what it is you truly enjoy and spend the rest of your life doing it, rather than doing what society thinks you should enjoy.

All this may sound like a depths-of-depression rant, but I must assure you it is not. For a very long time I have felt unhappy, as everyone feels unhappy, but I have simply realised that happiness is a myth caused by the rat race, social stereotypes, Thatcher (you can blame her for everything), and the destructive, selfish and ridiculous nature of the human species.

If one can find pleasure, one can amble through life satisfied.

It is the most wonderful thing about performing live music - and infinitely preferable to performing stand-up comedy - because with live music you don't need to make people laugh or even like you. You can just spew your thoughts and lyrical scribbling and comunicate to those who are interested and ignore those who aren't. It's wonderfully detached; you can connect with people without actually having to speak to them.

I do hope that didn't all sound too pretentious - but then again I'm quite a pretentious person, so inevitably it leaks from me like the thin warm stream of cognitive incontinence.


Carol Man Duffy: The Defence

I must take this opportunity to pre-empt the opposition I will face in my song 'Carol'. Basically, the song mocks Carol Ann Duffy's poetry and her masculinity.

Gay people. There's a horrid term if ever I heard one. Seldom do we hear the term 'straight people' bandied about. People don't define themselves as straight except for in the context of homosexuality and I don't understand why people who are attracted to people of the same sex must belong to a common cause or group.

I am attracted to men, but it is a spectrum. Why should I call myself gay? I may marry a woman. I may be celibate. Who knows? The point is that people shouldn't be categorised as gay or straight but we should just get to know individuals and their own likes and dislikes.

Gay pride and other such phenomena came about in the face of opression. Good ho, I say. But apart from fighting prejudice there is no obligation to belong to a sectarian social construct.

The gay market is huge, but why is there one? Society pressures people into defining themselves and therefore gay holidays flourish, gay magazines (valuable only as a one-hand read), the 'pink pound' and all that. Why, oh why, oh why??? A holiday is a holiday! Go be with people not other homo/heterosexuals. Why can't we have the liberty to be who we want to be without conforming? People should co-exist without need to define themselves or answer to anyone.

Carol Ann is one of these sordid individuals who terms herself a lesbian, and it's a bloody pain. i don't care about her sexuality! If one day I happen to find that the poet laureate has a same-sex partner then fine, but I'm not really interested. In a case such as that I wouldn't assume they were gay; they are just with a same-sex partner.

There is no gay community - some people join in this media-manufactured idea that there is one, and therefore believe they belong, but the truth is that none of us belong to anything, really. I am a member of the SWP and have socialist beliefs, but I am not a socialist because they don't really exist. Sure, it's easier to use a group term, but everyone is different, and the other members and I agree on some things, disagree on others. I am attracted to men but I'm not gay. I drink tea, but this is unimportant enough to get away with not having a group noun.

Let people be people! Carol Ann does no favours to anybody by being a blatant lesbian - she should just say 'I am a person' if asked and people can swivel.

My mocking of her manliness is not meant to be an attack on gender transression - there should be no social structures regarding gender, especially not in clothing! However, I use this as a metaphor for her flagrant lesbian lust.


TV Sexcellence?

The issue is still being raised as to whether there is too much gratuitous sex on TV. Does sex for the sake of sex (meaning 'to get people to watch') morally destroying us?

I have to say this is a case of good and bad art. A bad film does not become better art by having a well-hung handyman with a stiff dick banging about the screen. it might make better watching, though.

But does this make the film morally bankrupt? Some would argue that this is exploitative of the actor, but how? Sex and the human body are beautiful. I would take it as a personal complement if two million people sat through an hour of drivel just to see my wang. Some also worry that it is women that get exploited - but personally that doesn't affect me being neither a man nor a heterosexual. But the women who are doing this (we are talking TV and film acting - not pornography) would refuse if they felt exploited. Does this use of sex to pump up viewing figures make us see women (or men) as sex objects? Oh, fuck off, of course it doesn't. It might make us see individual actors as sex objects, but ti's their career and if that's what they want to be then fine. If they didn't mean this to happen then obviously they were stupid.

Actually, as I don't practice sexually you might wonder why I am so interested, but the point is: celibate people need things to wank over.

However, there are many examples in the arthouse where the sex is unnecessary - it could be suggested - but why should we just suggest? In directing a film I wouldn't have a suggestion that a man was drinking coffee, I'd show the fucker doing it so why, oh why, oh why, is sex so different?

All these neo-Mary Whitehouses make me very annoyed.

On a lighter noe, I went to IKEA with Ceri today and very pleasant it was - she was delightfully funny as always but I felt I was far too fatigued to have been great company and resorted occassionally to stupidity - and I was sweating far too much. However, I had great fun pretending to be her husband and looking round the little rooms with her. Much scorn was thrown in the direction of lime colour-schemes and I nearly pissed myslef at a rotating hatstand. And I had a fab veggie-hotdog! Pretty good day for Bertie!


The Unbearable Illness of Being

Until this week I had thought that flu was just like a cold but a bit worse. Certainly, that's how it's portrayed in doctors' surgeries with the grouping of the term 'Cold and Flu'. But yet again the GPs (bastards as they are) lied to us.

Sunday night saw the sniffle. I thought 'meh'. After all, it's only a sniffle and I can take it!

Monday night saw the sore throat which is still playing games with me.

Tuesday went bananas and saw me rolling around in bed, delirious, babbling and groaning. I then began thinking I was in Russia and Finland (God knows why).

This morning I felt a little better at about 5a.m. until I made the mistake of flushing the toilet which freaked me out something rotten and reduced me to a feverish delusional mess where I felt like I had tiny, tiny hands. I love surreal but this was taking the piss.

Having spoken to the doctor the real truth of flu was revealed: all of my symptoms were part of the dreaded influenza: fever, confusion, hallucination, diarrhoea, insomnia. And if one more person calls this 'manflu' I will stab them with a bic razor.

I am still feeling warm and trying to keep myself cool so that I don't cook my brain and go waffy again. Also, my sore throat has taken all the pleasure out of smoking and it's a bloody nightmare needing nicotine and then not enjoying it. I always said that I would have to quit the bassoon as it was impairing my ability to smoke, but I just have to wait for the flu to pass - there's nothing I can do about the fucker.

I am a floundering fish on a beach of infirmity.

Worse than that I had arranged a full week of socialising with my closest friends. Ceri was supposed to be coming round on Tuesday night but that has been moved to Thursday (which actually worked out better because then there's a big bunch of us - although I do miss her and an extra two days feels really quite a lifetime) and Kez was supposed to be coming this morning but I had to cancel.

I am feeling considerably better now and am not contagious anymore, therefore I am very much looking forward to an evening of French films and folk with friends, but currently I'm so bored I could piss myself.

I now count down the hours until I can take more pain relief. What I would give for one of Jai's morphines!



I was playing for a wedding today. I hate them, I hate them this much *makes arm gesture so wide his arms fly off and hit Hazel Blears in the fucking face*. To be fair, I got £100 for the wedding today as it was vieo'd (I get double). But the video'er used only a key light without a fill light or back light. Ridiculous! Amateur!

Not only this but then Peter lectured me about smoking.

Bad day.

And I have flu. My face is gushing like a whore's pussy.

Coughs and Sneezes...

Right. let's get this out the way first: coughs and sneezes do not spread diseases. they spread viruses which can then develop into viral diseases. There. Just had to get that out.

Anyway, I am sat at home, dabbing my nose and taking a break from it every five minutes for cigarettes. Mother had flu. Now I have flu. It's the circle of strife. It is too hot outside and my eyes are all watery, and too bright, and inside I cannot smoke. The horror of a day full of nothingness is making me feel quite queer and I think I may stick my dick in the food processor to give myself something to do.

Ceri's lovely little blog has cheered me up no end, though, and I'm very flattered, although at the moment I look like the wrong end of a camel's turd.

I think I might become celibate.


Later... with the Thought Flannel

I don't know what the viewing figures are for the current series of Later... with Jopols Holland, but I am sure that no matter what they are they cannot be high enough. This is a programme that deserves so many viewers it will actually break the beeb.

He has fantastic bands and lots of ecclectic things, with world, arthouse, indie, folk, punk... you name it he's got it. Also the mannerisms of The Great Neckless One are really quite sensual. I'd like to meet up later... with Jools Holland. Okay, maybe that's going a bit far, but really, he's about fifty and looks like a heavy smoker so what's not to like?

Do tune in, if not for your sake then on the principle that a broken beeb means no more license fees!


Carol Ann Duffy named new Laureate

Carol Ann Dyke has been awarded the laureateship, taking over from Andrew Motion. Her poetry is full of dark humour and serious messages and it is apalling. Her imagery is obvious, her wit unsubtle, her messages clock you over the head, her similes seem ill-thought out and unimaginitive. Her sexuality is tedious, her inner conflicts are uninteresting.

Read her poems and compare them to those of Sylvia Plath, W.H.Auden, or the 1989 Laureate Ted Hughes.

Good luck to her: she's going to need it!


Support Our Troops?

Many people disapprove of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The former brought two million people to the streets of London in protest, the consensus was one of an overwhelming majority against. However, we still went to war.

I attended a rally on Wednesday with Doncaster Socialist Worker Party, of which I am a member, and the point was raised that this is a perfect example of how the society in which we live is not a democracy. Of course, we do not live in a democracy. The people have the power to vote, but from the moment a party is elected we lose our voice. In this sense we are undoubtedly disenfranchised.

But we had no interest in these wars. America did. Though, as we are America's lap dog this point seems rather academic.

Most people understand this. I am not excusing our government - I understand completely the devastating nature of capitalism and a government that endorses it. Capitalism leads us to war. Fact. The pursuit of imperialism and profit leads us into a universe of exploitation, of sweatshops, of interminable power over the third world.

The argument is made, however, that we should support our troops, as it is not their war. This argument makes a great deal of sense on the surface. I know that many people fighting in these wars would rather be at home. Also, I grasp quite comfortably the fact that there are those who join the military in ignorance of the brutality of it. If we examine the advertisements for the army, the T.A., the navy, the R.A.F., &c. we discover a very glorified image of war. A sense of achievement is conveyed through words like "courage", "strength", "endurance". Never do they show a person being shot. It is very easy to show 'American good, terrorist bad', but this is not the whole story. I must point out that I do not endorse terrorism in any form, and I cannot sympathise with any person who fights for beliefs based on any sort of fundamentalism.

However, many terrorists are willing to die for a belief, and I respect this. A sense of hopelessness and disenfranchisement can lead people to unspeakable acts. Capitalist societies, it must be said, are not any different: they will kill, and wage war for a belief that they hold to be true.

There are many arguments for supporting our troops. Some are understandable. Most are not.

Anyone who is willing to be trained to kill, to take human life, I cannot condone. It is murder, and it is submission to the "better judgement" of a corrupt government. If we have no troops we have no war.

It is the military that is evil, not the people. The troops are disillusioned. Conned and brainwashed to trust in the powers-that-be. But anyone who would join an armed force (note: "armed" - violence is in the name) is of a nature that is detrimental to society.

However, I mentioned in my last post the Westboro Baptists who picket the funerals of American Soldiers. No, no, no. This is an assault on the living. To bring further grief to a mother who has just lost her son is unforgivable. Also, these right-wing Christians picket because they hate America's deviance from the Bible, and therefore condemn anyone who fights for it.

The troops do not deserve to be condemned, they deserve to be educated about the causes of war. The troops do, however, need to be held accountable for killing.

I say this from the point of view of a Socialist and a pacifist, and it is very simple for an outsider to point out the flaws of a system. It is easier to see the stars when you're out of the city, but the answer is not to move, but to switch off the lights.


My thought flannel today became wetter than I had anticipated

Unfortunately, today's article revolves, yet again, around walking and bicycles.

I was walking to Spar around 3.10 p.m. and two boys rode past me on their bicycles. the one at the front was drinking a pink-coloured fruit juice.

I noticed them. The first boy, upon my looking away, threw his bottle at my face and hit me on the side of the head, soaking my new Tee and making my hair pink and sticky on the left side.

I really do wish him the worst possible life. There is nothing in this world that could happen to him with which I would sypathise. Were he flayed alive I would but raise one eyebrow.

However, considering my acerbic blog attack on a cyclist yesterday, perhaps it was my karma.

(N.B. Karma does not exist.)

Anyway, on a cheerier note, I was thinking about the Westboro Baptist Church, a group of right-wing Christians in America who run the campaign "God Hates Fags". You may have seen Louis Theroux's documentary about the Phelps family (who are members), although it was repeated last night on Dave.

Many of these people argued that anyone who does not obey the Bible word-for-word will go to Hell. Also, they say that America is "doomed" because the (then) president, Dubble-Ya did not obey the Bible word for word. This therefore meant that they believed all American troops were evil for serving such a country and would go to Hell. They called the troops "fags" too.

As if you needed them, I have produced a few arguments against this.

1. God is not real. Hell is not real. (Bit controversial that one, so if you disagree, read on...)
2. The Bible is full of contradictions. it cannot be taught word for word and obeyed in this way as it is impossible.
3. Homosexuality is not a sin. Leviticus may say it is. Leviticus says a lot of crazy things though, mainly about periods and sleeping with your family. I think Mr. Leviticus has a few repressed feelings...
4.Everyone has the right to choose what to believe, including the Westboro Baptists. Nobody has the right to spread hatred, including the Westboro Baptists.
5. Gay people are not "fags" they are gay people.
6. The arguments of the Bible depend too little on empirical evidence and too much on unquantifiable faith.

These people are spreading hatred. People who do this are the only people for whom we can show hate. These people are lunatics. They should not be allowed children and they should not be allowed freedom.

For more cheery blogs keep checking my site!


On the effect of weight on aesthetics

We are all voyeurs at heart. If not, then I am a voyeur and speak only for myself.

My home is a five-cigarette walk from the college. (Consecutively smoked, of course, although four if one is smoking superkings - which nobody should as they are vulgar.) With the current weather we are having it is not uncommon to see men walking round in minimal clothing, such as a vest, wifebeater, or even nothing at all covering their upper body. I sometimes slow down in these circumstances and extend my walk by one cigarette. There are many boys in tracksuit bottoms with shirts slung lightly over the shoulder, peaked caps darkening their eyes to a mysterious end. There are many boys in joggers an skinny fit T's.

However, I got to thinking about our appreciation for the beauty of others when a boy of similar age to me rode past on his bicycle. I like watching people riding bikes, although I would never do it myself; I have far too much pride. They have a swift, healthy image, and the motions of riding such a thing push the mind to all sorts of depraved musings.

This particular person was an exception to the rule. He did not look fat, but he was, by no stretch of the imagination, thin. However, his skin was spotty and pallid, swept with sweat, and I suspected him of having the plague. And yet his countenance was one of indifference to his ugliness.

The displeasure in seeing him did not come from any faetures of his, in fact his face seemed well-structured with an acceptably placed nose, eyes, mouth etc. but I was shocked at how unhealthy he looked, and I half expected him to drop dead from the exercise.

The skin is the most important thing. After all (unless you're very lucky) it is the largest organ. Skin-on-skin contact is near-impossible to avoid in any sexual encounter, and the quality of someone's epidermis is very telling.

Sweat should glisten on the body. The Greeks used to think that the highest form of beauty was the exercising, nude boy, and indeed the product of exercise - perspiration - is very evocative of the sexual act and has great power to excite. It is not attractive to look as though you are sweating out a Big Mac and Fries.

Sweat must glisten, glow, and shimmer. Sweat is masculine, beautiful, natural.

I have decided that there is nothing unattractive about fat people. Do not reject someone's advances based on their weight, do it based upon the quality of their sweat.


The Silence of the Lambs

While provides an excellend forum for discussing books, I just want to urge anyone who reads this to leave this site immediately, go onto Amazon and order a copy of this fantastic book. I have also just finished E.M.Forster's novel 'Maurice', which is also highly recommendable.


The first auspicious step into the world of blogging.

Well, hello!

In this series of blogs I hope merely to express a few ideas on Philosophy, Art, Politics, Love, Current Affairs. Basically I am wiping up every important thought that I find worthy of sharing with this blog or "thought-flannel".

I do hope you will all enjoy reading, discussing, spitting with rage or humming with self-satisfaction at finding someone out there (or here) who shares with you something you thought unique to you.

I quiver with anticipation at the oceans of possibilities,