South London?

South London. Is like bouncing alliteration of something so terrible you can’t help but smile.

South London. Is it relief? “Rather them than me”?

South London. The credibility of unimportance? The glory of failure?

South London. The relative brilliance when something finally goes right?

South London. The smug feeling of your own worth in spite of all this?

C’est Chic Concrète

As fear drive you away from the dream of which you’ve dreamed. Crumpled memory of father’s joking anticircumcision abuse flitters by like paper in wind. It’s unrelated, I think. Aggressive group of Frenchmen rough you up, Gallic Goons, in Oxford Street of your imagination. You’d like the excuse to punch someone in mouth and arrive home spouting already exaggerated, already eroticized regaleable tale of own heroticism (heroicness). The punchlanded of snotgreen and gorecrimson bloodiednose retold with Colemanballs and all the trimmings of meaningless frivility that somehow passes for a charming culture. Jackass, pub conversations about football, retro appreciation of 1990s video games, the electric guitar, liberal CofE, people who pretended they cared about Dunblane, people who pretended Dunblane was the funniest thing ever. You are allguilty. We are allguilty. It’s suicidepacttime.

Filthy Little Urchins

I am a normal human male. I live in… humble normality. I blend in. Discreet. I am almost embarrased at the possible importance of keeping this diary. But.

Yesterday my girlfriend was mistaken for a homeless child.

“Are you okay?” they asked her.

Are you okay.

I admire their concern, their sense of civic duty. But what does this mean about my sexuality? Do I… like children? Little abandoned urchins? What a terrible thought. How very dirty. Guiltworthy. Is this… my… ‘type’? Oh Lords. What a situation. What a circumstance. What a terrible thing to realise about yourself. Regretful… bountiful… plentiful. Such a selection on these filthy city streets just waiting to be hosed down. Waiting for a home.

S*L*I*T*S

I have lately realised how much my South London Invented Tradition Satire (S*L*I*T*S) is influenced by James Joyce’s Ulysses. And I haven’t even read it.

With my brute uneducatedness, I am at the low-ebb, the low-modernist, the lumpenmythbuilder extraordinææææærrr. I am still stuck in the 20th century. Unlike, may-I-say, that glorious paradisual wonderland of South London.

Visit for a day. Remember for a lifetime.

Almost Medieval

I walked into the bakery. I asked for a ciabatta. I nervously pointed towards them, lest my politely pitiful voice projection (rejection) be too inaudible. He got me my ciabatta. And he asked, “Would you like a bag?” I loved that feeling of power! I walked home happy.

What sense, I wondered, lies in two low-self-esteemed individuals mutually temporarily fuckvalidating? What worth in their self-having acceptance of the other. The Other. Random scrawl on one another’s imperfect bodies. Fading magic marker. Fading magic.

I want mutant rats and wood elves – watched over by plague doctors and court jesters – frolicking, fornicating, fucking in a world of magic markers and assembly lines and AIDS amd controlled explosions. Almost medieval.

The Continuing Morbid Fascination With Dental Tragedy

I’d like to pull them out one by one. I’d like to smash them all out with a few wild bludgeoning smacks. Smörgåsbord of smashed enamel and gum gristle.

But think of the day the gleaming teeth weren’t the victims of tragedy. Think of the plane crash. The failed take-off. The Florida-bound holidaymakers encased in roaring inferno deathshell. They could only be identified by dental records. They could only be identified by dental records. They could only be identified by dental records. Well done you dentists!

Through Gritted Teeth

I’d love to be the first one to stick the knife in. In your guts. Twisting visceral. Slice and grate. Friction and tear. Coming in close to your shocked blood-drained face, my mouth to your ear. Through gritted teeth growl, “Rather you than me, bitch. Better you than me.” I would laugh. I would cry. Relief. Relief. Relief.

But I find myself enjoying this intermediary waiting game. Oh-so-much. Waiting. Fearing. Loving. Lusting. Wanting. Yearning. Demanding. Destroying. Pumping. Pumping. Pumping.

THIS IS THE FUNNIES

I’ve realised this blog is All About Me. Oh so self-obsessed. I should show you some things – by other people – that I find funny, comical, amusing, potentially sidesplitting.

But then. It’s still All About Me. Not my production of comedy, no. But something Far More Contemporary: the agenda-setting of my Consumption of comedy. Something possibly far more powerful than just making the stuff.

As far back as I can remember, I have always been struck by the hilarity of the edges of existance, reality, acceptability. I remember fighting so hard to stop myself laughing, aged 8 in a judo class, when a popular kid broke his arm. Or when, aged 13, a classmate asked a large supply teacher, “When are you due?” To which she replied, “I’m unable to have children.”

Of course these things are tragedies, and I certainly wouldn’t wish them upon anyone. They do, however, have an interesting hierarchal drama. Which carries with it an implicit excitement. And I think what is funniest is the fact you shouldn’t laugh. It’s impolite, it’s hypocritical, it’s socially unacceptable, it’s biting the hand that feeds. Thus, it can be jolly well roll-around stop-breathing laugh-worthy. A coping mechanism, perhaps, for the frightening exhileration of the upsidedowning tensions briefly straining/decorating that spatiotemporal point of existence…

I’m also very interested in people’s desire for the hard to define quality of authenticity, and their fear of pretension. I find that the interplay between these two, and the dramatic importance it seems to hold, coupled with the fact it might all be bullshit, strikes me as both deeply absurd and being very much on the edge of a perceived reality. Thus, richly humorous. I myself am attempting to give up on one’s addiction to the authenticity/pretension self-crucifixion ritual. Pretentiousness seems the only way to have fun culturally. I do declare that to be considered unpretentious is the gravest insult a man can receive in the early 21st century.

One element of the humour I find so delightful in these two videos is the knowledge of how others, imbued with a self-elected holier-than-thou belief in “authenticity” – would react badly to this “pretension”. I take joy in their discomfort, their indignant rage. Humour lies in the interplay, rather than the thing itself.

Cum On Her Dentures (Dental Tragedy)

I noticed recently, whilst looking through the Gridiron-analysis of statistical data WordPress offers even the bleakest of little blogs such as this one, that the often bizarre, commonly filthy, search engine terms my blog returns are more “The Trap Box” than The Trap Box itself. Thus, I guessed, I could construct a dot-to-dot blog post out of these search terms. Wisdom of the Crowds, some might say. I’d say it’s more whimsdom of the crowds. Anyway. Here goes. 2-3-4...

We were shocked by the bullfighter’s beret. Bloadsoaked. Ripped. Goya could paint this scene. It would make for a hilarious family Christmas card. Boy anus! Boy trapped in box! Hilarious. 1990s Christmas card spewing out nose. NOSE! SNOTTY NOSE!!

Kidnap/bondage. Cum on her dentures. Huge, throbbing, hard. All in the plague pits. Cum on her dentures.

Dental tragedy. Cum on her dentures.

The Hero is the bull. Cum on dentures.

Break free. Cum on her dentures.

Best of the Decade

The Noughties. What a decade.

Best album? It’s got to be Children Suckling by Kaptain Kunt. 12 nuggets of gee-knee-uss

Best single? Raggaslap Bitch Fantasia by Indie D  Niggerstorm. What a floorfiller. Polyfloorfiller. LOL.

Best Live Act? Freshly ‘Slaughtered. (LOVE the apostrophe!)

Best DJ? Mega-Mix No-Exist. They’re a band, with guitars, but together they sound like a deejay. You get me? ‘Mazin’ grace.

Best Festival? Fugger Swamp. Festival season’s best kept secret. It’s like a refugee camp, with disco balls!! LOFL. You even eat UN-style rations and shit, but with lentil burgers on top. Go next year before it EXPLODES!

Best Retro Medium? C90 cassette, rude boy! Root tiger!