I always liked the old euphemism 'unwaged' now fallen from favour. The inference that just because one has not fallen beneath the jackbooted heel of some half witted employer and be solely concerned with helping them line their avaricious pockets then it follows that one must necessarily be unable to occupy oneself for the day is grossly insulting to humanity in general.

Lorks, but that is a long sentence! But beautifully constructed if I do say so myself. See what skills freedom from the dead hand of employment may foster?

I don't seem to able to stop uploading to FlickR and equally am currently unable to reply to anyone on Live Journal, so thanks to anyone that takes the time to look!

Herewith the text of todays lit. output, a philosophical conversation twixt siblings which I present for your edification.

It also serves as a dire warning of the consequences that carrying a digital note taker may reak upon the weak minded, the conversation being one that I had with myself at the bus stop transposed into the mouths of brothers...


( With every indication of profound relief, Jollimer relaxed into his chair, lay there inert and stunned for a moment but then was abruptly revivified.  )

http://www.flickr.com/photos/11019904@N00/?saved=1

Shows a gallery of 28 works each one more radiant that the former.

Reveiws include: Sir, your mastery of the brush is exceeded only by your wizardry in quickening the sluggish Anglo saxon tongue to silvery prose! Why, I could waste a tome or two singing the praise of the brushwork in isolation-but the whole! It shimmers, it dances, the vibrant colours mesh but then dissolve like errant lovers kissing only to part.
But oh, the modelling... the MODELLING upon that alone I could harp an age. Still, let my transport of rapture be expressed only in these words,"Sublimity, sublimity, thy name is Kopal."

Well, I think it was the best result posible given current circumstances. Given that not inconsiderable cavil we have a Non Tory government (Good) reduced majority nuetering the Blair to some degree (Good) and boosting the lesser of three evils the LDs (Good).
Not exactly the national panacea of a hung parliament that we hoped for but edging in that direction.
With great reservations that we might shortly be at war with Honolulu, or whomsoever Bush decides stole his lunch money next, it is a decent result.

Now, Guy Fawkes, where are you when your country needs you?

There appears to be a fortunate kind of personality that finds the fact tht a kicked rubber ball bounces to be an endlesly refreshable source of fascination.

With others the novelty fades rather sooner.

Can there be a more pointless useless noisome and brain emptying activity than tennis? Can there? I think not. Golf, posibly?

Tennis may be safely summarised as 'I bat the bally thing to you and you bat it back', episode, you would suppose, closed. But oh no, year in and wearisome year out, the novelty rekindles!

There is a certain class of yoof that seems to have a sphere of some description permanently welded to their foot, I am convinced they even sleep with the damned thing scudding along back and forth with that annoying sequence of sounds... schh schh boink! schh schh boink!schh schh boink!schh schh boink!schh schh boink!
All day and all night.
If you kick it it will hit something and bounce back!
Good gourd, aborigines got over the novelty of the boomerang why can't you?
But no, schh schh boink!schh schh boink!schh schh boink!schh schh boink! It bounces! What did you THINK it was going to do?

I watched a football match once, it was possible from the first ten minutes to see a full panoply of the potential causes and reactions!

Doing it every day will not add to them.

Sports? Bah. Humbug!

Recently I was roused from my slumbers by a racket, a not unusual circumstance, said racket being issued at high volume by a bellowing Chav. His estuary expletives were being countered by a softertone (Essex) and a not terribly merry arguement was being had. Wearily I listened to the famiiar rote of threats and counter threats. Then I heard the jolly wail of a police car siren which gave rise to another sound, that of pounding footfalls racing in the direction of my house, obviously the miscreant was making a daring getaway!
It was the Chav half of the livey discussion, (An unsavoury subhuman object named 'Brian' if my senses did not deceive).
He lurked in a closeby alley between houses grunting and sort of honking to himself, saying exactly what I could not tell.
The police car wailed by and arived with 'softer Essex toned man', with whom they conversed for a while. The Chav remained in his alley, muttering.
The police car began to drive back down the street slowly obviously searching for the miscreant while I puzzled over ways to reveal the cad while retaining both anonimity and modesty.
Raffles like, the Chav could soon slip away into the dark, his dastard crimes completed!!!
What to do?
Nothing as it happened, for as the police car cruised past ignorant of the lurking muttering presence, the Chav emerged just in its wake to scream,
"The F-ing old bill are F-ing MUGS!" at the top of his not inconsiderable lungs!
Whereupon they reversed and apprehended the lout.
You would imagine that even a Chav could do CRIME right, but no... evidently not.
My question is this. Just how stupid can people get before they die from forgetting to breathe?
This creature of the lower pits, name of 'Brian' is the same detestable excresence that once held a twenty three minute conversation beneath my window wherein he repeated the same sentence like a mantra. Mostly obsceneties but in essence an accusation that the other fellow had in fact descibed him (Brian) as a 'mug'.
His fellow conversationalist varied his reponses minutely but still to no great degree (They may be breifly typified as an confession that 'mug' was in fact a 'hard word') and they still parted with each not quite understanding the others point. A dead cat could have comprehended the assertion after the fourty second repetition of it!

I suppose to lackwits of such stellar acheivement 'mug' probably is a 'hard word?' See, it has three possible meanings, a ceramic vessel, a euphemism for 'face' and a person of low acuity. It must be tricky.

However, I maintain that announcing your presence to the very officers that have just failed to locate you is a new low.
Let us hope that various books were thrown at him.

But I am sure Brian will be allowed to vote for Mr. KIlroy Silk from within whatever unfortunate Borstal he is currently infesting.

The new 'Poppa'?
I have a gloomy feeling that we may asume this one to be almost exactly the same as the last albeit perhaps a mite worse. We may expect generalised pronouncements of astonishing banality,specific pronouncements of reactionary conservatism, continual immersment in internal Vatican office politics that are no concern to anyone whatsoever, these rounded off by a general slide in senility of one form or another.
He was after all the former head of the division that was once the Inquisition, That does not bode well.
His proclaimed distaste for being dragooned into the Nazi party at a tender age does not excuse his present organisations dubious record of covert collaboration. If he was/is an anti nazi then he is in the wrong church, let alone being the head of it!
The man is known as Gods Rottweiler!
I have a feeling that only the RCC would imagine that their all powerful deity recquired a savage atack dog to enforce his will!
Or has the Rottweiller a 'turn the other cheek attitude' that the world is ignorant of?
I am suprised that the founder of their alleged core belief did not make his famous tour of the middle east in the company of just such a ferocious hound, perhaps the outcome of it might not have been quite so gloomy?
I think perhaps a re-reading of the core text is required.

It cannot do wonders for the humiity to be selected for a job by God, albeit adopting the rather suprising form of a few cranky ancient cardinals. I really cannot imagine that the sweet air of reality intrudes overmuch into the dust and insence haunted halls of the Vatican. But I always imagine those halls to be populated by hysterical nuns straight out of Ken Russells 'Devils' while secret and Borgia-esque excesses thrive upon every side.
Actually,I might sign up under those conditions. (As it is, I am planing a whole raft of deathbed conversions to cover the old discarnate back-side.)

It is extraordinarily difficut to look at this new bloke and imagine anyone thining him as supernaturally infallible!

I do find it difficlt to imagine the mind set of Cat -licks... which may be shortly described as, 'Here I am indulging in wild excesses of intercourse with comparative strangers, contrary to the strict tenants of the faith I espouse, but as a nod to obedience I shall not wear a 'johnny' while doing so.' ???

We seem to have confused the 12th Century with the 21st... Imagine when the aliens land, how are we going to explain our adherence to edicts that taxed the credulity of some middle ages sheep herders? They will laugh us to scorn and withhold their many extra terrestial gifts until we have grown past 'Childhoods End'.
Faith is chosen subjectively.
Yet the very notion of a subjective universe must preclude systematic religion.

I was forced by circumstances to veiw Doctor Who and did indeed find
myself behind the sofa in traditional fashion. However, I was crouched
in a foetal position with hands clasped over ears eyes screrwed shut
and whining, "Come back William Hartnell, all is forgiven!"
At one point I even considered tuning to Ant and Dec, which shows to
what terrible depths of despair I was driven.

For a grinning Jackanapes, who seemed to have gotten into the wrong TV
studio while looking for either the Janitors office or the production
of a pantomime, was pretending to be the illustrious Doctor! He
smirked gurned and twitched as though being infrequently electrocuted
and did to his credit appear to be extremely embarrassed, but even
this does not quite explain the sense of utter panic emenating from
the fellow.

He was surrounded by thespians apparently recruited from the Saffron
Walden amateur dramatics society production of 'Seperate Tables'.
Their complete inability to apear remotely natural was made of
peripheral concern by the cartoon froliicking of the central character
in whose shadow they laboured. The chap employed to portray the
boyfriend valiantly attempted to equal the unnatural posturing of the
principle but even he could not maintain the necessary level of
awfulness required.
Strangely, the only performer to emerge with any honour whatsoever was
the former spouse of a gentleman previously employed to swear on the
wireless. She at least possessed the ability to stand still from time
to time, a skill sadly lacking from the rest of the cast.

The scenes of simulated panic in the 'Mall' when staggering stiff
legged aliens rampage after extremely nimble humans were like the
sixth form film clubs remake of 'Dawn of the Dead'! Obliging victims
stood very still to allow the stumbling villains time to reach them,
extras panicked extremely carefully and the 'Autons' burst from every
window in the place, this despite the fact that storefront mannequins
are in fact somewhat passe in this day and age?

About a third of the way into this farrago there was a continuity
error that a sleeping cat could have noticed wherein much was made of
a rather dodgy prop being relocated into a deep dumpster only to have
it magically reappear in its original location. The doctors
explanation of this, (if that was in fact what the rushed dialogue was
actually intended as) was gabbled gibberish.

The whole piece was simultaneously frenetic and dull, with
ienxplicable longuers such as the endlessly protracted, 'alien chap is
holding the vital test tube, reaction shot of wireless mans spouse
looking frantic, Doctor struggles with other alien chap' (repeat ad
nauseum).

Oh dear oh dear oh dear...

And then the merciful release of the end titles during which we were
treated to a preveiw of the next episode... wherein look, the
excessively youthful Doctor can once again be expected to smirk twitch
and quiver through another interminable episode.

"Some things..." as the inestimable Jeeves observed, "Are very hard to bear."

My eyes... My EYES!!!
That they last night did gaze upon... can I bring myself to say the words???

Let me sip a little of this GIN and I will relate the tale as best as my wandering wits can tell...

I was confined with relatives (of whom I have no expectations of an inheritance, and so wither my supernal patience?) Anyway, these (Lord help me) distantly related creaures proceeded to activate their pernicious TV and peruse something known as...
as...
as...

Ant and Decs saturday night Takeaway!
There! I have said it!

This... this... litany of gormless racket is a sort of condensed version of all that has been ghastly from the entire history of the television!
Celebrities I had never heard of were paraded and congratulated merely for being recognisable, continual hysteria was presented as pleasant excitement, humour and skits that woud not have passed muster for the sixth form show were paraded for the edification of the masses.
The mental level of the display was akin to that of an especially hyperactive episode of 'Crackajack' circa 1965 (A programme that annoyed and embarrassed me even as a child I have to say) and yet last nights awfullness was presumably intended for adults!
Indeed, to support this idea, the studio audience, (deaths head grins of manical pleasure welded to their idiot faces), were evidently not children.

By way of a climax to this farrago a caterwauling harpy dressed as a prostitute mimed extraordinarily badly to a drum machine.

After a hour or more of this noxious drivel I was plunged into a profound depression from which I have yet to stir...
What was most disturbing was the willing suspension of disbeleif shown by the watchers that I was coralled with! Who seemed to accept every mouthing of the puerile jackanapes as mordant wit, every shreiking faux emotional wailing as high art and every bright light and sequin as a mysterious revelation of wonderment from the very heart of creation itself!

Of another display, a revel of the damned known as ...'Stars in their Eyes' I cannot yet bring myself to speak....