Wednesday 16 October 2013

Anakwastank, D.C.


Just what are those silly Americans up to now?
I mean, honestly.  We let them go independent and invoke the power of democracy, and that has somehow led to them being held hostage by one faction of one party who think that only healthy, vigorous people should be entitled to go to hospital.  It doesn't sound very democratic to me.  Maybe it's time for their oh-so-sacred constitution to be amended.  Or is it too late for that?
As soon as they started talking about national insolvency, Henry started crowing about getting Penobscot back.  ‘Who or what, pray, is Penobscot?’ I naturally enquired.  Apparently it is a town on the Atlantic coast that Henry’s great-great-great-great uncle Van Weierherr fled to from New York when it all went balls-up in 1781, with his eleven beautiful daughters and all moveable worldly goods in tow.  Then it transpired that the Yankee Doodles had moved the border again and all twelve Weierherrs had to leg it to a really, really God-forsaken place called Crapsticks, Nova Scotia.
But why stop at Penobscot? I asked.  Cousin Bingo has a rather roomy missile frigate; we could sail it into New Haven and reclaim all the Constables and Gainsboroughs and Van Dycks and what have you from the Yale Center [sic] for British Art.  Then down to the so-called District of Columbia to see how this Tea Party like having their tea thrown about.  And while we’re at it, we’ll make them return every ‘WELCOME TO’ town-sign with a name stolen from us.  The Essexes and Sussexes alone would probably fill an oil tanker, so perhaps this is not my best idea.  Maybe instead we can make them paint them out, and replace them all with the original Native American names, Passamaquoddy and Quinnipiac and Nangasakit and Wampanoag and so forth.  Washington itself, having been stolen from County Durham, would revert to Anakwastank, which I like rather better.
We await the outcome of all this democracy with some trepidation, but more than a hint of glee.
Why do we bother?  They seem to be doing a perfectly good job of wrecking the place themselves.

Friday 4 October 2013

Psycho killer: Qu’est ce que c’est?


At the risk of having the whole of British society come crashing in on me like the proverbial tonne of bricks, I would like to go on the record as wondering what in blue blazes is going on in the minds of Mind.  You will all no doubt be familiar, by now, with the furore surrounding the ‘Mental Patient’ and ‘Psycho Ward’ fancy dress costumes which were sold in Tesco, ASDA, and presumably some other places until Sue Baker, director of Time to Change, called it ‘really damaging’, ‘breathtakingly insensitive’ and ‘shocking’.  She’s entitled to think and say what she likes, of course, but the speed and ferocity with which the nation agreed with her, vilifying the makers and vendors of the said costume, was like one of Uncle Borzoi’s real-life horror stories out of 1930s Russia.  Well-known Westminster tower of rage Alastair Campbell attacked the costumes as something from the ‘Dark Ages’; while the speed with which the supermarkets in question coughed up five-figure sums by way of apology for what ASDA called a ‘completely unacceptable error’ was likewise dizzying.
It’s not as if Tesco haven’t been ‘breathtakingly insensitive’ before.  Not that anyone noticed
As you know, I love fancy-dress and indeed clothes of all sorts.  Indeed, Hallowe’en is the solitary aspect of American cultural imperialism that I do not actually resent.  And I simply cannot fathom why costumes were singled out for abuse in this way.
To put it bluntly, the ‘axe-wielding homicidal maniac’ is a stock figure in our society.  Not in the ‘Dark Ages’ but now, today.  I do not see Tesco and ASDA making mea culpae and £25,000 donations or – more to the point – huge product bonfires out of their immense stockpiles of books, songs and DVD films for which vilification and/or mockery of ‘homicidal lunatics’ is the main or only raison d’être.  I do not hear them saying,
Dear Entire World,
It was ludicrously insensitive and irresponsible of us to sell any Mark Billingham book, any Stuart MacBride book, The Shining, Talking Heads’ ‘Psycho Killer’, Weird Al Yankovic’s ‘Nature Trail to Hell’, Scream I-IV, Scary Movie I-IV, Shutter Island, Psycho, American Psycho, Seven Psychopaths, Fight Club, Taxi Driver, Fatal Attraction, Night of the Hunter, and the 21.43 million other titles/products on the list attached hereto as ‘Appendix A: 30% of Popular Culture Since 1945’. 
Please expect our apology/fine equivalent to 86% of the 2012 United Kingdom budget by the next post.
Yours faithfully,
Sir Gullible Rollover
Chairman
I take the YoungMinds charity and Paul Farmer, CEO at Mind, at their word that one in ten of us has suffered from mental illness by the age of sixteen; God knows I did, and as regular readers will be aware, my family tree is perhaps fuller of this sort of thing than most people’s.  But my point is that, precisely because every person in Britain knows someone with mental health issues, and every person is likewise immersed to some degree in popular culture, none of us are even slightly likely to confuse the blood-soaked stock figures of Hollywood horror films and the dodgier end of the Dundee videogame industry with Uncle Russell who’s having a bit of trouble coping.
So: logically, each one of us must believe one of two things.  Either these Hallowe’en costumes were innocuous; or they were the tip of a gigantic and ghastly iceberg of hate that is being produced and consumed to the tune of billions of pounds per year, and which – if the mental-health-sensitivity campaigners’ logic is to be followed – should be first boycotted and then retrospectively eliminated ‘root-and-branch’ (as old Ollie Cromwell was fond of saying).
But this latter course is, obviously, too much for our society – let alone our economy – to take on board.  The greenhouse gases produced by book-burning alone, of the works of Edgar Allan Poe alone, would no doubt tip the planet’s fragile ecosystem right over the edge. 
So, we scapegoat two costumes; make some hot cocoa; and toddle off to watch Episode 96 of Dexter with a clear conscience, knowing that our howls of protest against two supermarkets we don’t actually shop at have done some good in the world.
At least this fiasco has solved my own immediate difficulty: namely, what I will dress up as on the 31st.


Happy Hallowe’en, one and all.  And in case you are thinking of coming to Airnefitchie and firebombing and/or axe-murdering me for my insensitivity?  Happy early April Fools’ Day, too.
Or are we still allowed to call people ‘fools’?

Wednesday 2 October 2013

A Goddamn Sexual Tyrannosaurus

Titter, giggle, smirk
Guffaw, cachinnate, fall about
Snort milk out nose

Nothing quite like newly-found dinosaur erotica to make one feel like a teenager again!