Next 2.

Marxism. Ah vot a vunderful fellow was Carl Marx. Vis his yodelling unt slapping and his treatise on dialectical socialism. It alvays amazes me he had time to open up so many branches of M&S vialst writing for the Rheinische Zeitung. I remember the many happy eveninks we spent toiling over Hegel and his erotic antelope collection. “Next.”

Next.

Good morning boys and girls! And especially you boyz, txich, know what I mean? I mean Meerkats, aren’t they wonderful! I mean what is it with straight guys, ‘der, der, oil filter, der..’, ‘yeh, special tool, der, der, sump plug.’ Call that conversation! Yesterday (true) this guy said his car was off the road because its conveyer belt was loose. Darling, unless your car is half a mile long and lives underground it does not have a conveyer belt! Wake up, smell the bitch! Honestly. You would not find a Meerkat slumped under a Ford Mondeo with a spanner squeaking about the price of spares. They’re upright, alert, sniffing the breeze, always ready for.. And another thing. Stop calling genitalia after car parts, it’s demeaning. Where was I? No Meerkats are always erect, ready to play. Boing, boing, hump; it takes but a moment. But no, all that intelligence lost in old cloths and central heating. You can’t fuck a boiler! How many times do you need telling! Today I’m wearing a paisley head scarf, black T shirt (always fashionable), a loose red neckerchief and leathers. Oh and sandals, no socks, Ever! Nails red, black eye liner. That is intelligence put to good use. And pose! Pose, pose, pose, pose pose. What on earth is the use of a good body if you don’t position it correctly? And look at those eyes, dead darling!. Where’s the life, the fire, the come up and see me sometime? Forget Comparethemarket.com, compare your Meerkat. “Where did you get this guy?” “America’s next top model.” “Right. Next!”

Ausi Sun journo temps.

Poms deceived! Photos sexed up! Mouse not stiff and never did shake hands with Hitler. The Sun can now reveal the truth about Stiffmouse. It was all a hoax. Stiffmouse would have been 6 months old in 1944 when he allegedly had a homosexual romp with the leader of the Third Reich. Not so says Bishop Nisbet of Wolverhampton, “Apart from the obvious cultural difference Stiffmouse was still being breast fed in Manchester at the time and Hitler was in.. (deleted word; too long).” John Punis, our man in Scunthorpe also observed, “I think this rules him out as being the possible true identity of Jack the Ripper.” Surely though this shadowy character must have a murky past. Why when we know so much about the Rolling Stones and the Beatles do we know nothing of their contemporary? Someone who’s been off the radar for over 60 years must have something to hide. “Under the radar.” “What?” “We say under the radar. You don’t say ‘Down off’ in Australia do you, you say Down Under.” “Oh go screw yourself you pomy bastard. No in Australia we say Fuck off. Who’s writing this!” “What about mentioning Diana.” “Good one.” So where was Stiffmouse the night Diana died? The short answer is no one knows. 9/11, Lockerbie, is he in Afganistan, was his mother a Nazi or Church of England??? No one knows.

Stiffmouse is not dead.

There has lately been much talk about the possible Photoshop manipulation of Stiffmouse on scooter, which has led to rumours of possible deceasement. Not true, though Stiffmouse Inc. have admitted to some use of Speed Blur and the oft-used ‘Age Regression’ function. It is though true that Stiffmouse is a nom de plume for the original writer who, for contractual reasons is no longer involved. As a result this blog is now ghost written by a fan with in-depth knowledge of Stiffmouse’s original style and content. Who is currently on holiday in Wales. The staff writer tasked to fill in during this holiday period is ill and a freelancer was called in at short notice. Though happy to write under the name of Stiffmouse she unfortunately looked nothing like the photo and was excluded due to her links with BMW. A second freelancer refused as the large fee involved would have moved him into a disadvantageous tax bracket. A third was a Church of England Thatcherite conservative. Until this situation can be resolved Stiffmouse Inc. apologise for any inconvenience caused.

Human specialisation.

I sometimes worry that the human race has a rather elevated view of itself. Our specialism seems to be being able to solve problems only we create. Other animals seem happy to not generate them in the first place. And they have more useful specialisms of their own. Giraffes can pick things off the top shelves at B&Q, Hippos can carry three bags of organic peat-free compost (buy 2, get 1 free), to the checkout, though their teeth perforate the bags and make a mess on the floor, which ants can build complete civilisations in. No, the ability to just clear up one’s own mess is nothing to brag about. Carrot flies for example, presumably with noses the size of, well a carrot fly’s nose, can smell carrots from 7 miles away. That’s olfactory Olympics with Usain Bolt beaten by a diminutive pigmy dwarf. But. Isn’t there always a but. It can only fly 10 inches off the ground. I don’t know why, perhaps it gets dizzy. So it has to find a route across 7 miles containing no obstacles higher than 9.998” in the way. It probably begins on Tuesday flying round the clock lured by the promise of a meal the size of the Empire State Building. Round, through, over, under; hour after hour it weaves its way nearer and nearer our carrots. At the end of this mammoth journey it reaches its destination. And this is where our human specialism comes in. We grow our carrots in 18” high pots. Bugger!

Alcohol. What?

Alcohol doesn’t work for me anymore. Age. The romasomes in my brain have had it. So I’m not only perplexed I’m envious of the younger generation’s love affair with it. When I was young I used to play on the roundabouts in the park to get dizzy. The up and down five man horsie thing that would sling you off, break your arm and grind your leg to a pulp in its levers. Subtle techniques for getting as much air as possible under the other person’s bum on a seesaw. Not only fun, you learnt a lot about centrifugal force, momentum and bandaging. But nowadays fun’s not about bodily dismemberment it’s about mental impairment, about having good times you can’t remember. At least I’ve got the scars. Now it’s, “Good time?” “Dude it was so good I don’t know where I went, who I was with, I didn’t know where I was in the morning and, er, Dude, what’s my name again?” “Man don’t you remember, it’s Dude man, Dude.” “Thanks Dude.” Will their memories be working all week in a dead end job waiting for the weekend when absolutely NOTHING happened? But no. Mobile phones to the rescue. Writing this has made me realise why they take endless photos of faces pulling faces. “Oh look, I was at Plug with you and Sophie and that bloke who took his trousers down and sang the punk version of God save the Queen. So that’s where I was. Mental.” It will be a bitter moment when their hard drive goes down and their memories with it. “What did you do when you were young daddy?” “I, er, I… What’s your name again?”

Student loans, tomorrow's money

Being of a certain age I’m into saving. Saving is where you still have money now that you earned in the past. As everyone’s aware HP and credit allows one to spend money now that one will earn in the future, if one isn't unemployed, made redundant, injured, depressed or otherwise retired. I’m thinking this use of ‘future money’ is catching on. Take student loans. The government would have to spend mills on the 20% unemployed youth but no. Get them to spend their own future money to upkeep themselves in further education, thus supporting the alcohol industry, landlords, the construction industry (to build unis) and lecturers. Bingo, savings and a massive cash injection into our current economy to boot. What a wheeze, and they’re too young to realise. And the recent economic collapse. Our future money is being used to fund current capitalism. So what other wheezes are available? You want to live in a free society? So take out a ‘Citizens Security Loan’ to pay for your anti-terrorism and policing needs that you can pay back, interest free, out of your future earnings over the next ten years. Ditto NHS, infrastructure projects, primary and secondary education. Forget public private partnerships; fund all current spending by introducing loans on everyone’s future income. It’s a good job nobody reads this blog!

Grunting's back in fashion

Two things I notice about writing these days, especially writing aimed at the internet savvy younger generation (Guardian Guide). One, spelling must be creative so that search engines can find your ‘Phrustration’ or ‘Sonix Masterpeace’ in amongst the dross of real words, and two, style is so much more important than content that content, if perceivable at all, appears as a diffusion seen through layers of frosted glass. Record reviewers assuming you already know the material in this instant age feel free to simply associate it with their favourite vegetable and what they had for breakfast. ‘Left Field’ is no longer an inventive move down the sideline; it’s gone behind the stands into the stadium car park and is fast approaching the old deli two blocks away. I can’t say personally I remember the advent of language but I imagine it began with idiosyncratic grunts. Over time we humans made agreements as to what our sounds meant. We devised ways to write them down, agreed spellings and syntax. It was a long process. Yet as we approach the old deli at the end of time we’re falling back into that old idiosyncrasy. A typical review might read- “This is like pebbles weeping. Like those Sundays when all the dogs bark in unison and the city’s late for lunch. When carrots are inspired by, well other carrots.” Add personalised spelling, “Sundaze excepshonal karots inspirify otha karots”, reduce for texting, “Sundaz krts insp o krts” and pretty soon we’ll be faced with “sxt t grfb a 4 actv8 ll snozrs.”
Have we become terminally lazy, incurably self involved or simply lost the need to communicate? Or are we suffering from Qwertyfication? If we assume all the people with broadband already know everything and the future has already happened since we last looked then I guess there’s no need to communicate. Grunt.

Our cat, Chopin.

My cat doesn’t watch television. How stupid is that! I mean it’s the moving picture I spent my childhood with and grown to love like a mother. I’m not concerned about the content, I just need to know she’s there for me. Test card, fish tank, I don’t mind. Most of what I watch was made before I was born anyway in a far away country founded by disaffected puritans who couldn’t cope with English eccentricity. Compare for a moment good old American Apple pie with the English variety filled with singing blackbirds. But mum is apple pie, totally sweet and undemanding, endless fun to eat and eat.
So there I will be, 30 years on still watching Friends. Jennifer Anniston has grandchildren, Joey’s gone to HIV, Chandler’s retired as VP of Weeners and Monica’s put all that weight back on. So sad. But I’m fine. I’ve forgotten how to tie my shoelaces but that’s OK, I can’t get up anyway. And the cat’s leart to play the piano.

The Prince of Micro-crime.

My good friend who, to protect his, or her, identity I’ll call John, is indisputably the Prince of micro-crime. Where unscrupulous city types steal with impunity, bullion robbers and aging Nazis remain at large in Bolivia, John will be pleasing Her Majesty for the merest indiscretion. No crime is too small for John to feel the long arm of the law. It’s as if he emits a high pitched whistle that only passing policemen can hear or uses flypaper chemicals as a deodorant. Plod is on the spot every time. A midnight relief in a secluded car park and Plod is there, lurking like some predatory paedophile. Littering, walking in an unpredictable manner, parking with a permit improperly displayed, they’re all there on his crime sheet. A misunderstanding in a French bar and Inspector Ploodoe introduces an international dimension to this life of micro-crime. It seems, as we pass more and more anti discrimination laws, there’s only one group left to pick on, the criminally irreverent. I can only conclude these gentle sweet souls are such a pleasure to arrest. Their indiscretions are so straightforward, there’s no verbal or physical abuse, in fact they are positively amusing, a rare delight in a life drained by dealing with endless devious despicables. So here’s to John who has brought a little ray of sunshine to all the numerous policemen who’ve arrested him with his rare wit and intelligence.

Therapy and Swine Flu

My wife recently had swine flu. For twelve days her body just said ‘no’, and more importantly so did her brain. ‘Do you, Brain, want to make a shopping list, work on my project, even do a jigsaw puzzle?’ All calls for cognition were met with ‘no’. No question, no debate, no ‘OK I’ll try’, just nietto, non, no. Maybe swine flu is so called because it makes you think like a pig. I’m not being derogatory, I respect pigs, they’re very intelligent, but they are warned at birth by their mothers about the dangers of thinking. Give a pig a jigsaw puzzle, it will eat it, a newspaper, a ten pound note, a plane ticket to Los Palmas, it will eat them. They learn one word, oink, and that’s it. They refuse to read books, they eat them, and they don’t do politics, though there is some debate about that, art or furniture design. Their brain is free to permanently muse in some whimsical candyfloss hinterland without the hint of aspiration. Happiness requires only food and suitable conditions for complete relaxation. This was my wife’s experience. The result was profound. Ten short days of freedom from mental clockwork, ten short days discovering the wonder of simply being.
In fact bring on the pandemic, the human race needs it! But think of the consequences for world governments! This is financial meltdown! Whatever.’ Have you read my report? ‘No but it tasted good.’ You got 1% in your exam! Explain. ‘Oink.’
No wonder they’re rushing out that vaccine. (which apparently contains mercury by the way)

Threesome in a chip shop.

Walking on Woodseats still weak from a viscous bout of man-flu I glance in. Two women in white T-shirts and pinnies cleaning down the fish fryers, tattling now the queue’s gone. A strangely humorous idea, a threesome in a chip shop. The dangers of bare bottom backing into hot stainless, wild lunges dislodging the mushy peas, one’s dangling part dangling in … or caught in … Multiple layers of incongruity. But there are positives. It’s hot, sweaty with liberal quantities of warm chip fat on hand. There may even be a place for salt and pepper, no vinegar. Yes slippery condimented bodies. But then. Pretty soon one wouldn’t be able to get a meaningful grip on anything, even the things one wanted to, not even stand up, be reduced to slithering about on the floor. An old lady would comment through the steamy window, “Well I never knew cod were that big. Must be right fresh though.” Sensuous sex is reduced to a fight for slithering survival, and as the earnest endeavour for sexual gratification fades into futility they begin to laugh. “Ee Margaret you look set to swim’t channel.” “aven’t been this lathered since week in’t Costa del Sol.” I walk on. Some day’s life seems just brimming over with humour. Not the mundane reality but the endless embroidery of it. I’ve often been in that chip shop queuing for fish, chips and curry sauce but I never imagined what they got up to once the fat cooled down.

Making demand and supply.

Roosevelt warned of the military/industrial complex. Supply the army and get rich, simple. But of course there needs to be a war every so often to run down stocks. That’s not too difficult either when the Crooks In Administration also appreciate the benefits. OK that’s old news, just don’t talk peace in the US or some lone gunman will insist you joint JFK, BK, MLK and JL in heaven. Fine as far as it goes but what about the pharmaceutical industry? They’re like “We’re being left out in the cold here”, “OK so start your own war.” “How can we do that?” “Simple, start a pandemic and sell people the vaccine.” Wouldn’t that be a good wheeze! “But that’s …!”
“No, you’re not getting it. To join the complex you need to train your brain in a particular way of thinking we learnt from the mob, ‘Make the world an offer it can’t refuse.’”

I want M&S government.

I want M&S government. It’s not just ‘it’s not just…’, it’s more than that. I’m thinking food rather than wooden slacks and white shirts tailored for a court appearance. M&S food is aspirational. If I bought their food and cooked it to a cinder I would feel I’ve let the side down where a Netto pizza in the same state would hardly raise my emotional eyebrow. No I stand erect in M&S like a retired guardsman, defender of the realm. Compare that with buying a second hand car. I know they’ve bought an auction banger and polished it to within an inch of its life, put cornflower in the oil to thicken it up, had virgins sitting in it overnight so it smells nice and carefully painted the tread pattern on the tyres. I know if I bought it I’d be better off taking it straight to a garage to save the hassle of breaking down in the middle of nowhere; but it’s shiny and the man is ever so nice and tells me just what I want to hear. I even begin to feel sympathy for his ailing mother in law. In fact he’s so nice I somehow feel a ridiculous need to constantly check the presence of my wallet. And when he says he’ll clamp my car for parking on his forecourt if I don’t sign a 12 page HP agreement I somehow feel in a hostile environment. And even he doesn’t ask me to take a CRB check! “I’m sorry sir but I can’t allow you to buy this car in case you take young children out in it. We all know what that can lead to don’t we sir. Filthy rummaging about in knickers, undoing one’s….” Stop!! However I fight it I feel my mind following his drift from nobility to squalidity, decency to deception. So like my citizenship I walk away, my vote in my pocket, owning neither car nor my rightful place in society. If only M&S sold cars and did government. I might feel proud to be British again.

Erectile dysfunction and football

Erectile dysfunction is not the inability of teenagers to get up in a morning; it’s having a permanently wobbly weewee. In this respect, as my mouse will tell you, stiffness is a virtue. The answer is simple. You’re not being rude enough! It reminds me of football. The hundreds of hours of a weekend’s games are reduced to an hour on Match of the day; only the cream of the highest highlights get through with roughly a goal every 15 seconds. That’s like condensing my adult sex life into a minute and a half. My juvenile sex life would last about as near as scientists have got to the Big Bang, i.e. milliseconds, which is a lot nearer than I got! My point being? Yes it’s the brain again. Sex is not a brain thing, that’s why teenagers don’t have a problem. When one is polishing one’s Pope one doesn’t think of ‘the usual’ with some lardy slag with tits drooping out of the bottom of her jersey, no, one is swimming in the heights of exotica with the likes of Britney Spears. There it is on tap 24/7, the brain’s equivalent of sex on a stick. And reality? Really, am I going to score a goal like Rooney this side of ever? No. My highlights consist of kicking a wayward ball back to its owner and reasonably successfully tackling a dog. I’m an abject failure and that’s the truth. No, the truth is I’m not seeing the funny side, I’m not being rude boy. Forget having a rubber mallet, forget getting a result, that’s Man U’s problem. Slap her with a kipper and do the naked wobbly willy dance. Works every time.

If Hitler had done stand-up.

Laughter’s a funny thing. I mean if Hitler had done stand up… Can you imagine shooting a comedian? It’d be like strangling a puppy in public, nasty. So why do we send in armies covered in guns to trouble spots? That’s just asking for them to be shot at. Like trying to put out a fire with petrol. No, we should send massed ranks of comedians, the Clown Light Infantry trained in falling over and ‘bunch of flowers.’ That would teach the Taliban a thing or two. You got a gun; well that’s no match for my squeaky red nose fella. Take that- squeek! “But you are filthy western scum.” Time for the banana skin. Oops! “Das ist silly.” (sorry wrong accent) “No, here try one. Just put it on the ground and…” Aaahh! “Oooh I falled on my AK47. No don’t tickle me. No no. Allah save me from this merriment!” Voice of Allah- “Chill my brother. Does not the Koran say ‘have a good time all of the time’? Why not tell him the one about the Afgan, Iraqi and the Iranian walking into a pub.” And so on.
Being serious is a gambit of the ego to attract power to itself. Being funny is the opposite. That’s why really intelligent people choose stand-up over politics. But then of course there’s George W Bush who was so stupid he managed to combine the two.

Singing mice and politics.

32,000 feet aboard one of earths many thousand atmospheric fan heaters. Disregarding the fact a19th century espaduro (we’re over Spain) would consider me an alien in a space craft and worship me for ever my mp3 player is barely audible. Normally max volume is perfectly capable of giving me tinnitus but now it’s no louder than a mouse squeak. In fact I’m beginning to see a little mouse family scampering over hi hats and synths, little mouse mother stretched on a mouse rack squealing, sorry singing like a trapped er, mouse. Der silly, it’s the jet engines drowning out the music. Well no actually. Yes there is lots of noise and yes that’s the cause but it’s not drowning the music out, I can hear it fine. The cause is that my brain having adjusted to the high level of noise ‘thinks’ the music is quiet by comparison. I have in effect turned the volume down in my head. All our senses do this. A drink may appear refreshingly cool on a hot day and hot if we’ve just walked in from the frozen north. In fact none of our perceptions are absolute, they’re just reactions to whatever ambient we happen to have adjusted to. So don’t be mean to politicians that talk rubbish and think they’re important, they’ve just adjusted to the ambience of politics. They can’t help it.

Happy reading

It costs £49.99 to fit a new headlight bulb in a Renault Scenic. Apparently you have to take the engine out. Designing in CAD obviously doesn’t take into account the human finger has a finite thickness. But then few of us realise the unholy mess the inside of our computer is in, which I guess brings me to the object of this blog. My brain is buggy. Having studied psychotherapy for several years this is my main conclusion. I really shouldn’t believe it and I should definitely never be trusted. So this blog is dedicated to proving your cherished organ of sensibility is in dire need of a clean install. Happy reading.