The product of the third nipple


I’m not one for heartfelt feel-good posts. I seek neither to pander nor motivate, to gee-up nor inspire. If you read my post do not expect any of those things. Indeed, expect nothing less than a bitter diatribe or two chased down with a whinge. If you’re lucky (and I have become complacent in my role as embodiment of misanthropy) then I may unintentionally make you feel better because you are not as downright grumpy as me. But know it is a lie, like the supposed ‘fact’ that people still believe Marmite is a ‘like it or love it’ thing. It’s not. It’s just a fucking spread. I am apathetic to the point of inadequacy on the subject. Meh.

The path this blog has taken through the gentle tundra of my irascibility has been a surprising one.

See, that’s what I’m talking about. The line above. What a load of tosh. Why is it that my mind churns out such flange-muffery when asked to write a post? If I can’t rely on my barely conscious mind to adequately post something meaningful and sparkly on request, then what is the point? Why have the thing? Right now my mind is a third nipple – all very impressive but unlikely to write a good post that won’t drive you to sack it all off and light a joss stick.

But I let it splurge precisely because one must vent. Like a cheap and inadequately maintained steam-engine. Precisely like that. And you read it because it exists, even though it’s entire existence is owed to the selfish necessity for a bloody valve. All pointless to the point of blunt. And that makes you a voyeur, or at the very least a person-that’s-reading-my-post….

Honestly? Nah, I haven’t a clue what the point of this post is, other than to prove I can write one without wanting to and with minimal effort. If you wanted clarity you may have been disappointed.

Saying all that, be nice to everyone, polite and pleasantly engaging in all circumstances, then trust in humanity to hold up its end. That way lies the future. Peace!

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Ouroboros post number one


Once upon a time a certain aspiring novellist said to his friends, colleagues and others that he would do a writing blog and populate this with his thoughts as he went about writing his book. He was a fool (albeit a shining, rosy faced, beautiful one).

He had not considered the implications of his rash decision. Not only would he have to go through the brain-shrivelling rigmarole of actually trying to write, but now he had to summon the requisite self-absorption to tell everyone what he was doing, package it into a neat little post and shove it onto the internet – where, presumably, it would be categorically ignored, and in a few cases not even that.

Added to this kerfuffle was the inherent problem: The more he wrote, the less he could find to tell the word about. It was like he was stuck in a never-ending retrograde cycle of pointlessness – an ouroboros of wordiness disappearing up its own arse.

To solve this he wrote a post about writing his post, which caused a rift in the space-time continuum  (or something) very much like the winner of the Ignoble award here, which is a report about reporting on reports. Humans are ace at this sorta shit, as Ghandi would never have said.

Anyhoo, there you have it. A post on posting posts. And it is not the first. I may have to write a book about not writing books. That could work.

Confidence and the cat


“Confidence is the preference for the habitual voyeur of what is known as Parklife,” said Phil Daniels. Meh, say I.

Forget the voyeur bit, I am on about a particular beef I have about the nature of CONFIDENCE itself and how it’s used to describe. By the way the quote was the first one I could think of with the word ‘confidence’ in it. Yes, it’s another turgid post about the meaning of life…

Someone told me recently that they consider me a confident person. This was a bloody revelation.

Obviously (and for those expecting the cliche here it is) my first thought was of my many tiny neuroses and the inevitable feelings of inadequacy and shame I harbour – blah blah – and how that woman couldn’t have been more wrong if she’d up and told me her arse was blue. Which it probably wasn’t.

Then I thought, hang on. Is confidence the sort of aspect you either have or you don’t or are there degrees? And if there are, and we all have a 1-100 scale rating for our confidence level, at what magic number do you go from timid to confident? Or another synonym of your preference here, of course. A ziggurat of confidence, perhaps?

Or is confidence like a dominant gene? If you have a little bit of it, would you then be labelled (as surely you would be) confident? The questions are as inevitable as your disgust when you accidentally glance at a cats sphincter as it puckers. Ponder upon that image for a moment. Got it? Sorry…

I have stood upon a stage and played my arse off in front of a crowd going badger crazy, I have even sung and done my own unconvincing version of ‘cool-as-fuck’ at the front of a band to a (admittedly small) crowd, but likewise I have sat in meetings completely bereft of confidence, battered down by the very idea that I would even THINK of speaking. And I am the sum of both of these diametrically opposed states, and every planck length of level of difference in-between. I can read what I write and love it or cringe in shame at the sheer inadequacy of it all. All aspects of life are covered. Insert your own analogy.

So feel free to say someone is doing something confidently; that he sang that song like he meant it, or say that someone is doing something without confidence; like that meeting in which he contributed sweet FA. But please do not decide that he is either one or the other, because you are generalising and probably wrong. You may as well say nothing. Have some fucking respect for his complexities or lack thereof.

How’s that for confidence?

A bit harsh, perhaps, but I am feeling bullish.

By the way, I am very aware that my posts have become somewhat weird and off-topic lately, but you’ll look back fondly on these when I’m telling you about my daily word-count.