my life as a artist
| Calendar |
|---|
You are viewing the archive, containing all posts older than 12 day(s). To return to the front page, click here.
There are more questions than answers
Tuesday 27th February 2007 7:59 PM
What is it? What's up? What's going down? Whose right? Whose left? Whose side are you on? What's inner peace? Whats in a name? What's in a Kentucky Fried Chicken Mum's-night-off bucket?
I believe, and not necessarily like Martin Luther King or The Bachelors, that there's a thousand and one questions but there's only nine hundred and ninety-four answers. …. and three of the missing answers are questions… and the answer to one of those questions is also a question…. And the answer to that question might, or might not, be found at the bottom of a Kentucky Fried Chicken Mum's night-off-bucket.
With this level of complexity in the world it's not surprising that some people prefer sitting in bed, drinking coffee and reading about sacred geometry, than actually getting up and getting out there and making something of themselves. I know I do!
'Why are you looking in the mirror' she said reflectively,
'I've got a patch of rough skin on my face' I said rashly,
'Rub it down with this sandpaper' she said abrasively,
'No, it's too delicate' I said tenderly,
'Then use this broken file' she rasped pointlessly,
'I'm worried I might hurt myself.....' I said painfully,
'.....and be an extra burden on the N.H.S.' she added patiently
Posted 7:59 PM | 40 Comments | Permalink
Apologies
Monday 26th February 2007 8:14 PM
Dear faithful reader(s), may I extend my deepest apologies for the recent state of non-bloggingness. ( I'm typing this in microsoft word and when I write 'non-bloggingness' I am chastised by an underlining red squiggle… well, wave on Bill Gates , I'm gonna do my own drop and die, I'm gonna wave my freak flag high….Play on Jimi! Type on Rory!
There I was on Valentines day morning, my body purring with magnetic love energy (generated by the furiously pumping pistons of my fabulous thighs), in my slippers, waiting for the postman. I'd cleared the table in preparation for the valentine card sorting and was just trimming my Jason King sideboards when I noticed a tap on the door. 'Must get a new plumber' I thought to myself.
It was the postman. He was wearing eye makeup. It was a Valentines day mascara. His sack was less than bulging and hung limply from his broad postman shoulders like a soft balloon or a withered breast. He reached into the sack, the rough kiss of hession brushing his shapely wrist, and pulled out a large pink envelope. He held me in the twin beams of his soulful stare, his strong deft hands caressing the soft pinkness of the taut manila envelope.
'Just the one this year, Mr Motion' he said, inappropriately brightly. 'It's from me and the gang down at the sorting office…cheers!
I spent the rest of the day doing the crossword. I finished it except for one down . 'Most powerful force in the universe obtained from confused vole'… four letters.. something O, something E…. It's a mystery.
On Sunday morning I played football for York Corinthians over 35's. We fought a noble nil-nil draw with Athletico Bishopthorpe. Although they had more chances than us and outpassed us in midfield we played with more compassion and sensitivity and displayed more wit and charm at the back.
In the afternoon I was abducted by aliens whilst walking through town. They beamed me aboard an extremely long silver spaceship and took me to the planet Wal-Tham-Stow. They put me in a room and made me play two forty-five minute sets and then applauded me. I was hoping they were going to perform sexual experiments on me but instead they just paid me and let me go. The next thing I knew I was on the midnight train to Southsea, with a pocketful of money and mild radiation sickness.
Disappointment in love and alien abduction are not in themselves adequate excuses for not blogging. These things are trivial inconsequentialities in the face of my devotion to you, dear reader(s). The reason I have not blogged is that my lap-top, in technical terms, went plonky-wonky-wibbly-bonkers. I gave it some spiritual healing with techniques learnt from my Totnes days and poured some Rescue Remedy in the rescue remedy hole, but it didn't seem to do the trick. I thought it might have got dirty, by having to share a scuzzy caravan with a hippy, so I washed it in a bowl of hot soapy water and gave it a rub down with some emery paper. It looked a bit shinier but, disconcertingly, it worked even less than before. Baffled, I contacted one of the finest minds of this or any other generation, the incredible Matthew Evans.
When I refer to Matthew as one of the finest minds of his generation this is in no way to detract from his fabulously taut and muscled body or the mysterious depths of his gentle yet powerful scorpionic soul. Computer wizard, five-a-side footballer, wine-taster, bad-taste joke connoisseur, Matthew has given to the English language the word 'polymatth'.
Matthew fixed it. A small sentence indeed. Three words that give no hint of the fearsome titanic struggle that took place in the fierce battle for blog availability. He worked for three days, naked, without sleep or food, in the back garden, in a barrel, in the pouring rain. He had to change the motherboard carburettor flange with only a spoon and a garden fork, up to his waist in fetid water, all the time under sniper fire from the disaffected chav from number sixty-two.
It's that sort of bravery, generosity of spirit and sheer stupidity that makes this blog possible. It's good to be back. Thanks Matthew……will this do?
Posted 8:14 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
Saturday 24th February 2007 7:16 PM
dear reader(s)... we have been experiencing difficulties in transmission this last ten days.... normal service will resume on Tuesday.
the management
Posted 7:16 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
love is an open-ended thing
Tuesday 13th February 2007 10:28 PM
tomorrow is St Valentines day....be still my beating heart.... well, not completely still obviously, that would be dangerous......
Ah, the mysteries of love! How will the postman manage his distended sac(k) as he makes his way to my front door? What fabulous messages of love and lust will he push thru' the moist letter box... ( it's raining, OK)... How will I find the time to read them? What gentle ways can I find to let down the hundreds of admirers who will not be my beloveds?
I shall start the day by bathing in unsweetened soya milk. If the postman is not too busy I shall ask him to scatter rose petals in my bath and maybe sing a medley of Carpenters songs to me. Then I will eat a love breakfast of special muesli in cooled bathwater. The muesli, a one-off valentine mix from Harrods, is a unique blend of rolled oats, wheat germ and hazel nuts. Each hazel nut is intricately carved into one of the postures from the karma sutra. This muesli is so powerfully erotic that you have to swallow it quickly otherwise you get a stiff neck.
Then I will open my Valentine cards. I will file them alphabetically but will cross-reference them to indicate age, nationality and pulchritude. The unsigned ones will be sent to a reputable graphologist, and depending on the results may be sent for further analysis to social services or the police.
Then I will make my body a love temple, a parthenon of passion, a giant out-of-town tesco of erotic desire. First I will cleanse it within, by going for a dump on the porta-potti in the shed. Then I will run thru the fields and absorb the vital energies of the natural world, obviously, having first washed my hands. I shall return charged with a magnetic love energy generated by the pumping pistons of my fabulous thighs.
and if my love should not arrive I will do the Guardian crossword... and if still she does not appear, I might do the sudoku.
Posted 10:28 PM | 5 Comments | Permalink
England hardly any Spain a bit
Thursday 8th February 2007 8:44 PM
It was men versus their shirt buttons
Rogan Taylor explains England fans perrenial dissappointment with their team as due to the fact that they imagine, in the premier league of the world, that England are Man United or Arsenal, whereas, in fact, they're Charlton or Middlesborough....
The Spanish boys seemed to be more erotically charged than their English counterparts. Their kit was more stylish, their hair more lustrous and better cut, their jawbones more chiselled, their movement more lithe with animal grace. Even their names were sexier to say..Cap-de-vee-ya!...that's lovely isn't it?..and Ee-ban-ezz!....Mmm.. nice..and .Mor!..Mor!...Mor-ee-ent-ezz!.. where as we had Dyer, Neville and Crouch.....
its got to be.. on a perfect day.. Foster.. Richards, Ferdinand, Terry, A.Cole at the back.. Lennon, Hargreaves, Gerrard, J.Cole across the middle and Wayne Rooney and Owen up front... subs: Lampard, Ashton, R. Motion and Wobbly Bob. I'd advise Steve Maclaren to only bring me and Bob on if we we're winning really comfortably against old ladies.
These days I've become an armchair supporter... C'mon the Armchairs!.. last week we played Manchester Settee... most of the game was really comfortable because we were sitting on a two-goal cushion......
Posted 8:44 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
[Front Page] | Archive Page: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26]
