my life as a artist
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did the earth move for you?
Monday 28th May 2007 10:36 PM
In response to one of last week's blogs, Les Miserable writes:
'Big diggers don't have genitals, why dress them in lingerie?'
'When there's so many other things to be getting on with', one might add. Well Les, it's a good question, and one that I'm going to try and answer.
1) Lingerie is not necessarily for covering genitals, sometimes it draws attention to them, or enhances them in some way.
2) Surprisingly, some big diggers do have genitals. The 25-ton CAT 330C excavator has a small willy, just behind the rock-ripper attachment, on certain export models.
3) I feel that out-size lingerie lends an erotic mystery to most earth-moving equipment. Even with it's saucy high lift tailgates and spillboards, it's amazing what a floor-skimming zebra-print negligee, in sheer mesh with ruffle trim, can do for a 35-ton articulated dumptruck.
4) It makes big diggers feel special.
5) It helps the economy. (Pointless things often do.)
Think about it Les, and maybe give it a go. I started with a provocatively placed handkerchief on my lawnmower, and went on from there. Good Luck!
Posted 10:36 PM | 2 Comments | Permalink
they say its your birthday
Sunday 27th May 2007 2:26 PM
Yesterday was my nephew Simon's birthday. It was also Bob Dylan's, and apparently, the Buddha's. Bob Dylan was sixty-six, my nephew was, I think, twenty two, and I'm not sure about the Buddha, but if I had to make a guess, I'd say he was one.
Through conscious suffering and infinite compassion the Buddha is beyond desire, so it's always difficult to know what to get him for his birthday. His main interest is meditation, so last year I got him a meditating monk doll, a sort of non-action man, which he played with quite a lot. The non-action man was such a success, that this year I bought him some non-attachments for it.
My nephew, Simon, sings and plays guitar better than me, is better at football, is young and handsome and has sex with attractive young women, so I didn't get him anything for his birthday. Why should I? He wouldn't play with it.
As for Bob, I didn't get him anything either, but it wasn't a naked jealousy thing. He sings and plays guitar better than me, could have sex with attractive young women if he wanted to, but I think I'm a better footballer than him. ( I'm not being arrogant here, but I was top scorer for Totnes Dodo's, I am the special one) Bob hasn't been steeped in the culture of football, and even if he did have any skills, he's bound to have lost a lot of pace by now. Bob could never know the glory of scoring the winning goal against Alne Arthritic, so it's not jealousy.
The fact is, the last time we met, he blanked me. It was in the Wembley arena in 1975 and he was wearing a white suit and a white hat and looked as though he'd taken white drugs. I was on the third row, and I caught his eye and smiled at him, but he just looked at me, as if to say 'Who are you?'
When someone does that to you, in front of ten thousand people, it's really humiliating. I know he was under a lot of pressure that evening, but at the end of the day, good manners cost nothing. He can find me on Google if he wants to apologise, and we'll say no more about it.
I realise upon re-reading this blog that I've told out and out lies, exhibited small-mindedness and petty jealousy, been guilty of delusional self-aggrandisement and been cowardly disrespectful towards a major religion that I know won't hit back, and yet oddly, I've quite enjoyed writing it.
Happy Birthday everybody!
Posted 2:26 PM | 4 Comments | Permalink
the guardian poor on the fouth dimension
Friday 25th May 2007 12:05 AM
In the Guardian today, Oliver Burkeman laments of a book that ' it is usually shelved under Mind / Body / Spirit, along with execrable nonsense about crystals, astrology and witchcraft, which means it is most likely to be bought by simpletons.'
Oliver, or Ollie baby, or maybe just Ol, used to live next door to me when he was a fifteen year old schoolboy. When he was doing work-experience for the York Evening Press I granted him an interview. It was around the time when David Icke was in the news, and I told him that I was the son-in-law of God, but I didn't tell him that I was joking. ( it's a sort of comedy technique) A few weeks later I discovered that he'd believed me and had actually started to worship me.
In the meantime, we'd had a few conversations over the garden wall where I'd talked about the mysterious hidden power of crystals, the universal insights gained from astrology and the resurgent matriarchal roots of witchcraft, in a light-hearted, chummy sort of way. Little did I realise that, based on these conversations and the fevered scouring of the mind/body/spirit sections of York's bookshops, Oliver was building himself a personal cosmology that involved me as a major avatar.
Even though I've now got a beard, I still don't feel comfortable with the role of major avatar, especially if it's one of those sacrificial ones. When I told Oliver that I was only joking about being the son-in-law of God he was devastated. His youthful idealism had been shattered and he felt betrayed and humiliated.
A few careless words, a cheap laugh, a bit of topical material, and a young man's capacity for wonder and humility can be destroyed forever. (although he's probably going through his Saturn return at the moment, so he might get it back again). I've always felt guilty about my part in making Oliver the sort of young man who could write such arrogant bollocks, but now I've confessed it, I feel a bit better.
I'd also like to confess to fantasising about dressing up big diggers, and other earth moving plant, with really big but skimpy erotic lingerie. I think I feel better about that as well.
Posted 12:05 AM | 2 Comments | Permalink
liverpool one milan too
Thursday 24th May 2007 12:52 AM
I've just been to my mum's to watch Liverpool lose 2-1 to A.C. Milan in the European Cup Final. The game didn't actually take place at my mum's. She did apply to FIFA to stage the game, but the European ruling body turned her down on the grounds that there weren't enough toilets, even with a lend of my porta-potties (I've got a guest one), so we watched it on the telly instead.
Pennant was germane to Liverpool's sweet station and at 8:25 was unlucky to miss a connection to Gerrard's cross. Just before half-time, Milan stole the lead (off the church roof, and sold it to Silvio Berlusconi, who melted it down into a giant pair of protective underpants) through a fluky ricocheted free-kick off Philippo 'face like a slapped arse' Inzaghi, just before half time.
In the event of FIFA changing their mind about the venue at the last minute, my mum had made loads of sandwiches for the interval, so we had a sandwich-eating competition, which I won. The thrill of victory, and my mum's grace in defeat, was balm to the wound inflicted by Philippo ' whining, petulant, sulky ten year old, who maybe off the pitch is a really nice guy, and it's just a chemical thing, bless him' Inzaghi.
Liverpool pressed for an equaliser in a tense, but open second half. The quality of the opposition was undeniable and it would be childish to pooh-pooh Kaka. When Benitez brought on Harry Kewell after an hour, the tension was really getting to us. My mum said we needed some passive marijuana smoking, so I went downstairs and got one of the students to do a few bongs on the sofa between me and my mum, in exchange for some sandwiches.
The effects of the second-hand bongsmoke were so successful at relieving tension, that when Philippo 'he can't help it' Inzaghi scored the second goal, we were happy for both him and his family. Liverpool got one back just before the end but Milan held on for the last few relaxing minutes. We watched Paolo Maldini accept the cup, then we finished off the sandwiches in a non-competitive way.
I think Fifa missed a trick not staging the final at my mum's. The sandwiches were really tasty and the atmosphere was fantastic.
Posted 12:52 AM | 2 Comments | Permalink
she sits amongst the cabbages and peas
Wednesday 23rd May 2007 12:29 AM
Ten days ago, at a car-boot sale, I bought some cheap lilies. ( that's to say I paid under the going market rate for them, I'm not saying that the lilies were in any way vulgar or lacking in integrity)
About five days ago, three of the top buds opened on the same day, and gave birth to three immaculate flowers. The visitation of such strange perfection, in so imperfect a caravan, caused me to give full rein to my wonderment at the magnificence of the natural world. This wonderment was tinged with a certain anxiety. If I am of the natural world, and heir to the harmonious beauty of her sublime symmetry and rhythms, why does my caravan look like a shit-heap?
I think this might have something to do with free will. I suspect lilies don't have free will, and even if they did have free will, what would they do with it? Probably behave really badly like the chickens. (I've just had to tell the same bantam to leave my caravan for the fifth time in fifteen minutes. I know they haven't got a great memory, but that's sheer wilfulness.) Maybe lilies do have free will and choose to align themselves to the will of God. I had a motorbike like that once.
As soon as those lilies reached maximum loveliness, they were dying, just as the moon at fullness starts to wane. Now there's only one lily left, hanging onto life with it's wrinkled, puckered flesh and receding gums, ready to shed it's petals to the floor, where they'll lay like feathers in a field after a fox attack.
Such brief, fierce beauty! Meanwhile, pickled and preserved in its own filth, the caravan endures in slow, lumpen functionality. I suppose I wouldn't want one that was exquisitely beautiful and then fell apart after five days. Might be nice for a weekend. As for ugly flowers that never die……..
On August 12th, 2006, in Springfield, Kentucky, a certain Basil Rose and one Lily Woodruff were married by a Reverend Herb Flowers. I just thought you ought to know.
Posted 12:29 AM | 2 Comments | Permalink
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