Sunday, January 2

Oh Do Please Fuck Off

The EC has declared there shall be three minutes of silence for those obliterated by the Asian tsunami.

Oh do please fuck off. Why three? Why only three? I suggest a week of silence - at least. A week-long moratorium on yarbles. A week off the News Gravy.

Still, I must allow myself a couple of brief slugs (though in truth said gravy is dribbling down my chin as I type). Firstly, call me an ignorant little fucker, but I did expect the tsunami waves to be BIGGER. Don't get me wrong: they were big, but . . . Damn. I imagined a real monster. Yeah, no doubt about it: that's Hollywood, diddling your brain, boy, diddling away with your brain.

And this piece on how most of the other animals apart from us humans seemed to have rode the waves okay is a jolly joll. Essentially, our lesser companions are able to pick up the vibes. Here comes trouble! I would venture in our defence that if some of those safari park elephants had drunk, smoked and snorted what at least some of the dead must have done - come on! - then they may have struggled too. But so it goes, so it goes.

It seems I'm just about the sole 'heartless' freak out here - though there is the guy who has sent hoax emails confirming the deaths of loved ones to their relatives (yeah, it'll be a guy, it always, always is in such incidents). Well, that's clearly cuntish behaviour, and I trust he'll be punished: private grief is private grief.

But I'm afraid my loose £20 is going where it is predestined, default-DNA-mechanismed to go: on a glorious bottle of single Scottish malt.

Maybe - just maybe - the night shall come when I shall sigh: I have room for no more bottles of malt; my shelves are replete - whereupon I shall doubtless, and guiltlessly, turn my wallet to the task of acquiring a high street shoeshop's worth of shoes.

Yeah. I'm a pisser. But I piss straight. How about you? Go on then: give all you've got spare. Remortgage your life for them: it's the least you can do. Reason the need - for everything you have.Or be bullshit free and do fuck all. Sit back and stroke, lovingly, your glass of malt. Have another. Reason not the need . . .

Ah, the unnecessary (and gaily switching tragedies); there's the rub. Of course, we're about to suffer the charity record. Within a week, there'll be plans afoot for a monster charity bash at Wembley, or wherever. Live Aid 20 - doncha just know it?

And just as the original broke U2 in the US, so I'm sure the dimes in the eyes of Mr Bono are already dilating at the thought of these as-yet-untapped Far Eastern markets. (¡Oye! The second day of the year brings the first dig at the lift-wearing, pudgy, bog-brained god-botherer. Do you think I can keep it up? Like a bear in the woods, my amigos, a bear in the woods.)

Yeah. Oh yeah. As the Strokes put it, truly, "the end has no end". (I have enough artistic faith in them that they won't be found anywhere near such a stage, and such a rabble. Now don't go and make me eat humble, guys.)

By the by, I happen to know for a fact - jacked - that Asda has about 500,000 of its famously inedible seasonal puddings waiting to be pulped: so let the survivors eat cake. There are, I'm sure, equivalent vats of paté, and mechanically-reclaimed meat with dollops of bacon rind wrapped around them, etc, etc, etc - that can be freighted out. There's little worse than waste, is there?

I've also the exclusive skinny that, were he not obliged to show up in court in LA this month, Michael "King of Pop"™ Jackson would - at this very moment - be lying down in a candlelit, Sky/Fox News sponsored vigil on the beach at Phuket*, communing with the souls of the thousands of dead children.**

Should he win (aha!) his case, I'm sure the bewildering amount of damages he'd receive could solve just about all of earth's immediate problems . . . but the little man inside me says that (a) he's snuffed; (b) even if he wins, he'll get chuff all - and (c) should he fill his mincing boots, he'll probably have other plans, along the lines of new rides at Neverland.

Finally, shame on his old muckers, Herrs David Blaine and Uri Geller, and their shoddy ilk, for not turning back the tsunami. Huh. So-called magicians. And Oi! Osama, you bearded git: top that. Top that.

* No, not even Wacko and his advisors could contemplate Sri Lanka, where whispers about Arthur C Clarke and cockmunching still hum occasionally through the fine, downy langourous afternoons.

** Pantomime Dame Elton John has immediately scorned such actions, reiterating his recent outburst that "the Thais are a bunch of cunts" and thus "deserved everything that happened to them."

ADDENDUM: This evening's ITN special compared the tsunami to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Yeah. These jokers really did that. (For those unfamiliar with the delights of British TV news, and thus quite reasonably saying to themselves So fucking what re ITN, imagine FOX's main evening news bulletin being edited and presented by 'Princess' Diana- and you're pretty much there. Why, even Homer Simpson himself would exclaim at its coverage: "Hey! Stop talking to me like I'm a child.")The jokers do have a slight one-dimensional point in their favour, in that this natural disaster may have a larger initial impact, but the atomic explosions brought with them political and psychological dimensions that continue to dominate our world. In short, the nuclear age has really fucked with our heads (the aftershocks of which forming the theme of Don DeLillo's tsunami-stopper-sized novel, Underworld).

Whereas the message of this last week? Shit happens, and nature can take you away at any moment.

Oh - and that concrete buildings stand up better than mud huts and wooden shacks. Funny that.

As I've argued, in the face of such chance hazards, such cruel, oftentimes ludicrous fate, where the innocent get it in the neck, the best revenge for belligerent fuckers like myself is to live well. So chin chin!


posted by DD @ 13:03 


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