Sunday, January 8, 2017


I'm putting on a play about our current world. I won't be giving any of the actors scripts so they'll have to improvise any old shite that comes into their heads. I'm hoping for some monologues that make little sense, but sound powerful anyway - in a strange way.

I'll also cue light changes and sound effects and pull up and down the curtain at entirely random times so as to disorientate the cast and audience alike.

The whole show will finish with the theatre catching fire and everyone being directed to fake emergency exits that all lead to the toilet.

It'll be just like real life. It'll be very realistic.

Then of course there is the encore. Played by the final living actor, burnt a gaudy orange, coughing and sooty upon the remnants of the stage. The last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste*, sans everything.

*Oh, definitely tasteless.

Friday, December 30, 2016


People are saying that Edward Snowden is a Russian asset. This is wrong. Edward Snowden actually still works for American intelligence. I swear. And all the surveillance stuff Snowden said that the NSA can do, all the listening on your laptops and devices, all that stuff is a load of shite. The NSA can't do any of that. It just wants us to think it can so we don't act against the U.S.A.'s interests. The NSA doesn't really need to watch us. The NSA just needs us to think that it can watch us, so it got Snowden to tell us that this was the case, which it really isn't.

Snowden is now living in Russia and he's spying on the Russians. The Russians know that he's a spy though. So, when Snowden is around, the Russians talk a load of shite about their supposed deep surveillance of the U.S.A. Snowden then reports this shite talk back to the yanks and the yanks pretend to believe it, but they don't because they know that the Russians are on to Snowden because that was the intention of the yanks all along. The yanks want the Russians to waste all their time making up pretend espionage stuff to trick Snowden with. That way, reason the yanks, the Russians will have less time to come up with real espionage stuff.

When it comes to real espionage, there's actually no such thing. No one has the time. They're too busy cooking up the fake stuff. Strictly speaking, there are no such things as actual spies. Well, there are spies, but their job isn't to spy. Their job is to give the people they are meant to be spying on the impression that they're spying on them. Really though, there is no spying going on at all, but everyone thinks there is, so they don't make any plans. The plan is to make the enemy think you might know what the plan is, so they scrap their plans, should they have any, which they don't because they haven't the time.

Are you still with me? Has confusion got you in its grip? It's all about confusion at the end of the day. The intelligence agencies are mad for the confusion.

Did you know that back in a simpler time, during the Cold War, the Russians used to use props in their military parades? They'd have a huge big fake nuke, a thing that doesn't exist at all, a big fake warhead in a parade and they'd know that the yanks would see it and then go and waste all their time trying to research what it was and how to make one of their own. The yanks would waste a load of time and effort that could've been expended on developing real nukes. That was typical of the shite that went on in the world of geopolitical espionage. Of course, if such a thing was attempted today, the yanks would just give the Russians the impression that they had wasted all their time when, in fact, they would've known that the nuke was fake all along. And the extra twist on top of this would be that the Russians would know that the yanks know the nuke is fake, but the Russians would be happy enough because the yanks would still end up wasting a load of time and effort on giving the Russians the impression that they were wasting a load of time and effort.

Do you see my meaning? Is what I'm trying to impart clear to you at all?

Look, it's like this, spies know that reality is irrelevant. The world of spies is a post-reality world. It's just trolling really. Troll and counter-troll. If James Bond films were realistic, Bond would just be going around saying he bedded all those women and blew up all those secret bases, but the reality would be him sitting around in hotel lobbies trying to look suspicious but feeling kind of lonely and wondering what it's all for and if there is such a thing as anything at all and he'd frequently check his reflection in panes of glass to make sure that he's still there and, deep down, he'd be hoping that one day he won't be. Or maybe, like David Shayler, Bond would see his reflection and declare to himself 'I am the messiah and hold the secret of eternal life.'

It's hard for spies to keep their feet on the ground. That's why they're advised to keep weights in their footwear. This also makes them easier to sink, when they need to be disposed of. We'll all have weights in our shoes soon enough.

Saturday, December 24, 2016


Hi, I'm Donald. You probably know this. I'm everywhere, even here now. Yes, I'm Donald. You've heard all the jokes and theories about me. About why I am where I am. The cultural and socio-economic reasons and, you know, that stuff. Blame it on neoliberalism or racism or reality TV or, well, whatever, whatever.

I'll tell you something though. Something people don't talk about so much. Something I know very well. Something even I don't talk about. Let me tell you this. My father gave me everything, or at least an awful lot, and that left me feeling bad. Really, believe me. I felt really bad. I felt like I never made anything for myself, you know, so I needed to do that, right. You understand me. OK. So, I needed people to take me for me, but I didn't know who 'me' was right, so I gradually became this kind of a thing and I put this thing that I became out there and here I am and, you know, I'm very successful. I mean, I say that I'm successful all the time and people say that I'm not. They say I lost a lot of money and all of this, but I'm not talking about money. I'm talking about real estate, mental real estate. I own property and that property is in your head. It's mental space and it gives me value. It makes me feel great too. I feel very valued. I like feeling valued, right. Don't we all like to feel valued? You know it. You know we do. Valued is something that my father never made me feel. I had to do that for myself and I was very successful at it. I built a home in everyone's mind and that gives me value and now I'm trading in that value and do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy the world. The whole world. I'm going to take the world, another thing my father couldn't give me by the way, and I'm going to destroy it and then I'm going to see what happens. Maybe I'll find out who I am because, you know, that's the one thing I really don't know. That's the one thing I never figured out and I guess by destroying everything I'm going to discover it, right? Sure. I'll destroy everything and by that I mean absolutely everything, believe me, I'll destroy it while you guys cheer or boo or whatever, like I could care less how you feel about it by the way, as long as you feel strongly about it, and then, when everything is destroyed, you'll look at me, Donald, and I will look back at you. I'll look straight into your eyes, straight in there, and I'll say 'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'

That's what's going to happen folks, believe me, and I know that my father may not have been proud of what I'm destined to become, but boy would he ever have been impressed.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016


I visited a nation called 'Nation'. Needless to say, the citizens of this nation were called 'Nationalists'. Initially, I thought Nation was the most unimaginative country I'd ever been too. The streets were all named 'Street Street' and the cities were all called 'City'. The postal addresses were a disaster. Every house was unnumbered and had the address House, Street Street, City, Nation. Mail rarely arrived at the right place. When I pointed this out to a Nationalist he laughed and said 'au contraire my friend, in Nation the mail cannot help but arrive at the correct destination.' This Nationalist then took a sip of the national drink, which was a drink named 'drink' that was usually enjoyed with the national meal that was a meal named 'meal'. Also, this man was called 'Person' as were all people in Nation.

Rather than lack of imagination, Nation's reason for naming things after what they were, even if there was lots of the same thing, was to prevent difference. It was reasoned by the founder of Nation (and the very first person to take the name 'Person') that difference was the cause of all conflict and therefore everything must be the same.

However, the problem of difference is difficult to overcome and it eventually reared its ugly head. What happened was this, one day two people called Person had a disagreement about which was better, drink or meal. Person and Person's disagreement grew to a row that caused a fist fight and then their relatives got involved and it was person against person, or Person against Person as the case may be and indeed was, in this case. This brawl grew and grew and resulted in a short lived civil war. It seemed that everyone in Nation secretly longed for the excitement and stimulation that only conflict can provide, and this desire was overwhelming. Where it comes to conflict, people just can't help themselves. Even if the people are all called Person.

Eventually everything was wrecked and ruined and shite and everyone got sick of it and wanted things back the way they were, so everything went back to the way it was – but with one big difference. Steps were taken to ensure that war would never reoccur in the great nation of Nation. It was decided that everything - the people, the houses, the streets, the cities, the drinks and the meals - all of it, would be renamed 'Thing'. Even the nation itself was renamed 'Thing' and, so far, this seems to be working. It's even harder to get the mail to the right address now, addresses invariably being Thing, Thing Thing, Thing, Thing, Thing, but no one seems to mind. Despite the inefficiencies, the things of Thing are content enough to just get on with doing their thing.

Friday, November 11, 2016


Once upon a time,

...everyone woke up and moved their lips to speak but the only sound that came out was the sound of a klaxon. An alarming, blaring, enraging, fucking klaxon.

And everyone cleared their throats, but it did no good.

And everyone rinsed out their mouths, but it did no good.

And everyone sucked a lozenge, but it did no good.

And everyone was very unhappy because they thought they would never get the chance to insult each other again.

So everyone went on the internet, to type their insults into cyberspace, but when they placed their hands on their keyboards everyone saw that their fingers had turned into logs of shit. Ten logs of shit was all they had, five per hand. And everyone was startled to see their shit fingers and everyone screamed, but all they emitted was a terrible klaxon sound.

So there everyone was, honking and weeping in front of computers that were covered in shit.

But after a while, everyone adjusted because people can adjust to anything. The human race is a very adaptable species.

And in no time at all, it felt like nothing had ever changed and everyone just carried on. Instead of insulting each other they just honked at each other and instead of typing callous and cruel remarks into the internet, they just smeared shit all over their computer screens.

And they lived happily ever dafter.

ThE EnD.

Saturday, November 5, 2016


Bullying was normalised by reality TV, pop star judges and tough guy celebrity chefs with Deirdre Barlow hair.

Young Pepes learned that to win you must be malicious. That empathy is a weakness. That sympathy is passé. That spite is right!

Poor Pepes. Sad, insecure, mutually stigmatising, profoundly petrified Pepes. Discouraging each other. Stealing each other's strength.

The least equipped of us to deal with the challenging vagaries of life, should Pepes be pitied?

Pepes degrade and humiliate each other in an attempt to exorcise their own degradation and humiliation.

But self-hate is non-transferable. They curse each other and they are all cursed.

Jungian shadows are projected wildly. Insults and caustic humour betray an overwhelming dissatisfaction with existence.

It goes on and on. From snide to cutting. Accumulating. A toxic tsunami sweeps across our world. An inescapable, global hex.

Discourse is corrupted and now those racing to be POTUS exchange cruelties. So presidential. What good influences.

Being kind or even considerate and thinking 'hey, there's a whole human being inside that human being' is history. 

Climate change, warfare, whatever, the Doomsday clock is reaching twelve. 

It seems the concluding act of the human race is to piss on its own grave.

But if you can't beat them, join them. I think I'll give it a go.

So, my first and final insult to the poor Pepes of the world is this...

My remaining hope is that I live long enough to see you all die.


In cowering, sobbing, isolated regret.

Inhaling the Arctic methane.

Your world in unrest.

Dying. Dying. 


That is all.

Release the gas.

Send in the drones.