Friday, December 19, 2014


(Pictured: 'Togetherness')

Christmas is all about 'togetherness' but this is a special Christmas message to those of you who will be alone this Christmas. Fugger would like to remind those of you who will be alone this Christmas that you will be alone this Christmas. Alone. All alone. There is no point putting up decorations because no one will see them. You are alone. You are alone because your friends and family are dead or because no one likes you. The only voices you will hear will be the voices on the telly or on the radio or at the other end of a brief/strained telephone conversation. Whatever the case, you will be alone so you should prepare yourself to be alone. Quite alone.

Being alone at Christmas is not easy. There are special dinners in hotels and so on for people who are alone at Christmas but attending these dinners just makes you feel more alone. You see the other people there, in their desperation and unlikeability, and you realise that you are just like them and that is why you are alone. When you are alone it is sometimes best to remain alone. When I die, I want to be alone. I would hate to die in a blazing building or on a crashing plane with other people panicking and carrying on and making the whole thing worse. Going to a Christmas dinner for people who are alone is like dying in a plane crash or a big fire. If you are alone at Christmas it is best to dine alone just as it is best to die alone. It is more dignified. It is more peaceful. It is slightly less horrific.

When you are alone at Christmas you at least have the company of your thoughts. Having said that, you will probably be thinking about how alone you are. You will not even be able to comfort yourself with the thought that other people are thinking about you in your aloneness because they won't be. Even the ones who say they will be won't be because they will be having a good time or involved in a row or something. At least you won't be involved in a row at Christmas when you are alone at Christmas because you will be alone at Christmas. Although, it is probably even better to be involved in a row than it is to be alone. Being alone is one of the worst things of all and being alone at Christmas is actually the very worst thing of all. It is worse than being tortured. You are alone. Alone. Alone with your thoughts about how alone you are. You won't even be able to concentrate on the Christmas episode of Doctor Who properly because all the characters will seem to be saying is the word 'alone' over and over.


In my effort to firmly establish the fact that you will be alone at Christmas and how alone you will be at Christmas, I, Fugger, the people's blogger, realise that I have not done enough provide you with some comfort. I will do so now. The comfort is this: I love you. Fugger loves you. I may not even know you but I do love you. I love you 'alone' Christmas bastards and I will be thinking of you. It's true. Really. Even if you don't believe me, just pretend that you do. There's no harm in pretending. Christmas is all just pretend anyway. Everyone pretends at Christmas so just join in. It's Christmas for God's sake. It's just a load of pretend shite with pretend snow and flashing lights that don't even work half the time. Everyone is pretending at Christmas and everyone is alone at Christmas. Everyone. Alone. In fact, everyone is alone all the time.

Everyone is alone.

But at least they have someone to pull a cracker with.

(Oh, and the above applies to your birthday too. Don't forget, you'll be alone then as well.)

Sunday, December 14, 2014

GET THE JOB DONE (rumination of a philosophical dog)

I suppose, now that I've had 'the job' done on me, I don't spend so much time thinking about riding next door's setter. I have time to think about other things. Bigger things. Imagine if we could take ourselves for walkies. Where would we go? Would we wander off to some wonderful world where dogs rule and take the two-legs for walkies? Is that why the two-legs keep us on leads and locked in gardens? Do the two-legs fear that we will find this other land, the Dog Land, and rise up and bite the two-legs and avenge ourselves upon them for giving us 'the job'?

And what exactly is in that stuff that comes out of the cans and how does it differ to the stuff that comes out of my arse? Is there any difference? The two seem related somehow. They kind of taste the same.

And why do I bother marking territory? Who am I kidding? I don't own any part of this world. This world will keep on spinning long after I'm gone. The barking will continue. Bikes will still be chased and sticks retrieved. And those that haven't had 'the job' done on them will still have puppies and those puppies will grow up and the whole furry debacle will continue. But to what aim? For what purpose? Are we all just, literally and figuratively, chasing our tails?

And why are cats such arseholes? Why do the two-legs like them so much? All they do is, ...well, not very much. And the disdain, the permanent disdain on their faces. I reckon the two-legs hate themselves and like to have something around that hates them too. The two-legs feel they deserve no better. The two-legs can only love something that hates them. The two-legs can't love something that loves them back. The two-legs can't even respect something that is stupid enough to love them. Maybe cats have it right after all. Maybe I should behave like a cat. I don't think my face can do disdain though. It can just do mouth and eyes open or mouth and eyes closed. I do look kind of stupid I suppose.

I have my share of regrets. These things frequently come to mind. Awful regrets Why did I roll in shit that time? Why? I upset everyone. It was such an inconsiderate thing to do. Am I an inconsiderate dog? Is that why they did 'the job' on me, so I wouldn't sire inconsiderate pups? No, the two-legs like inconsiderate things. Cats are inconsiderate and the two-legs can't get enough of cats. The two-legs relate to inconsiderate things. If you are considerate, the two-legs just think you are stupid.

The two-legs are complex things. Dogs are not complex. This is why the two-legs rule but I would not swap places with the two-legs. They make the most elementary things so very complicated. The simple pleasures of life, chasing a stick or a bike, riding your one next door, displaying affection, all of these things come with so much other stuff for the two-legs. Other stuff that I will never understand. And the two-legs have other needs too. Needs beyond canine comprehension. Things to do with things they have invented. Things they don't even need. I remember once the two-legs bought me a toy. It was a kind of rubber thing in the shape of a bone and I remember how they said I was stupid because I preferred a real bone that one of them left on a plate. And then they fought because one had wasted something called 'money' on the fake rubber bone and the other said they should have bought something called 'scratch cards' instead. I remember seeing the cat peering at the two-legs with scorn that time and I remember understanding her contempt. I could never feel such hate though. Loving may be stupid but it's much more fun. But I do now know that I'd rather have four legs than two, even if that makes me dumb. And I sometimes also think, maybe the two-legs are the ones that should get the job done.

Monday, December 8, 2014


When he was just a small child, his father showed him the tiny box. He was sat by the fire, drying after a swim in the lake, when his father produced it. The box was shaped like a coffin. His father told him that there was a piece of paper in the box and written on that piece of paper was the truest thing that a man had ever written and that a man could ever read. The man said to the boy, 'my father's father gave it to my father and my father gave it to me and now I am giving it to you. You can open it and read it any time you want. Today, tomorrow, years from now or not all. It is not an easy thing to know the truth but it is something you may someday need.'

The boy did not open the box that day or the next day or for weeks, months and years. As the boy grew to a man, he would just look at the box on the mantel. He felt a strange fear of it. Once, when he was drunk, he almost opened the box. But he didn't. He almost opened the box again on the day of his father's death. But he didn't. And he almost opened the box again when he returned from the war. But he didn't. And he almost opened it a fourth time when he became a father himself. But he didn't. Then, when his son had reached the age he was when his father presented the box to him he almost opened the box again, to read what was in it before bestowing it upon his son. But he didn't. And his son didn't either. And it sat there, a frightening thing, upon the mantel.

Finally the day came when he did open the box. It was the day his own son died. 'What could be worse than this?' he wondered and then he realised that he felt no fear of the box. The truth held nothing over him now but for the promise of some consolation. After all, his father had told him that despite not being an easy thing to know, the truth is something you may someday need. He never needed anything more than he needed something this day so he opened the box. He saw a slip of paper in the box and he took it out. He read what was written on the slip of paper. There were four words written on the paper. The first word was 'all'. The second word was 'men'. The third word was 'are' and the final word was 'liars'. He read those four words over and over and over again and then he placed the slip of paper back inside the coffin shaped box and closed it. Then he recalled how, just hours earlier, his son had mustered the courage to open the box and read what was in it before him. And he recalled how his son went out from the house and walked straight into the lake.

(Inspired by Louis MacNeice's The Truisms)

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


SELF-ASSEMBLY from Ray Sullivan on Vimeo.
Ray Sullivan's film of the Windell comic of the nightmare you are going to have.

Monday, November 24, 2014


'Every day,' said the Day, 'I make it day so you can find your way through the day until the fall of night when you turn off the light and get hopelessly lost again.'

Monday, November 17, 2014


Do you remember the Judgement Bird? Remember? It was in Dublin Zoo. It was a huge thing with dark grey feathers and deep set eyes that peered straight into your soul. It usually just stood there with its wings all folded up but when it extended them it was a sight to behold. The span was enormous, like some mighty cloak it could wrap you in and you'd never see the sun again. It was night time under those wings. It was the world before light.

We all made the pilgrimage. We'd queue up and watch the Judgement Bird as it watched us. Judging us. Silently calling us to account. Feelings of great guilt would befall all who looked upon the Judgement Bird. There would be sudden sobs and confessions. 'I slept with your missus', 'I diverted the funds', 'I cogged me maths ekker', that sort of thing. Politicians and various establishment figures seemed reluctant to visit the zoo around that time. There was even an attempt made on the Judgement Bird's life but the assassin broke down and took his own life instead. I heard John Charles McQuaid curled into a ball and rocked to and fro for four days just after seeing the Judgement Bird on the telly.

There was something in the Judgement Bird's eyes. Something primeval, something pure and atavistic, irrefutably authentic and devoid of mercy. Something that spoke of a world lost to us or perhaps even rejected by us. The Judgement Bird seemed to be from an angry Eden. No one actually knew where it was from. It wasn't captured or anything. It just landed in the monkey enclosure. The monkeys were quite deferential where it came to the Judgement Bird and shared their food with it. The zoologists didn't have a clue what type of bird it was exactly. They guessed it was some kind of crane or a stork but who knows? It looked a bit like a giant vulture to me. An ornithologist lost three fingers approaching the Judgement Bird so it was left alone after that.

Even people who didn't do anything wrong felt guilty when they met the gaze of the Judgement Bird. They said that they felt incriminated for behaving themselves in the wrong way, in the way of man, a corrupted way. 'You are not good', the Judgement Bird seemed to say to them, 'you are just scared, obsequious and indoctrinated.' Only very small children enjoyed visiting the Judgement Bird. Everyone else dreaded it but felt compelled to return to it again and again. 'It's like confession', said one visitor, 'only it's God on the other side of the grille and not some dreary old hypocritical bollix'.

The day came when the Judgement Bird took off. First it did a dance of sorts, stretching out its legs, moving around in a staccato fashion and throwing its head about. Storm clouds, great and black, gathered above as it performed. Then the Judgement Bird opened its wings and lifted up and soared away. It was swallowed up by the premature night it had summoned. It never came back.

The Cosgrave government had all footage of the Judgement Bird immediately destroyed. The only thing rumoured to remain of the Judgement Bird is a long streak of silver shite it left behind that was smuggled from the zoo by one of the lads that cleaned out the enclosures. If you know who to ask, you can get brought to a secret place where you can look at the Judgement Bird's shite. They say there's a queer smell off the shite and when you inhale it you're left with the tremendous sensation that we've all let ourselves down. This sensation is said to be accompanied by another feeling, a premonition of sorts is how it is described. It's said that upon smelling the shite of the Judgement Bird you are possessed with an unnerving certainty that the Judgement Bird will return and, when that day comes, it will not be alone.

Friday, November 7, 2014


If you look at things close up, really close up, they cease to be what they seem to be. A person stops being a person with arms and legs and a torso and a head and becomes a vast epidermal surface instead. Look even closer and even this understanding is lost. Closer up than close up, everything becomes an indivisible hubbub of subatomic particles. We might see a room but really there is no furniture, no ceiling, no floor, no window and no door. At the most micro of micro levels the room is all just trashing static but on our macro level it takes on the illusion of separate objects. It's like a Monet painting, it's an incomprehensible mess close up and only makes sense at a distance. This distance from real reality is the range we operate on. We all know it but we put the knowledge of the eternal fuzz out of our heads. We operate under a required interpretation of 'reality' that is actually an illusion. We pretend that the world is an arrangement of things with contexts. To approach existence in any other way would drive us crazy.

Are you with me? Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you agree? You kind of have to agree. You've no choice. It's the truth. It's reality, really.

The above image is an extract from a letter written by a German woman called Emma Hauck. Considered insane, Emma was committed to a mental institution where she lived out what remained of her life. Emma had lost the ability to see things on our macro range. All context had broken down for her. She was being swallowed by the subatomic hiss, the eternal fuzz of what reality really is. It must have been like sinking in quicksand and she was calling out to be rescued. She was calling out to the memory of the thing that gave her life meaning. That thing was love.

On proper examination, you can make out that Emma wrote the same two words over and over and over again; a simple phrase in her native language, 'herzensschatzi komm'. It means 'sweetheart come'. Emma's letter was to the father of her two children. Emma sat and wrote 'sweetheart come' over and over and over again. The words, the punctuation and the letters merge and end up looking like the static snow on an old television screen. Did you know that the snow on old televisions is leftover radiation from the Big Bang, the Big Bang that created all reality? It is. I'm not sure if that's relevant but I thought I'd mention it in case it is relevant. Very relevant. Anyway, Emma wrote a great many letters like the one pictured above. She sat and wrote them all day. All day, every day. None Of Emma's letters were ever sent.

Now, I want you to imagine that you're sitting and listening to static emitting from a receiver of some sort. I want you to imagine that you are listening out for the voices of those trapped in Limbo. Imagine you hear the words 'sweetheart come' repeated over and over, lost amongst the hiss. Imagine you hear this pleading from a ghost. A ghost trying to communicate to a memory, a memory of a meaning, a meaning called love.

'Sweetheart come, sweetheart come, sweetheart come, sweetheart come', over and over in the eternal fuzz. Oh my. My oh my. Tell me now about this reality. Has it broken your heart yet?