Sit up. Sit up STRAIGHT! And close your mouth. It’s a bit open so close it. Good. I know you. I remember your face, every detail. I’ve seen it so many times. I see it every time you read a book, a comic, a magazine or a blog post like this. Every time you read, I’m looking at you. I’m spying on you from amongst the letters. I’m the Word Monster you see. Maybe you’ve glimpsed me, darting between sentences, peeping out from between the dot and the ‘i’, popping my head over the u-bend of the ‘u’ or from the hole in the ‘o’. I’m the Word Monster and I’m watching you.
I remember you as a child, laughing at Winnie the Pooh. I remember you as a teen, speed reading Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying, looking for the sexy bits, biting your bottom lip in lusty anticipation. I remember you weeping at the end of Jude the Obscure. I remember the blood draining from your face as you turned the pages of American Psycho. I remember the dumbfounded look of disbelief when you tried that one by Cecelia Ahern. I remember all those times and more because I was there, hiding behind the text, peeping out at you, me, the Word Monster.
Sometimes I like to play tricks on you. I rearrange words and letters and completely transform the content of a page or a chapter or a whole book. Ha! Remember the time you went around telling everyone you thought Animal Farm was a powerful indictment of communist Russia? Well, it wasn’t. It’s actually about a young girl who nurses a wounded ewe back to health. Everyone you spoke to about that book thinks you’re a nutter now. And this blog? You think it’s the ravings of an Internet loonie, but you’re wrong. Fugtheworld.blogspot.com is a blog that dispenses lawn-mower repair tips. It is! I swear! I just change it all around before you log on. I do this because I am the Word Monster. I control all you read and therefore much of what you think and understand . . .and much of what you think you understand.
I have tremendous influence for someone so little. I’ve started wars simply by changing the words on a politician’s auto-cue. I’ve ended relationships and lost people jobs by altering the content of their emails. I once changed an email title from ‘Won’t be able to make it to the golf on Saturday’ to ‘I’m f***ing your Wife. LOL!’. I’m the Word Monster and I’m watching you. Watching you consume my words, the big thick head on you. You’ve entrusted so much of your insight, frame of reference and belief to literature only to have it screwed around with by me, the Word Monster!
Oh, and just in case you’re thinking of telling other people about this post and how it reveals my existence, don’t bother. This isn’t the blog post anyone else will read here. This post is actually about how to safely prevent blade clogging in the Bob Cat Predator Pro model.
So, now you alone know. I’m watching you. I’m manipulating you. I’m the Word Monster!
I was a bit surprised to see a feature about death on The Afternoon Show yesterday. Bit of a grim topic I thought but the two presenters took to it with gusto. They started by interviewing some expert type, a deathologist or something. They asked the expert what death felt like and if there was an afterlife. The expert couldn’t answer either of those questions but he seemed a serious sort and wore well pressed slacks so I’m sure he was a reliable source of information.
Later on in the show, they wheeled out this coffin and one of the presenters, (I think her name is Una, lovely girl) got into it to see what it is like to be dead. So, in she popped and they closed the lid on her. The other presenter (is her name Breeda? Probably, we’ll just call her Breeda) started asking Una what it was like inside the box. Una was answering from underneath the lid so it was all a bit muffled. She said the coffin was a little snugger than she expected and was actually quite constricting. ‘It’s hot in here and I’m a bit bored’, she said. When asked how death compared to life, Una thought about it for a moment before replying that it was preferable but ‘only marginally’.
‘So, there you have it’, said Breeda addressing the camera, ‘nothing to fear at all’. Then they went and baked some cakes and at the end of the show they ate them off the top of the coffin.
In a recent survey, a sizeable portion of contributors said they spent more time wishing they were dead than being glad to be alive. The largest percentage of those surveyed chose a third option: ‘It depends what’s on the telly’.
IN OTHER NEWS:
Check out a happy moment from the Rabid Dog Christ's tenure on The Afternoon Show in a time consuming and beautifully rendered screen capture over on the: RDC BLOG!
I find the idea of cosmological, moral and existential uncertainty too frightening to deal with so I am seeking psychological solace in a deistic security blanket. In short: can anyone recommend a decent God I could worship?
Ideal candidates would have no blood on their hands so that takes all the major franchises out of the picture. Also, I don’t want to feel bad about having a winky. (The very fact that I refer to it as a winky is, I feel, telling.) So, a non-winky hater would be nice and one who also doesn’t hate women for being winkyless or hate them for having fun bags. In fact, a God that actually has fun bags might be cool. One that’s a bit more Ursula Andress in She than Charlton Heston in The 10 Commandments.
I’d also like God to do magic tricks but not mean ones with locusts and pillars of salt, more Derren Brown type tricks. I understand that there will have to be a few rules for me to ignore or embrace depending on my mood but as long as the main rules are things like ‘thou shalt not eat someone’s brain’ or something I’d never do anyway that’s fine. Finally, I know that this God will have no sense of humour (they rarely do the old Gods) and I’m fine with that because kidding around serves no purpose other than to potentially cause disrespect but can I laugh at other religions? I also wouldn’t mind a decent baddie. The Devil is Ok I suppose but I’d prefer some kind of robot monster or maybe a guy with a steel claw hand. Overall, it’s the fun bags that will be my main deciding factor. Any suggestions?
Grainne's a great one for the telly presenting. Works hard at it. Practises when she's at home. She sometimes remembers the roller-skates her parents gave her when she was eleven. She never got the hang of them but she's good at the telly presenting. She ate a load of Tuc crackers in bed last night. Couldn't sleep with all the crumbs. She's a divil for the Tuc. She can move objects just by staring at them. Ashtrays, cups, that kind of thing. She hasn't told anyone though.
Ah, those formative years on La Rive Gauche. Pernod in the Café de Flore. A copy of Cahiers du Cinema under the arm. Gitanes dangling expertly from lips. Gathered around the booth of Sartre and de Beauvior. Eavesdropping the great minds pontificating wildly whilst playing Scalextric. ‘The living are but corpses and fate is the maggots feasting upon our eyeballs’, says Sartre as he comes up on the inside track. And there too, enjoying it all in his own quiet way, is Pol Pot. Pol Pot, with his shy smile and funny ideas. Pol Pot, fixing a broken wireless for a glamorous member of the Cercle Marxiste.
And tomorrow we will emerge from our bohemian abodes and spend the afternoon competing in the Montparnasse Swing-Ball Tournament (Le tournament du Swing-Ball Montparnasse Formidable). Cocteau flying into a rage due to another defeat at the hands of Resnais. Gainsborough and Birkin rutting in a near-by hedge. (Ooh la la.) They were all there, those that mattered: Beckett, Goddard, Picasso, Tubridy, Gilson. Absorbed in passionate intellectual discourse and heady competition. Leaning over the Scalextric, the Simon, the Operation, the I Vant to Bite Your Finger or standing poised by the swing-ball, bat in hand.
And sweet Pol Pot. Coy Brother Number One. Always there, on the periphery, noting the to and fro of the ball and the ideas exchanged. Gleaning wisdoms. Wisdoms with which to return to his homeland. Finding inspiration, as I did, on the Left Bank, in Paris.
I have decided to use this blog to chart my cancer experience. I hope this will provide some succour to others when I am gone. Cancer diaries are always a good read and very moving so I hope this lives up to expectations. I read the diary kept by Nigella Lawson's late husband and that was deadly. Okay, here goes, first entry. . .
I still don't have cancer. Life is kind of trouble free and I'm feeling a bit redundant in the trauma department. Good health is so superficial. I am just dawdling about enjoying things. I eat a sandwich. I watch Doctor Who. I think about leaving a blog post slagging off Aonghus McAnally but decide he's grand and I really couldn't be arsed. Bit bored. Please God, send cancer soon.
Right, well, that's the first entry taken care of. I must admit, I'm a bit shook up after putting my feelings down like that. I'm going to persevere with this though. I'm going to keep making entries into my cancer diary. Unless I forget to, in which case I won't and might just do the Aonghus McAnally thing instead.