It’s Halloween so I think I’ll tell you a story. The scariest story I ever heard. I remember it exactly as it was told to me. Carved into my memory as it was that dark stormy night, word by word. Prepare to be scared and don’t say I didn’t warn you. This tale is called They Are Outside the Door and it goes something like this. . .
This man was in a lorry and it broke so he got out and there was a monster and it bit him and he went home because the lorry got fixed and he met his wife and turned into a monster and killed her and ripped her head off and the police came and he ripped their heads off and then he ate all the heads like they were massive lovely oranges. Then the man that was a monster got really big because he got strength from the oranges, I mean heads, and he attacked the whole world so they sent all the armies out but he bit all them and they turned into monsters and so did everyone else and did you hear that? That noise? I think the monsters are here. I think the monsters are outside the door. They are. They are. THEY ARE OUTSIDE THE DOOR!!! The End.
Chilling isn’t it? A tale to freeze the blood. It kind of creeps up on you and then pounces on you at the end. If you ever tell this story to anyone, it’s best if you act terrified, grab them, and scream the last sentence. They’ll be scared out of their wits. I was when my friend John told me the story a while back. That Halloween was the scariest ever because of that story. I’ll never forget it. I was seven. Some say the story has dated but to me it has aged like a fine wine. A blood red vintage.
I was a bit cheesed off to hear the government announce that nothing good is going to happen again, ever. The Taoiseach just came right out with it. ‘We’ve used up our entire stock of good fortune at the International Karmic Reserve’ he grunted to the nation, ‘the good times are over’. I certainly didn’t use up all my good fortune. The nation’s supply of the stuff must have been drained by others. People like Rosanna Davison probably. The sort that are always beaming out from the pages of Sunday supplements. Big scary smiles on them. Obviously O.D.ing on something.
Dobson took it bad. He was interviewing the Taoiseach on the 6-1. ‘Are you sure Taoiseach, no more good things ever?’ asked Dobbo. ‘No. Nothing good. Not even stuff that is normally wonderful will be good. All babies born from now on will be mistakes, all romances will be half-hearted flings and all victories will be pyrrhic’ answered the Taoiseach before going on to remind Dobaroo (who, by this time, was inconsolably sobbing) that despite it all, the future will not be entirely bleak. ‘We may no longer have good,’ said the Taoiseach, ‘but we still have OK. Things will often be bad but they will also, sometimes, be OK. So we have OK to look forward to.’
You know, when you think about it, not all that much will change. Let’s face it, most stuff was just OK anyway. There’ll still be OK films and pints of Guinness. Most human experience will remain about the same, especially the experiences we pay money for. Those kinds of experiences were never all that great despite being the most treasured and talked about. I’m not sure we even liked the good stuff. So, it’s not like we are going to lose anything that really matters to us at the end of the day. It’s not like all the shops will close down. We’ll still be able to get stuff. Rosanna Davison will probably still beam from the Sunday supplements. Who needs good things when we can pretend things are good? Sure, isn’t that what most of us were at anyway? Yeah, it won’t be too bad. Chin up. Best foot forward. Here’s to the OK times.
I loved writing about the telly in the last post. You can’t beat a bit of telly. I’m always sitting down for a dose telly myself. I’d go mad without it. Are you the same? I bet you are. Some people prefer the radio or books to the telly but you know what they call those people don’t you? They call them perverts. Other people say they spend their time online but sure what’s the internet for only discussing the telly?
There’s great stuff to be had on the telly. Did you see that thing the other night where the lads went mad and started shooting guns at each other? It was great. They were having some kind of disagreement about money or something and one of them pulls out a gun and off they went. They crashed a car in it too and an actress took off her blouse. It wasn’t the actress whose blouse I was hoping would come off, that was a different actress, but you can’t have everything.
There’s some rubbish on the telly of course. You can’t deny that. All those documentaries about countries that can’t get their act together or historical things about old kings who died of gout or something. I hate all that but at least it’s in the minority. Most telly is great. I love the shows where the people get their hopes and dreams crushed. Reality shows they call them because they actually took place in reality (whatever that is LOL!). I love the reality shows. I love seeing the hurt in the eyes of the contestants.
I like the soaps too. The soaps are great aren‘t they? I love the one where they stand around talking to each other angrily. That’s brilliant. They all live on this road and there have been so many murders, explosions and rapes on the road you’d think the police would have just permanently cordoned it off by now. I can’t remember what that particular soap is called. It might be called Balamory or maybe it’s The News. Either way it’s bloody good stuff. It’s mayhem on that road. Seriously bad vibes. But, y’know, that’s what life is like now isn’t it? It’s all a load of shite. Unless, you’re watching telly of course. The telly is great. The telly is absolutely fantastic. I prefer telly to my friends. My friends are a nice enough crowd but they’re a bit dull. They never fire guns or anything. Though, in fairness, one did take her blouse off once but I didn’t even notice. I was too busy watching the telly.
Click the link to read the comic I did with Ms. PureDaft de Barra. It’s about the tellies you can get now that make you feel like you’re actually in the shows and not sat at home on a crap old sofa eating stale digestives and wishing you were dead. Here’s the link: DIMENSION 5!
Oh, and here’s a lovely song about how great the telly is: TV PARTY
I was watching Tubbs on the Late Late. His mouth was opening and closing. There were noises coming out. They were words. I can’t remember which words. I’m sure they were grand words. It seemed alright. The audience seemed happy enough. That‘s the main thing. Then a guest came on. The guest sat next to Tubbs. I’m not sure who it was. It was probably a singer. Or an actor. Maybe a juggler. They opened and closed their mouths. They made words come out. It was a fine chat. I can’t recall the exact details. I think someone made a joke. It was funny. It wasn’t too funny. Maybe it wasn’t funny. Everyone laughed. It was a good laugh. No one mentioned death. No one mentioned love. Or anything that really matters. It wasn’t the time for any of that. It so rarely is these days. Where does it get you anyway? Then the band made a noise. It was music. A bit of an auld tune. Someone sang. Everyone clapped along. It wasn’t too avant-garde. Or angry. Or happy. Or excessive in anyway. Just appropriate. Comforting. Nice enough. What more would you want at this time of evening? Or any time really? And the show went on like this. For the rest of the night. Like shows do every night. And day. And afternoon. And then I felt a sensation. The ground gave away. My ceiling floated off. The walls fell down. I saw the same happening to other houses. No one seemed to mind. They just kept watching telly. Without smiling. Or frowning. Or laughing. Or crying. Just watching. As the Earth sank. And fell. And plummeted. Away from the sun. Away from the moon. Down past the stars. Through the bottom of the galaxy. Through the bottom of the next galaxy. Through the bottom of the galaxy after that. And all the other ones beneath that one. And into a pitch black abyss. Into Satan’s gaping mouth. And down Satan’s throat. And into his stomach. Where it landed with a plop. And was digested by acids. And shat out Satan’s arse. In fragments so small as to be nonexistent. But no one really minded. Nobody cared. Because Tubbs had a hamper. One for everybody in the audience. And his big empty eyes rolled back in his big empty head. And big empty words came out of his big empty mouth. ‘All Hail the Void’ said Tubbs. And the audience repeated after him. ‘All Hail the Void' they said. And something issued from the hampers. And spread throughout the nation. And ate up what was left of nothing at all. Antimatter Telefis Eireann.
Matter. Antimatter. What’s the matter? Does anything matter? And there’s a sale on tomorrow. In DUNDRUM SHOPPING CENTRE.
Things haven’t been going well since I left the BEARS post. The mother bear was tracked down and footage of her being shot in front of her wailing cubs found its way onto the net. I found it funny but the general reaction seems to be pity and disgust. The guide’s family say he never would have approved and publicly stated that they doubt my account of what took place. Worst of all is the little shite bag of a fire investigator that has crawled out from the woodwork and started banging on about arson. He’s all over the news and everyone’s gone mad. You can tell he’s really enjoying the attention. He’s even got a publishing deal. He‘s calling his book ‘Truth Amongst the Ashes: The Yellowstone Park Tragedy’. Same publisher as me too. Yeah, I know, unbelievable isn’t it? And guess what else, Ben Affleck has optioned the thing and wants to play him in a screen adaptation. You couldn’t make it up. This jumped up ember jocky’s pathetic attempt to make something of his life at my expense might be my undoing. I asked one of my people if we could persuade the guy to take a stroll up Harrowdown Hill (if you know what I mean) but I was told it’d only make things seem more shady.
I’m constantly hounded by the rent a mob crowd now. They show up at my book launches and bang on the windows of the limo. It’s very distressing. They chant like loons and wave corny placards that say things like ‘BEAR faced Liar!’, ‘UnBEARable!’ and ‘ApPAWling Deciet’. A lot of the placards say ‘Socialist Worker’s Party’ too but I’m not sure what that’s all about. Some kind of product placement I suppose.
My team has decided to go into damage limitation mode. I’ve been advised that the best way to handle this is to embrace it. It’s what they did with Big Brother’s Nasty Nick before me. Like Nick, I’m going to try and reingratiate myself to the public via irony. I’ll become a loveable bad guy. I’m booked to play Captain Hook in a panto this Christmas and then I’m going to take part in a tug of war against Pudsey Bear over a pool of gunge to raise money at the next Children in Need. I even played an environmental awareness gig with Cheryl Crow where I dressed up as a grizzly. I met Sean Penn backstage but he wouldn’t talk to me. Bono did though. He sold me an I POD which I sold on to Al Gore for twice the price. I told Al it used to belong to Bono. He’s a big U2 fan.
It’s all a lot of effort though. Everything was going so well. I don’t know why the general public didn’t just stick with the version of events I constructed for them. I mean, it was a far more life affirming narrative than the one they believe now. My story made them happy and it made me money. Everyone was a winner but oh no, they have to have their precious reality. Even if it makes them miserable, they must know the truth. The tyranny of truth, such an archaic concept, as outmoded as morality. It’s all the fire investigator’s fault. He might think he’s the big man now but this isn’t over. Oh no, not by a long chalk. I’ll have the last laugh yet. Mark my words and watch this space.
As far as I can make out, this blog has reached its 101st post. What better time to look over what has been achieved here and consider why it should continue. What is Fugger’s appeal? What is Fugger’s purpose? These are the questions burning up the blogosphere and it‘s high time they were answered. Consider the following QandA a kind of Fugger 101/mission statement. OK, got that? Good. Now read on. . .
Q: Why should anyone read Fugger?
A: Because every post on Fugger is chock-a-block with jaw-dropping/endorphin rousing insights/narratives, cunningly fashioned in such a way as to incite the reader (i.e. You) to grab life by the throat and wring its neck. WRING ITS NECK whilst roaring, ‘I’ve got you now you fucker, yield to me, yield to my wants and desires!’ Reading Fugger makes you all you can be. It brings out the best in you. Have you ever noticed the way those who don’t read Fugger are the sorriest pieces of shit you’ve ever met in your life? I rest my case.
Q: Hmm, right, so is reading Fugger enjoyable or, um, . . .scary?
A: Both! Reading Fugger is like sword fencing a worthy but villainous opponent upon the roof of a speeding train. He seems to have the upper hand but then you spot an oncoming low bridge beyond the cur’s shoulder. You duck down. KERSPLAT! The evil one is vanquished and you are victorious. VICTORIOUS! You then climb back down into the train and have sex with every single passenger in every single carriage (except the kids and those too elderly or infirm to withstand your carnal vigour). This is what it is to read Fugger. Fugger is the stuff of LIFE! Life as it should be lived! Both challenging and gratifying!
Q: So, just make it as clear as you can for me, what is the purpose of Fugger exactly?
A: Fugger is more than just a blog. Fugger is a fearsome Sergeant Major smashing down your bedroom door in the early hours yelling, ‘up and at ‘em trooper!’ To read Fugger is to be kicked hard in the ass by no less than God Almighty him or herself (or perhaps itself, should God turn out to be some sort of robot or super intelligent plant or something).
Q: But what if I don’t believe in God?
A: Well, God believes in you and God believes you need a kick in the ass soldier.
Q: Um, . . .okaaaayyyy then.
A: ‘Um, okaaayyyy then’ is not even a question, it is a snide insinuation. Snideness is for those too weak to partake in direct confrontation and Fugger has NO time for that sort of thing.
Got that? Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and defrost my fridge.