'DEAD BODIES and CARDBOARD'

All the poets decided to write poetry about the telly. They decided to write poems about the telly and keep them short. 'Keep the writing as short as fuckin possible lads,' decreed a leading laureate and a new movement in verse was born. The poets thought people might like their new stuff because it was a bit shit and empty and people love shit empty things.

Don't you though? You do. You do indeed you hopeless shower of...

.....aaannyway, the poets justified their efforts to no longer make an effort by citing Wolves by Louis MacNeice – where the poet chooses to no longer dwell on the ineffable and inevitable and instead joins the rest of humanity, hand in hand, in a circle of frivolity, protected against encroaching fear and infinite mystery.

Do you follow me? Are you still with me? I hope mentioning a poem didn't send you running back to TMZ, you cognitively subpar f...

...soooo, the poets wrote poems about what happened on TV and labelled them with hashtags and poetry became a big hit again. The poets were called the voices of their generation and they got on the covers of glossy magazines and were seen on the town with breast implantees and debonair industrialists. Dermot O'Leary wrote the introduction to a collection of their greatest works. It was called #Reality and here's the eponymous entry...

#Reality

LOL, did you see it?

It was on TV!

WTF happened, like.

I'm glad it wasn't me.

People loved the poems while they were reading them. Once they were finished reading them they forgot all about them. Instantly, in that wilfully anencephalic way that was de rigueur at the time. No memory whatsoever of ever having read ...'like whatever'. 

'Did I retweet that? I don't remember.'

Are you still reading? Good, stick with me now. I can't promise it'll be worth it but we'll get to the end soon enough.

Where was I? Oh yeah, after a while the cultural world became a kind of vapor that floated and faded over the graves of a generation that never testified to its times and left the future with no past to learn from. The only thing bequeathed to the future was footage of things once thought to have mattered but never did ...at all ...not even one tiny fucking bit.

To conclude...

...it was Bill Oddie's schizophrenic mother who said: 'television is all dead bodies and cardboard' and she was quite right. Schizophrenics find it hard to infer anything from the cadaverous pretence of the telly. All I see myself, when I turn the thing on, is false smiles, dead eyes and fake sets. All I see is dead bodies and cardboard.

#DeadBodiesAndCardboard

Dead Bodies and Cardboard

Tonight at 8pm

and straight after it,

once you're done tweeting about it,

you can switch channels

and watch Dead Bodies and Cardboard again.

Ok, we're done here. Return to your beloved telly.

COINCIDENCE CITY!

I can tell what people are writing just by listening to the faint sound the pen makes when it scratches against the paper. It's the same with the sound of chalk squeaking off blackboards and so on. It's a talent but I'm not sure it's all that useful. It did get me on telly when I was a little boy though. I was all the rage for a while. I was in advertisements for stationary products and everything. You might remember me.

Things went really well until everyone got a bit fed up seeing me do my thing over and over. The bookings stopped coming in so my agent decided we should add a new element to my routine. That's when my agent announced to the press that I could tell what was written on a piece of paper just from listening to it go through a photocopier. That wasn't true but he announced it and I had to learn how to do it. I tried. I really did. But I couldn't. I cried a lot though. 'Those tears won't earn us a bloody penny', yelled my agent, 'now try again you pathetic little pansy'. My agent was the pushy sort. Very pushy in fact. So pushy that he had pushed to gain custody of me from my parents. And so pushy that he had succeeded. I was at the pushy bastard's mercy. I wasn't a happy child, despite the public adulation.

Anyway, I was booked to appear on some primetime show that everyone used watch but no longer remembers. I was stood there in front of a studio audience as a photocopier was wheeled out. Then the host of the show wrote something on a piece of paper and ran it through the copier. The copier started making noises and I listened. I listened in the vain hope that I would somehow be able to perform the trick. My agent was peering at me, mean eyed, from the wings. The pressure was immense. I was silently praying for divine intervention and some came but not in the way I'd expected. You see, as I was stood there hoping for a miracle, I realised that I'd heard the host's pen scratching against the sheet of paper as he wrote on it before placing it in the copier. I had heard what he had written! 'My wife doesn't understand me', I shouted out as the photocopy appeared out the other side of the machine. That was indeed what he had written and I was patted on the back and got a big round of applause. The show then closed with the host inviting his wife on stage to join us and serving her with divorce papers.

I was booked on many more shows after that and could be found endorsing photocopiers and divorce lawyers in magazines and all that. My agent was delighted but, needles to say, this second wind of fame also abated. That's when my agent started making a second round of untrue claims about my abilities. My agent released a press statement that said I'd developed the ability to tell what words were being projected by an overhead projector just by listening to the transparency being placed on the glass. This was utter bullshit. I hadn't a hope. My agent didn't care though. He had me practising every day. He roared and roared and roared at me and when I wept he roared some more. 'Them sissy tears won't land us any juicy new contracts you weak little fuck', he encouraged.

So, as I'm sure you've guessed, I ended up blindfolded with my back to an overhead projector that was pointed at a screen on some bloody show everyone loved watching but no longer recalls. The host of the show placed a transparency on the overhead projector's glass and a drum rolled. After a moment, the host asked me what words were being projected behind me. I had no idea. No fucking idea at all. But, I did have another idea. I had a really good idea about what I could do and what I did was this: I screwed up my face and began to sob. I began to sob and bawl and make bitter tears roll down my little face. 'What's the matter kid?', asked the concerned host and I answered him. I pointed to my agent who was stood in the wings and I shouted out the words 'that man touched my willy'.

Turned out that my tears earned me more than a penny that day, the result being that I was awarded the entire earnings made over the course of my career. I was also returned to the care of my parents. As for my agent, he became penniless drunk. He ended up on the streets and was eventually beaten to death by vigilantes for being a nonce.

And so we have a happy ending to this strange little tale that I invented and wrote in just over an hour (excluding checking for typos) as a challenge to myself. Amn't I great? There's more to me than just being able to tell what people are writing from the sound of their pens. Oh, and there's one more thing that I think I should add. You're probably wondering what words were written on the transparency the telly host placed in the overhead projector. Well, I'll tell you, ...and this is the best part. The words on the transparency read: 'that man touched my willy'. Seriously. What are the fuckin chances of that eh? Coincidence city!

I’VE INVENTED ANOTHER NEW LANGUAGE

It’s becoming a bit of a hobby after THE LAST TIME but I’ve invented another new language. Everyone will be able to understand this new language of mine but only a select few will be able to speak it (those with reassuringly authoritative demeanours, presentable attire, and convincing smiles).

The communications landscape will be streamlined by my new language. The vast majority will be unburdened of the tiresome effort of trying to make themselves heard and the select minority will get to discuss matters without fear of the obfuscation caused by widespread discourse, which can get pretty silly when any old How Do You Do butts in willy nilly.

Pretty neat, isn't it?

Now, I realise there’ll come a time when those who are not amongst the select few will pick up a few words of my new language and try speaking them but I’m not too worried about this as they’ll only be repeating what the select few said, a bit like parrots or those dolls that say things when you pull a cord out of their back. They’ll not really be in a position to manipulate the language to their own ends and express their own ideas so there’s no threat really. Let me put it this way, Winston Churchill’s pet macaw Charlie was quite right to squawk the words ‘fuck Hitler’ but that didn’t mean he was in a position to make policy.

Anyway, the ability to have ideas should have atrophied by the time the non-select speaker has learned the lingo and even if the ability to form ideas has not atrophied in certain non-select speakers, any ideas expressed by them will be drowned out by the squawks from all the Charlies. SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! So, all in all, it should be grand.

This new language of mine has a few dialects. One is called Telly, one is called Radio and another one is called Newspaper. The tongue overall is called Media.

Now, keep your mouth shut and listen!

MY NEW COP SHOWS!

(above: Jack Frost, had he been a meteorologist the show would have been perfect.)

I’m pitching a load of cop shows to the telly people. Original stuff with a twist. I’ve listed a few below. See what you think. . .

OLDHOUSE: Maverick police archaeologist, Ted Oldhouse uses his ability to analyse ancient cultural artefacts to solve crimes from yesteryear. (Lots of flashbacks with whooshing sounds and the screen going all white in this one.)

BUNION: Maverick police chiropodist, Don Bunion uses his podiatric skills to solve crimes with a bipedalistic basis. (Lots of stuttery camera work in this one, with frames taken out and all that type of thing)

EAT YOUR GREENS: Maverick police dietician/forensic pathologist Hannah Eatyourgreens goes through the contents of murder victim stomachs to figure out if they were poisoned etc. (She’s pretty hot and, for some strange reason, she has to go undercover as a stripper with surprising frequency. Contains slow-motion undressing.)

And here’s a few with maverick duos. . .

NEAT and TIDY: Maverick obsessive hygienists Nick Neat and Jack Tidy use their compulsive peculiarities and fine eye for detail to assist in crime scene investigations. (Contains both stuttery camera work and whooshy flashbacks but no slow-motion undressing.)

STEADY AS SHE GOES: Recently separated maverick married couple Bill Steady and Annie Goes use the experience they garnered via their dysfunctional relationship to put right spousicidal wrongs. (They still love each other but are too cautious and/or proud to admit it, which will keep viewers coming back for more in a ‘will they, won’t they’ type of way.)

WILL THEY, WON’T THEY: Maverick police rookies, Susan Willthey and Fred Wontthey are paired together to solve crimes. They are in love but too proud/cautious to confirm it and all that shite. (Just like Steady As She Goes only with a younger cast and more whooshy stuttery stuff.)

PART and PARCEL: Maverick Santa elves Bob Part and Jim Parcel use their gift wrapping skills to investigate Lapland homicides. (For kids but gritty, with loads of high-class elf prostitutes that have been strangled with ribbons.)

And here’s one for animal lovers. . .

STARS N’ STRIPES: Maverick airport sniffer dogs . . .you get the picture. (Contains sexual tension, stuttery whooshes, going undercover as strippers, and so on.)

I reckon at least one of these shows will be commissioned. I’m coming up with loads more too. Can you think of any yourself?

There’s a sale on tomorrow. In Dundrum Shopping Centre.

(above: Antimatter Generator)

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.

Death in The Afternoon Show

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!