THE LAST POST

(pictured above: Them)

I was trying to write a new post for the blog, to improve on slipping standards, when in trundled The Mother and started staring at me. 'Ah now don't be distracting me The Mother', I said to The Mother, 'can't you see that I'm trying to maintain our existence on this plane by creating a narrative that makes up for the heavy handed analogies and scanty wee posts that have featured on fugtheworld.blogspot of late?' But The Mother just continued to stare at me with eyes that looked a tad ...mournful.

'Now Mister Fugger', said The Mother, 'you've said all you have to say and there's no point repeating yourself or saying things just for the sake of it. If you do that you'll end up no better than the telly. The time has come to cease blogging. It is even evident in the lacklustre and relatively LOLless way this very post, the one we are in right now, is written'. I was a little astonished. Not by what The Mother had said but by the fact that she had called me 'Mister Fugger' and used a shitey word like 'cease'. This indicated her seriousness and I knew that it must be the end, a moment that had been prepared for. 'Are They here for me The Mother?' I asked The Mother. 'They are indeed, They are in the kitchen Mister Fugger', answered The Mother. I put the laptop aside and went to meet Them. The Mother followed.

There They were in the kitchen, standing by the backdoor, waiting to return me to my own world, a world where there is nothing to say because there is nothing happening because there is nothing to do but at least you're not wasting anyone's time or your own. I turned to The Mother and thanked her for the interesting discourse she had provided over the years and I complimented The Mother on the grace she had always shown when bested by my superior intellect. I think The Mother may have rolled her eyes but it was hard to tell as we were soon hugging and she was patting me on the back. I found it hard to break from The Mother's embrace and realised that this was because she had been decommissioned. They approached The Mother, wrapped her in tarpaulin, and placed her frozen form in the cupboard next to the ironing board.

'Do I really have to go?' I asked Them. They nodded. 'Won't I be missed?' I queried. They shook their heads. 'But what about all the poontang I'll be leaving behind', I pleaded. They laughed heartily and shook their heads again in mirthful resignation. 

They escorted me to the LOLevator that stood in the centre of the garden, a beam of light from above, and shoved me inside, kicking me in the arse as They did so. 'Hey!' I protested but They just laughed and muttered something about poontang.

I LOLevated up and away through the tropo strato meso and other spheres and into deep space. Then I zoomed beyond deep space and into the outskirts of shallow space that gradually reduces to non-space that results in the great zilch that resides in the nowhere zone that sits in the mouth of the ultra-void that isn't even there because nothing is there and there isn't even a 'there' for there to be nothing and there isn't even nothing because nothing is a concept and concepts need to be perceived and to be perceived there has to be something to do the perceiving and all there is is me and even I am not here an...y...m...o... ... . . .

...so long and thanks for all the fish.

THIS IS HUGE GUYS!!!

Seriously guys, this is huge. This shocking footage went viral yesterday – watch the video:

Needless to say it made the news...

Let's just take a look at what happened again so we can get our heads around what took place... And now let's hear about what happened from the family concerned...

Now, there's a lot to discuss here. I know your mind is racing. Has the child fully recovered? Should SeaWorld continue letting visitors feed the dolphins? Should there be a monument built to commemorate the event? Might this event be a fitting subject for a musical? Might the dolphin be a paedophile that was attempting to abduct the child? Should we place the dolphin on the paedophile register? How do you spell paedophile anyway? An bhfuil cead agam go dti an leithreas? Should we bomb the dolphins like we do the sand niggers?

'Um, Mom, I'm outta fish?' Those words will haunt me until the end of my days. Let's talk guys. How do you feel about this event? Twitter the hashtag on Facebook and text in your thoughts to the central death hub mind voider: @jimmysaviledolphinummomimouttafish#thisisworsethansyria#

Here is the shocking event again in HD:

What a world we live in ladies and gentlemen, ...what a world we live in.

SPECIAL GUEST BLOGGER: ADOLF HITLER

There you go now. He's looking well. Seems to have mellowed a bit too thank God.

WHAT RICHARD WORE @ FUGGER FASHIONS

(Advertising feature)

Hey guys, the Fugger Fashions chain has opened a new store in Dundrum. All the usual quality stuff can be found inside: Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie and Fitch, and the best of the rest. The new store is called What Richard Did and is an official tie-in with the movie of the same name. We've got super enlarged stills from the critically acclaimed drama decorating the place and we've even arranged a special shoot for the Sunday Independent glossy supplement where you'll see the glamorous cast donned in our wares. 

Y'know, despite the complex and disturbing events that befell them, the guys and gals of What Richard Did never let their sartorial standards drop. They may have felt bad but they always looked good.

When things seem down, why not let Fugger Fashions dress you up? Drop in and take a look around our new What Richard Did store. The big opening is on Saturday. Oh, and while I have the chance here guys, Fugger Fashions would just like to point out that, like the film of the same name, our new What Richard Did store is in no way associated with the tragic event that took place outside the Burlington Hotel on August 31^st, 2000. Fugger Fashions just wants to invite you to take part in a shopping experience where past mistakes are sympathetically revisited in a beautifully lit, non-interrogative, and schadenfreude free environment. We're just trying to bring some truth to the term 'retail therapy'. As it says in our advertising: 'What Richard Did - Just because you have it all, it doesn't mean it's easy – Opens Saturday!!!'

   

And Hey!!! Check out our new TV commercial. We're like kind of reviving that moody Obsession by Calvin Klein approach:

LOL?

Did you hear about the dyslexic guy who got shipwrecked? He wrote ‘LOL’ in the sand to attract the attention of passing planes. Geddit? He wrote ‘L.O.L.’ instead of ‘S.O.S.’

Are you laughing? Are you? I doubt it. I doubt you're laughing and if you are you shouldn’t be. That man died on that island. To make matters worse, after his body was recovered, a stonemason (also dyslexic) engraved the letters ‘L.V.F.’ into his tombstone where ‘R.I.P.’ should be. The grave is in a cemetery that's close to an extremely nationalist housing estate and the tombstone gets defaced on a regular basis. It's very distressing for the poor dyslexic shipwrecked guy’s family and acts as proof, if further proof be needed, that existence is God’s sick joke and we are all the punch line.

LOL?

REALM BEYOND REASON

Stars are ghosts of long dead suns haunting the night above us. They are the echoes of things that once existed and witnessed events beyond the realm of our reason. We don't wonder though, we just proceed. I'm taking the dog out for his evening shite or I'm putting out the bins. It's cold. It's dark. It's dead silent but for distant traffic sighing and the wind quietly sneaking through branches. I'm on the surface of this still planet and I might look up. I might notice these shining spirits in the sky. I may momentarily feel comforted or threatened or ambivalent. Then I will look away and I will do what I need to do or watch the dog do what must be done. Then I will go back inside. I will watch my television and it will erase my mind of wonder and blind me to the infinite. A quiz is on. A woman with nice legs is giving away a big cash prize. I won't bother entering the competition even though I know the answers to all the questions. It's trivia from the small portion of the Universe we continually stare at and think about and measure ourselves by, a small portion of the Universe that concerns itself with fame and fortune. The stars in the sky are eclipsed by the stars on the screen. Marvels roll and burst, are born and die, above us and all around us – further than our eyes can see and our minds can reach - but I'm reaching for the remote control. I'm turning up the volume. Fuck the ineffability of the ineffable ineffableness. I'm going to see if I can win this quiz, this quiz that I couldn't be arsed entering. I'm paying close attention and shouting out the answers in a realm beyond reason.

JUSTICE HAS BEEN SERVED

 

The neighbour was saying that I keep parking my car in his driveway. Fuck that. What does he need the driveway for? He doesn't even have a car, well he does but it's a shitey little banger. He says he can't get his banger out of his drive because my car is in the way but I think that's a bit of a one-sided view. I mean, I have two cars and where am I supposed to park the other one? He should be happy to have my lovely car parked outside his house. People will think he owns it. People might think he isn't some loser, which, let's face it, he is. He went too far the other day though. He went way too far and scratched my car down the side with a set of keys. My car! My lovely new car that I worked hard to buy. My beautiful car; scratched by that philistine!

Anyway, he scratched the car so I went over there to talk with him about it. Just a talk. Reasonable like, as long as it's me doing the talking. I had things to say after all. I was the one that was wronged here. So, I headed over there but he just laughed at me. He refused to do anything about it, to make up for it, to compensate me or anything. Well, I wasn't having that so I barged into his house and put my boot up his arse. Then I booted his wife up the arse. Then I chased his kids around and gave each of them an arse kicking. You should have seen the look on his six year old's face after I gave him a right boot that sent him flying. It was kind of a bewildered look. Not angry or fearful really, just more of a 'what the fuck?' look. I just want a better neighbourhood you see. I just want us to get along. To share things. What's the matter with sharing? That's what I was roaring out as I went around the neighbour's house setting fire to his curtains and throwing his furniture through his windows. 'WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH SHARING?' I roared out over and over again. I was in some danger myself, storming around the blazing rooms like I was, but it was worth it. Like mighty Samson I thought, 'let me die with the philistines'. Anyway, I didn't die and got out of there in time to set up a blockade to prevent the fire brigade from arriving and helping out the car scratching terrorist. A lot of the neighbour's gaff burnt down that night and there was a bit of a to do in the following days. The other neighbours were giving me dirty looks and the U.N. dropped around and said that my actions were disproportionate. I said they weren't and the U.N. said Ok and then they fucked off.

I'm going around there again tonight to set light to his garden shed. Then I'm going to smash down the wall to his living room and drive my car right into his house and park it right in front of his telly. That'll learn him. That'll learn him not to share and live peacefully and in harmony with me on my terms. My reasonable terms. I just want a better neighbourhood you see. For me, for him, for everyone.

I can't seem to shake that look his six year old gave me though. That confused look. Confusion mixed with something else. Confusion mixed with hurt, a profound kind of hurt. I'll try not to dwell on it. I'll think about the scratch on my car instead. I'll think about how justice has been served and will go on being served until there is no one left to serve it to. 

QUITE STRAIGHTFORWARD

(pictured: off they go, y'know the type)

Look, I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's quite straightforward, and I quote:

'The State acknowledges the right to life of the unborn and, with due regard to the equal right to life of the mother, guarantees in its laws to respect, and, as far as practicable, by its laws to defend and vindicate that right. The state shall endeavour to probably not convict or maybe convict, as far as practicable and in all probability if aforementioned practicability is indeed practicable or not, as the case may be, any medical practitioner/murdering bastard that performs said probable murder/life saving procedure or whatever you're having yourself but you never really know do you? I mean it's mad like when you think about it and if we have a referendum again everyone will just go mental and it'll be an awful pain in the arse and no one wants to looking at John Waters hyperventilating on the telly.'

Right, I hope that's cleared everything up and we can sweep this matter back under the rug where it belongs for another couple of decades going forward.

NOËL BROWNE – A TERRIBLE TERRIBLE PERSON ALTOGETHER

Despite being instrumental in the eradication of TB and attempting to introduce state funded healthcare for women and children, former minister for health, Noël Browne, is thought by many to have been a terrible, terrible person altogether. 

Hard to work with, an upsetter, an upstart, disrespectful to the considerations of the Archbishop, not a joiner inner, not the kind of fella you'd want to go caravanning with - in any given discussion about the man, these are typical of the traits attributed to Browne.

Even a portion of Browne's wiki entry is dedicated to his unlikeability, with Fergus Finlay describing him as a 'bad tempered and curmudgeonly old man' and Maurice Manning's descriptions of him as 'difficult' and 'self-centred'.

What a terrible, terrible person altogether Noël Browne must have been. I bet he didn't even sit with the lads at lunch or laugh easily at their jokes (...which, y'know, I'm sure were excellent). Ultimately, we can only conclude that Browne must have been an oddball. Unlike the rest of the nation during his times, he must have been a bit weird.

However, the wiki entry does attempt to defend Browne a little from his accusers, generously pointing out that much of the man's unpleasantness could have been due to his partial deafness. I prefer to think that Browne's grouchy aloofness was down to the fact that he considered most of his peers to be a genuflecting shower of cunts. What a terrible, terrible person altogether Noël Browne must have been, to have had such thoughts, to think so little of such great men, to think them nothing more than a genuflecting shower of cunts.

(Addendum: In fairness, Noël Browne did come sixth in RTE's Ireland's Greatest poll of 2010, narrowly beating Stephen Gately into seventh position but being topped by Bono at fifth. It seems some of you silly-billies refuse to forget the achievements of this bad mixer/unsociable monster.)

SCHOFIELD LIST REVEALED!!!! FUGGER EXCLUSIVE!!!

And here are the names and faces...

Metal Mickey (named after his evil member)

Dusty Bin (claims accusations are rubbish)

 Wilfred Brambell (you dirty old man)

Captain Birdseye (don't eat his fish stick)

Milky Bar kid (disguised self as child)

Admiral Horatio Nelson (Hardy was a minor)

Saudi Arabia (marry girls at 8 - behead them at any age)

  The constellation of Reticulum (watching your kids from above)

The 70s (they even dressed like nonces) 

HAARP (weather molester)

Kids themselves (not even the children will think of the children)

Badminton (no surprises there)

They say it's a witch hunt but in a witch hunt you hunt witches so that's a silly thing to say. This is a nonce hunt and Fugger is giving a big cash prize, that's right readers, a BIG CASH PRIZE, to whoever can destroy the most reputations/lives. Let's get these probable child worriers before their appetites grow out of all control and they move on to us adults!!!!

DEMOCRAPCY

(pictured: lil' Ebner's first taste of freedom)

Being free, the people of the United States of America had a choice. Which were they going to have for dinner, a bowl of cow shite or a bowl of dog shite? It wasn't much of a choice but it was a choice Goddamit and, at the end of the day, what are we without choice? Arabs, that's what.

Anyway, the debate was in full swing. Some people wanted to eat the bowl of dog shite because they liked dogs but others worried about the average dog's diet, arguing that a dog could have eaten anything whereas a cow would have just been eating grass. 'At least we know what we're getting in the cow shite', was the logic that won out for a 'convincing margin' of the Americans who participated in the choice. A sizeable minority of Americans didn't even bother expressing a preference as they thought that shite was shite no matter what creature's arse it plopped out from. These Americans had the freedom to choose not to choose and so didn't choose, which is freedom because, at end of the day, what are we without choice?

So, the choice was made and a bowl of cow shite was laid before the people of the United States and they all began to tuck in. 'If we can just get this cow shite down us then maybe we can have ice cream for dessert', encouraged newspaper opinion pieces and so on and everyone reluctantly lifted their spoons and put the foul stuff in their gobs.

Well, it was their choice and they made it and there was no other option. What other option could there be? Have a think about it. See? Any other option would be absurd. Fundamentally, this was a choice and choice equals freedom. Like us, Americans are free. Arabs aren't free. Arabs don't get to choose and have to eat camel shite all the time, whether they like it or not. They don't get offered an alternative, like goat shite or something. Arabs don't get a choice and, at the end of the day, what are we without choice? Camel shite eating Arabs that's what!

Ahh, Charlie the silly idealist. To view more of Charlie and one of Mr. Fugger's favourite films ever please CLICK HERE FOR CITY LIGHTS!

BEFORE LATER, NOW?

(pictured: Ugger having the craic with his biggest rock)

Did you know that there were bloggers during the Paleolithic age? Yes, there were. Of course, prehistory was pre-internet so Paleolithic bloggers had to engrave their blogposts into the bark of trees or the walls of caves. The following is the last entry of one such Paleolitic blogger, a blogger that went by the name of Ugger (uggthewoods.dryandwarmspot.cave). Ugger's last post provides a fascinating insight into early man's struggle to grasp the existential consequences of chronology and cause and effect. Here is what Mr. Ugger had to say:

'I live in a cave. It's a nice cave and I like it. It is cool and dark and I can hear the dripping water echo and the wind enter and leave. I have lots of nice things in my cave. Things like rocks and stones. I like to place the rocks and stones into little arrangements. It's grand. It's a grand pastime. Sometimes I look out and watch the others. Two of the males fighting over some female or the whole lot of them gathered around the carcass of some creature, gutting it and preparing it for the spit. After they are finished eating, I pop down there to scavenge whatever meat is left on the bones. If there's nothing left then that's fine. I have my berries and they see me through. I get by. I rarely get any trouble from the tribe or the big cats or the bears or anything. I am safe. I just hang out here arranging rocks and stones and thinking about stuff. The others think I'm wasting my time thinking but I enjoy it. Thinking is good. It's interesting. I think about lots of things. I often think about Booglarrr. Ahh, Booglarrr. Booglarrr of the long limbs and swaying hips. Kind Booglarrr. Gentle Booglarrr. Oh sweet Booglarrr. Boooooooooooooogllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrr. Booglarrr who never gives me a second look. Booglarrr who longs for Kunk. Kunk who has followed the river. Kunk who has seen the far trees and brought back the rare vinyl. Kunk of the decks.

Thinking of Booglarrr takes up a lot of my time but I've recently started thinking about something else a lot too. I've started thinking about something I don't think anyone has ever thought about. I have started thinking about a time. A time that is not Now or Before. I have started thinking about another time. A new time. A time after Now. I call this time Later.

Later confuses me. Why, if I can know what is happening in Now and can recall what happened in Before, can I not know what happens in Later? There must be some way of finding out. If there is a Later then something is happening in this Later. What is it? Are the big cats back in Later, jumping out from the trees? In Later, has Booglarrr finally noticed me and seen Kunk for what he is: a source of complimentary tickets to the tribal ball and not much more. What shape are the clouds in Later?

I look to the clouds Now and imagine them in Later. Do they hint of their Later selves by the way they are changing Now? Can they tell me other things about what is in Later? If I scatter the rocks and stones of my cave, will they land in a shape that depicts Later? Will the random rock arrangement speak of Later? Later has come to absorb me completely. Even when I am thinking of other things, I am not thinking of them in Now or in Before but in Later.

I have come to understand that there are two ways to get a decent idea of what is happening in Later. The first way of getting a better idea of what is happening in Later is by taking part in Now and trying to shape Later. But that thought makes me uncomfortable. That is an uncertain way of finding out what is in Later. If I go messing around with Now in the hopes of shaping Later I might end up not enjoying Now. I might ruin Now. I might make a mess of Now. I might make a fool of myself in Now and Booglarrr might laugh at me. I don't want to risk Now for Later. Now is all I have and Later is not here yet. I really like Now. I like to spend Now thinking. I like to spend Now thinking about Later.

Continuing to spend Now thinking about Later and making sure I remain spending Now thinking about Later is actually the second way of getting a better idea of what happens in Later Now. It's quite easy to predict: In Later, I will be here in my cave, arranging my rocks and stones, and thinking about Later. Booglarrr thinks no less of me in Later. She doesn't think of me at all in Later. The clouds are changing shape in Later as they are changing shape in Now so nothing really changes in Later and Later is the same as Now. To control Later, to keep Later the same as Now, all I have to do in Later is not do anything but think about Later. I am getting by in Later. I am not getting any trouble from the tribe or the big cats or the bears or anything in Later. In Later I am safe. I have my rocks and stones and the echo of the dripping water and the wind entering and leaving...

...argh, who am I kidding? The dripping water and the drafts are driving me crazy. I must've placed these ugging rocks and stones in every arrangement possible. I've got to get the ug out of here. I'm off. I'm getting the ug out of here ...Now!'

The blogpost ends abruptly there. Ugger's well-preserved remains were found scattered about the mouth of a cave in southwestern France. Examining the evidence, we might ascertain that our troglodyte proto-blogger finished his blogpost and departed his den with a new sense of purpose, only to be immediately pounced upon by a saber-tooth tiger and torn apart, alas becoming an artefact of Before that we can study Now.

OK, that's all for today. See you ...Later?

CRAP MAN Verses GOST of CRAP MAN!!!!

 LINKED: CRAP MAN ISSUED 23 - HALLOWEENED!!!!

THE AFTER-AFTERLIFE

Life is kind of intertwined with the afterlife. There's usually a ghost in the room with you. Someone you know, laughing at your jokes and listening to music with you. You can't see them though. They can only see you. They are always there. Don't worry, they tend not to hang around if you're doing anything private or intimate or whatever. Ghosts largely respect privacy.

It's sad being a ghost in the afterlife. They are always alone. The world is full of ghosts but they can't see each other. It's like they are on different frequencies, like radio stations that can never listen to each other. So, you're all they have for company. They are there at family gatherings and so on, unnoticed and unnoticeable in the corner. Enjoying the craic but sad really. Did you ever see some old friends from a bus window and wave but they didn't see you as they walked on, enjoying each other's company? Being a ghost is a bit like that.

A ghost will hang around watching loved ones live their lives and then those loved ones die and the ghost is left even more alone. New people move into the building and the ghost is left watching them, like it might a new TV show that has replaced its favourite. This is when ghosts start getting bored and feeling really lonely. This is when they might knock down a picture or slam a door shut. It requires a lot of effort for a ghost to slam a door shut. They have to build up to it for weeks. It's a real event for them. They slam the door and then they observe the reaction of the living. The living usually note the oddness of the occurrence and might remark on it a few times before eventually dismissing it and forgetting all about it. The exhausted ghost's little thrill at the slight acknowledgment will pass and the ghost will sit and pant and recall how easy it once was to slam doors shut and to open them. The ghost will probably wonder which it did more of while alive: slamming doors shut or opening them. The ghost will probably regret all the doors it slammed shut during its often lovely and sometimes unlovely existence; slamming doors shut on other people, slamming doors shut on itself, and eventually having the door of life slammed shut in its face. 'Ooh, I really wasted my life', say the ghosts to themselves. This is usually when ghosts start moaning and rattling their chains and that's when the living call the exorcist and that's when another door opens for the ghost and the ghost goes through it. On the other side of this door, the ghost discovers the after-afterlife. The after-afterlife is just a load of former-ghosts (ghosts of ghosts, if you will) that no longer worry about what they did when they were alive and instead spend all their time worrying about what they did when they were ghosts. 'Ooh, I really wasted my death', say the former-ghosts to themselves. The moaning and the chain rattling starts up again at this point but there is no one to call an exorcist and, even if there was, there is nowhere to move on to. It's a noisy place the after-afterlife and it's getting more and more full.

THE GHOST OF A LAUGH

Every Halloween all the ghosts have a fancy dress party. 'What does a ghost dress up as for Halloween?' I hear you ask. I'll tell you; at Halloween ghosts dress up as the living. Eugene (beloved husband and father, 1927 – 1988) is particularly enthusiastic. He gives everyone a good laugh, donning a wig and a suit and clomping around in heavy boots. He puts on a real show, shouting out statements like 'oh boy, I think I'm going to be late for work' and 'I'm really angry at the government'. Eugene's mockery of the piffling concerns of the living is always of great amusement to the other ghosts because the ghosts have passed on to a realm that transcends all trivia. From their vantage point, the whole of human life seems an unimportant charade. The ghosts regard living human concerns in the same way that a living adult might regard a child's concerns. A kid breaks a toy and it is the end of their world, they weep and wail and curse unjust fate, but the adult knows that it doesn't really matter. The adult knows that the kid will grow up and forget all about that toy. Likewise, the paltry triumphs and petty indignities experienced by the living every single day are regarded by ghosts as inconsequential.

The ghosts see us live, suffering or thriving, laughing or weeping, and they know it doesn't matter because they can also see the great astral engine, grinding and shaking and generally being monumental. All dwarfs in comparison to the great astral engine that powers the cosmos and beyond. So, the ghosts guffaw as Eugene mocks, pretending he is in love or at war or going for a haircut of returning a faulty product to the shops. 'I'm going to write to the newspaper about this', says Eugene, feigning outrage in his dopey living human voice and all the ghosts hold their transparent tummies and laugh and laugh and laugh. And then Eugene gets tired and sits down as spectral tears of uncanny mirth are wiped from eerie eyes. The sense of fun abates and a lull descends. 'What'll we do now?' asks Katja (beloved daughter and drug mule, 1969 – 1997). 'We could have a bit of float around the place', suggests Bill (shot for cowardice, 1891 - 1917) but no one likes that idea. They can do that anytime. It's usually around now that the ghosts once again become aware of the astral engine, churning and coughing and keeping them here for ever and ever. They may mock the trivial preoccupations of the living but, deep down in their former hearts, ghosts envy the highs and lows experienced by those still alive, no matter how naive or piddling. The ghosts miss the innocent exuberance and even the incidental despair. Ghosts envy the living in the same way an adult might envy the simplicity of a child. It may be silly but it's life. The ghosts silently reflect on this as they sit in their cloudy prison, hearing the great engine chug and being haunted themselves by the ghost of a laugh.

THE DESIRE OF THE LIVING TO KILL

A big war was being planned in the name of freedom and patriotism and other sacrosanct and rarely interrogated concepts. In an attempt to prevent this new big war, the ghosts of all those who had died in previous wars decided to manifest, en masse, at various significant locations around the world. The idea was that the ghosts would appear and tell the living that war just isn't worth it and is a bit of a shit idea. 'We'll spook them into coming up with a better option', said one of the ghosts before they all appeared.

So, all the ghosts manifested around the world. They were quite a sight to see. The ghosts ranged from troglodytes who had come a cropper in tribal skirmishes to little kid ghosts who had recently lost their lives after stepping on land mines. Great war heroes of the past were also amongst their number and did most of the talking. The ghosts made their point clearly and then refused to leave until their advice had been adhered to.

The leaders of the living world met and discussed the dead. It was decided that the wishes of the dead were irrelevant because, unlike the wars of the past, this new war was definitely worth having due to freedom and all that. The ghosts were termed 'appeasers from beyond the grave' and it was decided that they would have to be dealt with. 'The ghosts are a threat to freedom', said a great thinker in a newspaper and this sentiment went viral and got lots of 'likes' on politics.ie and other heavyweight intellectual fora.

The militaries of the world joined forces for a time and trained in the new discipline of combative exorcism. The ghosts didn't stand a chance and were sent back to the afterlife. Then, after a global victory celebration, the nations of the world resumed their plan to embark on a big new war and did so and loads of people got killed and new ghosts were made.

Those who were made ghosts in the new war went on to the afterlife and met all the other war dead who had tried to stop them fighting. 'So, was it worth it?' the old ghosts asked the new ghosts. Some of the new ghosts, the spirits of civilian casualties mainly, agreed that the new war was not worth it and that nothing had really changed for the better in the end. Those amongst the new ghosts who had died as members of the military in the various fields of operation pointed out that the conflict may have been worthwhile as they had received posthumous medals and that those medals were shiny. The military ghosts continued in this belief until they looked down on the world of the living and observed their descendants getting their medals appraised on The Antiques Roadshow and selling them off to eccentric war enthusiasts for disappointing profits of around a tenner a piece.

Wars continued after that and they were bitterly recalled by the losers and celebrated by the winers and the medals of all sides continued to be sold for fuck all. The new wars created new ghosts and those new ghosts joined the other ghosts of former wars in the vast borough of the afterlife that is reserved for those who die due to war. 'It's getting crowded here', noted one ghost and all the other ghosts agreed but they also knew that they could do nothing about it. As much as these ghosts would like to prevent the living from prematurely dying, their desire is nothing when compared to the desire of the living to kill.

THE SOULS OF THE DEAD

Imagine if everywhere in the world was haunted. They'd have to make TV shows about houses that weren't haunted. The shows would be called things like Britain's Most Unhaunted. 'Ooh, nothing has moved by itself for ages, creepy.' They would have seances and get really freaked out when the planchette didn't move. There would be legends of a headed horseman. Children would be scared that there is nothing under the bed. Superstitious people wouldn't like taking shortcuts through graveyards in case they didn't see a ghost. I could go on but you get the gist of it.

In a world like this ghosts would be commonplace. It would be accepted that you die and you become a ghost and you hang around your old haunts. In some respects it wouldn't be too bad being a ghost. The pressure would be off. You wouldn't have to earn money to feed and shelter yourself and all that. However, there would be a bad side. Ghosts stop. They stop still. They can't learn anymore. They can't understand new technology or social advances. They can't comprehend that times and preoccupations change. They can't mature or become wiser as people. They can't move on. They are like stuck records, stuck at the moment of their deaths. If they have a grievance or an issue that is unresolved it will remain unresolved. They will continue to fret and worry about it until the end of time. That's why ghosts are always seen doing the same thing, looking for someone they were parted with or whatever. Ghosts are a bit OCD.

In a world where everywhere is haunted people would accept the existence of ghosts but they would find ghosts pretty boring. 'Oh Jaysus, is he still going on about how he was wronged by his brother and thrown down the well. What a repetitive dick .' Ghosts would be considered something to be humoured and tolerated. They'd be a bit like the friends or colleagues we all have who keep banging on and on about the same thing over and over. You know the type. They get on their hobby horse and you just nod. You don't want to be rude but privately you wish they were dead. Except maybe they are dead. Maybe they keep going over and over the same ground because they are ghosts. Did you ever consider that? They'll always be there, going on and on and on and on and they'll never stop going on and on and on and on. They may be irritating but maybe you should pity them. It's sad really. You might even be a ghost yourself. Does the same shit go around and around and around and around in your head? Has this been going on for years? Well maybe you're a ghost. Maybe you're dead. If you're not dead yet, you better address your obsessions. Otherwise, when you eventually do die, you'll be stuck with your obsessions until the end of time. Going on and on and on and on.

Come to think of it, I reckon I might be a ghost. I tend to just appear and corner people and moan and moan and moan about the same old crap. I'm usually moaning about the telly. Maybe in the future that's what ghosts will be seen doing – sitting in front of a spectral goggle box, continually pressing a remote control and muttering about what a useless tit Ryan Tubridy is.

I've a friend who's even worse than me. He got so repetitive it became a real problem. He became obsessed with how repetitive he was and he kept talking about it, which was very repetitive. The irony of that escaped him. He went to see a shrink about his problem. 'It's not a therapist you need, it's an exorcist', said the shrink as he walked my friend into a nearby graveyard and pointed at his tombstone. Then the shrink charged my friend €750. Being a ghost, my friend had no money so the shrink charged it to my friend's widow. She had to take the fee from the money my friend left her. She was outraged. She keeps going on about it. She'll take that grievance to her grave. And beyond.

I think I'll write about ghosts for the rest of the month because it's October and Halloween approaches. Halloween - a time when the souls of the dead return. The souls of the dead boring.

SHITTY AFTERNOON

 

A bloke bashed a granny in the park last night. I read about it on the internet. There were comments underneath: 'bloody animal' - 'worse than an animal' - 'how would he like to be bashed in the park?' - 'what has our world come to?' - 'you wouldn't get this in Canada' – 'he needs hanging' - 'we should take back our parks' - 'we should bring back the birch' - 'if people didn't go around doing this sort of thing it wouldn't happen' ...and so on. I left a comment myself. 'I hope some big lad rapes the hole off him in prison', I posted. I was banned from the website. I'm not sure what I did wrong. I was only agreeing. The injustice of the ban was upsetting me a bit so I put the thought of it out of my head.

No one mentioned the granny or how she was doing.

I turned off the computer and decided to do something else instead. Having long lost interest in television, pornography, and supposedly inspirational and thought provoking books, I decided to just sit and look out the window. A big black cloud hung over the whole shitty afternoon. The wind was hissing and bullying a load of dead leaves; booting them up the arse and causing them to flee in all directions. A crumpled crisp packet was snared in a branch of a dead tree. Mister Tayto, holding on for dear life. He lost his grip and was gone. Fwoosh! His services no longer required by the merciless Universe. Then an imagined image of the bashed granny's head came into my head. Horrible. I decided to put this head out of my head and picked up the phone and rang a friend. There was no answer. Then I rang another friend who answered and told me he couldn't talk because he was with the first friend I rang. 'What are you guys doing?' I asked/pleaded. 'We're talking about you', he said and hung up. I felt a tad offended. I didn't dwell on it. I put the thought out of my head.

I went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. I watched it heat and boil and automatically click off. Then I left the kitchen, forgetting why I had gone in there in the first place. The thought had gone from my head. I'm sure it wasn't important, probably just a cup of tea or something. I saw an old plum I never ate; wilted, brown, bruised - a bashed granny's head. The bashed granny's head had crept back in my head. 'Begone bashed granny's head!' I roared like an exorcist banishing a demon. Then there was a knock at the front door and I hoped whoever was there didn't hear me.

I opened the door and saw the woman who lives in the nearby flat. She wanted me to go to her flat and lift something for her. I agreed and we went and I picked up the thing she wanted lifting. It was her father. He was slight, aged, and infirm. I lifted him out of a bed while she changed the sheets. The woman's father was embarrassed as I stood there holding him, his pajama bottoms all bunched up, his pale boney shins resting in the crooks of my arms, his wheezing ribs beneath a string vest. Imagine if I just went and fucked him out the window. Right in front of her. Imagine that. It'd be a disgrace. I put the thought out of my head, just like I did the thought of the bashed granny head. I wonder where my thoughts go when I put them out of my head. Do they go into someone else's head? I pity the poor head that ends up with my thoughts.

So, anyway, there I was holding this vulnerable, pulmonarily fucked, little bird man in my arms as his daughter changed his sheets. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke. 'You wouldn't last long in the park would you?', I asked the old fella. It was a rhetorical question. He looked at me with a combination of astonishment and disgust. His daughter turned and looked at me too. She looked furious. 'What kind of thing is that to say?' she asked (also rhetorical). 'What kind of man are you?' she continued, rhetorically. 'Well at least I didn't fuck him out the window', I said in my defence. There was a joint gasp from the woman and her father. Then the bird man feebly proffered a clenched fist and he threatened me. 'I'll fuck you out the window', he said. 'Ah no', I replied, 'ah no, I doubt you'd be able to manage that at this stage'. Then the woman asked me to put her father down on the bed and I did. Then she slapped me in the chops and pushed me out of her flat and into the corridor.

As I returned to my own place I passed the big window in the hall. I regarded it and then I opened it and then I jumped out of it.

I was whisked off by the wind (the wind is an awful whisker given half the chance) and I hurtled through the air with the dead leaves and crumpled Mister Tayto. Other things were also caught up in the current. Unanswered calls, unmade cups of tea, uneaten plums, and internet forum posts sped by as did dismissive remarks made by friends, inappropriate jokes, and unexpressed thoughts of flinging feeble old men out of windows. The bashed granny head I had put out of my head tumbled past too. 'There you are!' I said to the head. So, here I was with the thoughts in my head that I put out of my head. But where were we headed?

We twisted, turned, and somersaulted toward the big black cloud. The big black cloud that hung over the whole shitty afternoon. I waved at the old man and his daughter as I flew by their window. I'm not sure if they saw me. Maybe they did and just pretended they didn't. Maybe they had put the thought of me out of their heads.

I saw the inane punditry, atrophied foliage, notional beverages, unconsumed fruit, redundant snack food mascots, lengthy dialing tones, snotty dismissals, black humour, bad notions, and the bashed granny's head being sucked into the big black cloud ahead of me. I was next. I was about to discover where all us examples of intellectual and existential detritus end up. You already know of course. You can see us right now in front of you - the unwanted thoughts and purposeless products of a shitty afternoon, sitting right here in front of you in yet another blogpost. This is where my thoughts go when I put them out of my head. They go into someone else's head. They go into your head. I pity your poor head, ending up with my thoughts.

NEW JAMES BOND FILM!

Can't wait to see the new James Bond film. He'll be blowing things up and battering lads and shooting fellas in the head. He has a punch up on the roof of a train in this one and I bet he has sex with at least two women. He'll probably have it off with one in the shower (a nice spacious shower with a secure bath mat and all that). He's fuckin great. I don't care that he works for that lot. I'm right behind him as long as he's firing the old Walther PPK and jumping off things that are too high to jump off. I hope the baddie is a bit gay too. Not that I've anything against the gays but it just seems to work if there is a hint of gayness to the baddie. The baddie should be either gay or ambiguous or really possessive and insecure when it comes to women. If the baddie isn't gay he should be mad on this woman that he keeps around the place like a cat or something but he should know that she'd rather be riding Bond and probably has and probably will again once Bond shows up and kills the baddie. That should drive the baddie mad. It's called subtext. The baddie might be trying to bring about all kinds of chaos in the world so he can profit from it in some mad way but really it's just compensation for the fact that his woman would rather ride Bond or maybe he'd like to ride Bond himself but can't because Bond isn't into fellas and hasn't ridden one since his days at Eton. 

DAVE LEE TRAVIS – NOT A PAEDOPHILE

Now then, now then, what's all this then? They are saying that Jimmy Saville was a paedophile. Goodness gracious me ladies and gentlemen, perhaps he was, perhaps he was.

Now, no one is saying that Dave Lee Travis is a paedophile and that's all well and good because there isn't the tiniest inkling that DLT (a.k.a. The Hairy Cornflake) was a paedophile. However, I think most would agree with me when I say that, despite not being a paedophile, Dave Lee Travis should be treated as if he is a paedophile. Why? Just take a look at him. I rest my case.

(There you go now, two Fugger posts in one day and it's only the afternoon. Right, I'm going back to bed.)

TIGER

                                                      (fearful symmetry)

I had a nightmare about a tiger last night. I was throwing rocks at it and trying to keep it away but I was running out of rocks. I'm not sure what it all meant. My telly license is overdue and they sent another letter so it's probably just something to do with that. Imagine being mauled by a tiger though. Seriously, could you imagine it? You'd be torn apart. It'd be all flashing fangs and claws, inches long. The noise out of the thing too, the roaring and growling, it's like an engine. And the strength of it! Jesus. It'd be like getting caught up in a combine harvester. You'd feel the flesh being ripped from your body. A tiger's paw is bigger than the average human head. It could knock your head right off your neck if it wanted to. Holy fuck, seriously, it's horrific. You wouldn't stand a chance. It doesn't bear thinking about. Why did you even bring it up in the first place? I really wish you hadn't to be honest. It's enough to give you nightmares.

MARK E. SMITH: MODERN DAY SHAKESPEARE

Mark E. Smith, more like Mark E. Wordsmith, eh readers? I love the lyrics of Mark E. Smith and The Fall. They always make me think about things. I'm not sure what things they make me think about but I certainly think about them. There are many examples of great lyrics from the band's three hundred and forty eight year career but here are the lyrics from my favourite ditty by the band:

THE MUTTERABLE

A venn diagram. A venn diaaagraaammm.

Plastic Nepalese storage units from Nepal

made of

made of

Plastic! Yeah.

I don't like people, very much.

I don't like people verrrry muuuch.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

There is no cure for the mutterable.

The mutterable of East Anglian anorak wearer.

East Anglian anorak wearer. Yeah.

On the bus. On the bus.

Rosa Parks didn't like sitting at the back very much.

I heard you fiendish and beige

A large Ulster fry. An Ulster fry.

Yeah.

An Ulster fry. On Death row in East Anglia.

We release 78 albums a year. Yeah.

I don't like people, very much.

I don't like people verrrry muuuch.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

24 hour newsagents.

A packet of Fox's Glacier Mints or the Iran Contra Affair.

They named the park after Arthur C. Clarke.

His sister was Petula. She was unusual-ah.

Fox's Glarier Mints. Fox's Glacier Mints. Yeah.

Failed scent of aroma versatile

Colonel Gaddafi got stabbed in the jaxi.

He should have hailed a taxi to...

East Anglia. East Anglia. Yeah. Iran Contra Affair.

Anyway. It makes no difference to me.

I don't like people, very much.

I don't like people verrrry muuuch.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

Crystal. I Ching. Kerching.

Feng shui. Hong Kong Phooey.

The future is reminiscent of the future.

The Hair Bear Bunch invited to brunch. Iran Contra Affair.

Iran Contra Affair. Yeah.

Libya is next to Sudan and I drive a Sedan.

Iran Contra Affair. Yeah.

Hatchback hunchback

Backpack wolf pack

and I'm glad John Peel is dead

I don't like people, very much.

I don't like people verrrry muuuch.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

Scallions.

Venn diagram. Venn diagram. Yeah.

I don't like people verrrry muuuch.

Makes you think doesn't it? Mark E. Smith is like a modern day Shakespeare. A modern day Shakespeare muttering in his sleep. Here's another song by Mark and The Fall. Turn the volume up full and have a little dance around the room why don't you? Go on. Go on. I won't tell anyone.

DREAM DIARY

Dream: I'm wresting Valerie Trierweiler in a paddling pool filled with blancmange. She gasps as she struggles to pin me. I keep saying 'you've met your match this time m'lady'. Not sure of meaning. Woke up hungry. Made rasher sandwiches.

THAT SATURDAY FEELING

There's a feeling the majority of us have experienced but never talk about. It's a strange feeling. A slow motion feeling. It's that feeling you get as the roller coaster tips over the brink. It's that feeling you get when you've lost control of the car and a truck approaches. It's that feeling you get when the noose is around your neck and the trapdoor opens beneath your feet. It's that feeling you get when the guillotine drops and you've just beheaded the king. It's that feeling you get as a clenched fist approaches your face. It's that feeling you get when the beach falls silent and the tsunami looms. It's that feeling you get just as a mad dog sinks its teeth into your arse. It's that feeling you get when the firstborn's head is pushed through. It's that feeling you get the instant you realise you've 'followed through'. It's that feeling you get when the sophisticated and elegant love of your life unexpectedly enters a room just as you're doing your Macho Man Randy Savage impersonation.

You know that feeling?

It's a feeling. It's just a feeling, a sensation. You don't think during it. You just feel. If you did think something while you had this feeling it would probably be something like 'HOLY... JAYSUS... MAC... FUCK!' but you don't think while you have this feeling. You just accept. You just slip into a pocket slow motion dimension and await your fate.

Sometimes it happens to a lot of us at once. These times are considered historic. After the fact, everyone explains what they were thinking at the time ('well, when we opened Enola Gay's bomb bay doors and dropped Little Boy, I immediately thought...') but it's all bullshit because you don't think anything. You just get that feeling.

You never forget this feeling. It's the feeling that accompanies dramatic change. It's the feeling that accompanies the biggest turning points in your life. It's the feeling you get when the adrenal glands override the frontal lobe and tell it to 'shut the fuck up a second'.

This feeling is felt by us all and if you haven't felt it yet, well, you will. It's more probable that you already have felt this feeling though. Maybe you felt it recently. Maybe you felt it earlier in the week or just today. Maybe you remember it from long ago. We'll all get this feeling again. It's probably the last thing we'll ever feel. I'd be willing to bet a heap of cash that it's the last thing we ever feel but if I had proof I'd be in no position to collect my winnings.

I wonder when we'll get this feeling next. I wonder if it will be soon. I wonder will it be in an hour or less than hour or over the weekend. I wonder, could it be that Saturday feeling?

PRINCIPLES

(pictured: one man protest outside my gaff)

My mate Jimmy is pretty smart. He's read most of The God Delusion and posts regularly on politics.ie. He's a real thinker and cares about stuff and that. 'Let's do our bit for the principle of freedom of speech and draw Mohammad in risqué situations', he said and took out a load of paper and crayons. We set to work. Jimmy drew Mohammad doing all sorts. It was pretty outrageous stuff. I won't go into details in case I'm dragged from my flat and barbecued by a bunch of fanatics. I'm sure you understand. It would be pretty dumb of me.

After a while, Jimmy took a look at the pictures I had drawn. 'Is that meant to be Mohammad?' he asked.

'No' I answered.

“Who is it then?'

'It's your mam.'

'Really? And who's that with her?'

'That's your dad.'

'And... and what are they doing?'

'Well, your mam there is taking a dump in your dad's gob.'

Jimmy said nothing so I continued.

'And you see that thing there? Well that's a donkey and it's got a big micky and it's...'

I noticed the expression on Jimmy's face. He looked kind of bewildered at first and then he looked hurt. Then he looked angry and then he punched me in the face. I immediately called the gardai and had him arrested. Then I scanned the images of his parents and the donkey and all that and put them up on a site called jimmysmamanddaddofreedomofspeech.com. I continue to update the site with new drawings.

I find the exercise to be both constructive and worthwhile. I am exploring the principle of freedom of speech and how it should be exercised, i.e. wantonly and without regard for potential consequences. There should be no consequences. Ever! A principle is a principle and that is that. Where would we be without our principles? The fact that my drawings of Jimmy's mam and dad are neither amusing nor illuminating in any way is beside the point because the point is that I enjoy doing them. I enjoy drawing them, I enjoy seeing the expression on Jimmy's face when he sees them, and I enjoy seeing him spend a few hours in the cells after he punches me in the face. I will continue drawing Jimmy's mam and dad doing all sorts of mad things with donkeys, badgers, cats, and patio furniture etc. and I will continue putting these pictures online until Jimmy realises that I have a right to express myself.

The main appeal in upholding this principle is that it makes me feel superior and gives me something to talk about. What else is freedom of speech for? Why else would I bother with principles?