PIECES OF OLD SHITE ON THE ROAD

I have no great fondness for the corporeal form. All the sleeping and waking, breathing and eating, discourse and intercourse, working and earning, all the usual stuff indulged by necessity or beloved by others is lost on me. I find it all a tremendous effort. I've irritable bowl syndrome too and I get wet when it rains. The mental constriction of existing as a single entity and being regarded as an intellectual/psychological individual is also tiresome. All the associations and memories and memories of associations can get very complex. It's enough to give you a complex. What I'm building to here is an admission. The admission that I'd rather be a load of ideas than an actual person. I'd quite fancy being a cloudy emanation of flashing concepts, a nebulous exudate of lightbulb moments, floating around, seeping imperceptibly forth, descending on heads, going in ears, giving people notions to enact. I'd find that preferable to getting up every morning, plugging in the heater or opening the window, trying to stay warm or keep cool. That stuff's not for me. Not being me is for me. Being a non-being who inspires other beings is for me. People could see the rolling mist of sparking ideas, crackling and drifting in their direction and they could say 'oh, it's ideas time'. They'd put their thumbs up. It'd be grand.

It's not that I credit my ideas above other people's or anything else. I just credit my ideas above myself. I've never been one to credit myself for my ideas. I just get ideas, like the rest of you. Some good, some bad, some OK, none mine. Ideas do not come from people. Ideas come to people. People just happen upon ideas, like they happen upon pieces of old shite on the road and step in them. Ideas are just pieces of old shite on the road and you don't take credit for the shite on your shoe so don't take credit for ideas. The only thing you can take credit for is the way you act upon/actualise the ideas you get, just like the way you can credit yourself for wiping shite off your shoe. The deftness and conscientiousness of your efforts are uniquely yours but the initial inspiration is not yours. You don't create the ideas you get just like you don't do the pieces of old shite on the road you step in. At least, I hope you don't do the pieces of old shite on the road you step in. If you do do the pieces of old shite on the road you step in then that not only means you are a very unusual person but also that the analogy I'm labouring here will be harder for you to grasp.

Anyway, to inconclusively conclude this conclusion I've come to, yes, I'd like to just be the ideas floating in the heads of others and seeing what those others do with me. Yes, I'd like to just be the pieces of old shite on the road wondering how people will wipe me off and scoop me out of the grooves in the soles, gouge me out of the corrugations in their souls. Yes, I think it'd be better to be the pieces of old shite on the road than the person who steps in them and has to wipe them off, again and again and again and again. Sometimes there are so many pieces of old shite on the road you can no longer see the road. It's enough to make you wonder if there is even a road under all the pieces of old shite at all or is it all just an idea...

...Jaysus 

...what an awful notion

...I'm going back to bed.

THE MAKING OF THE MAKING OF

I recently watched a film and after it was finished I watched another film about the making of the film and then I watched a third film about the making of the making of the film and then I watched a fourth film about the making of the making of the making of the film and then I watched a fifth film about the making of the making of the making of the making of the film then I watched a sixth film about the making of the making of the making of the making of the making of the film and then I watched a seventh film about... well, I'm sure you get the gist of it by now. I kept on watching 'the making of the making of' films for days and days and days until finally I realised that this endless daisy chain of 'the making of the making of' films was the nation's largest and only employer and that the entire population worked as part of a film crew following a film crew following a film crew following a film crew and on and on until finally I realised that I too was holding a camera and was at the end of this endless iteration with my lens pointed at the screen filming me watching me filming me watching me and so on and so on and everything kind of dissolved into that infinity you see when you attach a camera to a monitor and then point the camera into the monitor and see an endless corridor of monitors within monitors within monitors and I was running in that endless monitor corridor chasing myself and being chased by another myself who was also being chased by an endless procession of myselves and I was the last living person on Earth and so were you and so is everyone else and we're all so very tired and we're all so very hungry because no one thought to hire a catering department and even if they did there'd be no one to work for it because we're all busy making films about other films that are about the making of films that are about the making of other films that end up with us in the films making films about us watching the films that are about us watching the films about us watching the films ourselves and watching ourselves watching the films that are about us watching the films ourselves and watching and chasing ourselves and being chased by ourselves and watching the making of the chasing ourselves being chased by ourselves being chased by ourselves chasing the chasers and being chased by chasers chasing ourselves and so on and so on and so on and I'm sure you get the gist of it after all that so can I go now?

KILLED A LAD YESTERDAY

Killed a lad on the road yesterday. Middle of the afternoon. Decapitated him with a paper scissors. Not the ideal tool for the job. It took about an hour. Most people just walked on by. Some people asked me to knock it off but moved on when I told them I wouldn't and waved the scissors about a bit. By the time the cops arrived the fella was headless and my work was done. Not sure why I did it. A search for validation? A cry for attention? Madness? Boredom? Possession? Dispossession? Who knows? Not many people are wondering. They are happy enough to just put it down to terrorism. Terrorism's the thing these days.

I took footage of the butchery with the camera on my mobile phone. Then I sold the footage to News International for millions. Then I used the money I made to hire the world's top lawyer to defend me in court. He got me off on a technicality. I only had €14 left after I paid the lawyer so I spent that on newspapers and read about what I did. All the usual adjectives were there: 'monstrous', 'barbaric', 'inhuman'. I turned the page in one tabloid and saw some recent pap shots of Michael Barrymore. He could be seen pushing a wheelbarrow in a garden centre where he's working now. 'Michael Barrow-more' read the sub. Barrymore probably took those pictures himself. He probably got almost as much from News International as I did for my footage. He's probably at that all the time now. He's probably making more out of that than he was paid by ITV back in the days of Strike It Lucky. People love a spectacle you see. They like to see things happen to people. Other people. There's cash to be made from making things occur. Shocking things. Devastating things. Sad things. Whatever. People just want to be interested in things, ...for a bit. It brings them together. It gives them commonality. It unites them in condemnation, disgust, and schadenfreude. For a while at least. The masses tend not to dwell. Soon enough they'll be talking about something else so you have to seize your moment. I admire Michael Barrymore for the longevity of his disgrace. He was always keen to entertain and people are always keen to be entertained.

(He's doing 'awight')

SLY BASTARDS FATHERS

Do you remember when your father would put on this tune and get the whole family up to dance?

I bet you remember. Everyone's family was at it back in the day. 'Get up', says the father and the mother springs up and claps her hands and goes to the record player and on it comes - full blast. 'Get up you shower of fucks', demands the father and up we get. 'But I'm tired from school', protests the big sister but it's no use. 'Get up!' Get Up! GET UP!'. And then the whole family is dancing. Dancing around the sitting room. Marching dancing kind of. A kind of march/dance thing. All around the sitting room, even the dog, out the door and into the kitchen and across the hall and up the stairs and in and out of the jax and back down the stairs and out the front door and around the garden and through the neighbour's garden (the father giving the fingers when the neighbour looks out the window) and then back into the house and back into the sitting room just as the tune comes to an end and 'put it back on Mairéad' demands the father and your mother (whose name is no doubt Mairéad) claps her hands and back on it goes and march/dancing the family goes, repeating the circuit, even the dog, fingers to your man next door and back to the sitting room and then the song ends and 'put it back on Mairéad' and off we go and do the whole thing again and back to the sitting room and 'put it back on Mairéad' and off we go, even the dog, around and around, fingers to your man, and 'put the fucker back on Mairéad' and off we go, again and again and the dog runs away and 'put it back on Mairéad' and dance/marching it is, on and on, and a 'fuck you' to next door and the sister runs away and back to the sitting room and 'put it back on Mairéad' and more dance/marching and here come the guards and here's social services and the father gets a caution and it's back to the sitting room and 'put it back on Mairéad' and so on and so on for about three and half hours until everyone is so knackered and out of it that they all collapse in a heap and the father gets to watch the snooker in peace. Sly bastards fathers. It was the same in every house.

...right?

THE OPPOSITE OF A UNIFORM

From the Stanford and Milgram experiments we know that wearing a uniform gives you authority and makes people inclined to do as you say. Put on a lab coat or even a shitey old khaki shirt and people will think you're the boss. They'll definitely do as they're told if you dress as a cop. It's all in the uniform. However, I started wondering if the reverse would be as effective. What if you wear the opposite of a uniform? Will people do as you say then? 'But Mr. Fugger, our Lord and saviour, please tell us what the opposite of a uniform is', I hear you, my flock, mindlessly bleat. Well, I'll tell you what the opposite of a uniform is. The opposite of a uniform is what I was wearing last Thursday afternoon. The opposite of a uniform is a long plum coloured lady's coat, a gas-mask, diving flippers, and nothing else. I don't normally dress like this of course but it was required for the purpose of my experiment. (To be perfectly honest, I found the attire strangely liberating and couldn't shake the feeling that I had finally found myself.)

Anyway, I went off down the main-street and started giving people orders: 'Get out of your car and hand me the keys!' 'Bark like a dog!' 'Touch your toes!' 'Lie down on the path!' 'Tell me that you love me!' All that sort of thing. Well, it turned out that people also do as you command if you wear the opposite of a uniform. Granted, they had some trouble making out my muffled demands due to the gas-mask but, with some considerable persistence on my part, they eventually got the gist of what was expected of them and complied accordingly. I don't think anyone did as I told them because they were deferring to my authority. I think they did as I commanded for a different reason. I think they obeyed me because of the lad. You know what I mean by 'the lad' don't you? I'm talking about my equipment, my equipment below, the tackle, my wee willy winky, my lad. My lad was flapping about and peeking out of the coat and I think people just didn't want to deal with it. They just wanted me and my lad to go away. I'm familiar with that. I'm kind of used to the whole standing there with my lad out and feeling a bit unwanted thing. I bet you know the feeling too, if you have a lad that is. If you don't have a lad you've probably had some lad possessor standing in front of you at some stage with his lad on show and you've just wanted him to go away, especially if it was in a park and you never met him before and you were with your granny or something.

So yeah, it was my 'lad'. Maybe it wasn't just my lad though. Maybe it was my lad combined with the rest of the anti-uniform - the plum lady's coat, the gas-mask, the flippers. Maybe it was something about those things combined, about that fearful ensemble, that made people do as I said. Whatever it was, it worked.

Now, I've noticed people disrespecting the gardaí these days, shouting at them on the road and refusing to make statements against Donegal people the gardaí have taken against for personal reasons. I've noticed this and I find it a disgrace. If you think about it, a change in uniform might correct the deference deficit. A bit of a lad cameo from beneath a lady's plum coat (with the flippers and the mask) might be just the thing needed to keep Seán and Síle Scumbag on the straight and narrow. OK, banghardaí won't be able to utilise the lad element but a glimpse of gussetlessness should suffice.  

Yes indeed, the gardaí need to stop wearing uniforms and start wearing the opposite of uniforms. Driving a squad car with the diving flippers on might be difficult though but maybe they could customise the pedals or the gardaí could quickly put on the flippers as they get out of the car. Whatever, we'll figure it out.

You probably think my suggestion is absurd. You probably think the gardaí would never wear such an outfit and that they'd be treated as a joke if they did. However, I've done my experiment and I know you're wrong. My suggestion is no more absurd than the whole notion that we should obey the gardaí because they wear a certain type of hat. Think about that one; they are strangers, they have done nothing to earn your trust or respect, and you are expected do as they say because they have this magic hat. That's what is absurd and that's what is no longer working.

Of course, there is always another option. You could always get people to do as you say by treating them with dignity, trying to build a sense of parity, and not coming across with an attitude but I won't go on about that option. It's naïve, it's old fashioned, and it's unrealistic. I'll keep schtum on that one and just keep pushing for the gas-mask, flippers, plum coat, and the lad/fanny. After all, I don't want people thinking I'm an oddball.

TED TALKS WITH FUGGER

(pictured – one of my early talks at the Chicago School of Economics)

Being a 'thought leader', Fugger (a.k.a. the people's blogger, a.k.a. me) has been invited to do one of those TED Talks lecturettes for the internet. I want to make the right impression so I reckon I'll wear casual but upmarket sneakers, a Lacoste polo shirt, and a baseball cap with the word DARPA written on it. I'll smile and come over all harmless and seem like I'm basically just a good guy because, y'know, I am a good guy, mainly, for the most part and you shouldn't worry about the other part. I might be holding a tennis racquet too, for no reason really other than to give the impression that I've just come off the court and am the physically active type. Maybe I'll have small towel around my neck. Maybe I'll be padding my brow with the towel as I come on stage and then I'll drape the towel around my neck. That kind of thing. Signifiers of my well adjusted trustworthiness. I'll present myself as a kind of athletic, casual, intelligent, non-evil, easy going, geek guy and I'll open with a self-deprecating joke to invite a gentle wave of the laughter of consensus from the audience. Oh yeah, and I'll have a copy of Atlas Shrugged under my arm - for the real heads.

But what will my talk be about I can almost hear you wonder. Well, my talk will be about robbing. I'll be presenting the crazy but sane idea that robbing is OK. 'Hey, it's OK to rob', I'll say and the audience will gasp and maybe titter a little. Then I'll go on to explain how you can get lots of things from robbing and how western civilisation has been robbing for as long as it's been a western civilisation. 'We'd be nothing without robbing and everyone likes to take so just go for it, grab what you can', I'll say. 'Hey', you're probably thinking out loud, 'what about the guy you are robbing from, he'll have nothing' but I say that there is nothing stopping him from robbing too. We'll all just take stuff and it will be a meritocracy of sorts because the person who is best at robbing will get the most stuff. On a global scale, we, the West, will be the best because we'll be able utilise our trade advantages to impose tariffs on those who object to being robbed from and use our advanced technologies, drones and all that, to keep taking stuff from them. You might say that this is unfair on those who aren't good at robbing or, on a global scale, countries at too much of an economic disadvantage to develop robbing technology or influence the rules of worldwide economic thievery/transaction. My response to that is that being robbed from will incentivise those who are robbed from to improve their robbing skills. It's a kind of 'pull your socks up guys' thing. At TED Talks I'll also try and argue that robbing is good for the environment in some way but I haven't figured that part out yet.

Then I'll point out that shoplifters and illegal downloaders are not included in this new thought paradigm and that people who indulge in such activities should be shot in the head by privately owned corporate militias. I think everyone is going to be pretty impressed with my talk and I'll get a big round of applause and the video will go viral.

After I'm done talking I'll go for sushi with Patri Friedman and book a place on his seasteading cruiser The Fountainhead. Going forward.

I THINK I WILL GO SHOPPING

Compliant revenue and data providing labour units, that's what we want. That is what we want you, the citizen, to be and that is what you, the citizen, should aspire to be. It's better for us, it's better for you, it's better for everyone . . .but . . .it's not that simple to achieve.

The trouble seems to be twofold. Firstly, you are not readily and constantly visible and could be up to anything at anytime. This hinders our ability to provide services. How can we help you live the life you want to live if we don't know what kind of life you are living? The more we know the better. Secondly, you keep secrets and these secrets are stored in your brain which is in your head and difficult for us to access. We can't get access to your head and so remain ignorant of what potential revenue generating desires reside there. Imagine it this way - the world is a shop, you are in that shop but you will not tell the shopkeeper what you want, which means he doesn't know what to put on the shelves. It is better for you if the shopkeeper knows what you want at all times. The ideal scenario would be if the shopkeeper knew you so well as to practically be able to read your mind. Imagine the super shop we could all live in if the shopkeeper could read your mind.

So, in order to make the world a super shop we need to be able to practically read your mind. For us to be able to practically read your mind we need to know EVERYTHING about you. Where you are at all times and what you are thinking at all times. To do this we need to build a profile so we can meet the needs of that profile because that is what you will ultimately be - you will be a profile.

To help you become a profile (thereby helping us make your world a super shop) we suggest the removal of the human head and its replacement with a CCTV camera. A population of CCTV camera headed people recording themselves and each other at all times will ensure that we know where you are and what you are doing. We will also know what you are thinking. You will be thinking nothing because your head will no longer have a brain and just have camera bits. Do not worry though. Thoughts will be provided for a reasonable price. You will be able to purchase these thoughts in the super shop the world will become and to which you will provide both custom and security footage. These thoughts will be transmitted straight to your CCTV head and will probably go something like: 'I think I will go shopping'.

Irresistibly yours,

G.I.T.T. (Global Initiatives Think Tank)

In other news, here's some footage of what happened in Dundrum 'Town' Centre yesterday...

 

LAST NIGHT'S COMIC LAUNCH!

(click picture to enlarge)

For those that didn't make it I thought I'd share a photo from last night's comic launch. All the usual heads were there: military, clergy, various dignitaries being dignified. No bin men or anything like that. Nice banter. Talk of war days and the glory of war and how we wished we'd all died in war. There were no fatalities on the actual night, well only two but they'd have died whether they went or not. No one's getting any younger unless you include dementia. Dementia is a kind returned youth I suppose, in that you end up going 'goo goo ga ga' and depositing the odd plop in your pants. I ate a scone. I think. I think I ate a scone. Maybe it was my fist. I've a sore hand today and that might explain it. Oh, and there were PINTS of course. A load of us read the comic and then we forgot we read the comic and read the comic again. That's the great thing about the combination of dementia and pints, there's no end to discovering things for the first time. I forgot I even wrote some of the comic and apparently said of my stories 'the fella who wrote these ones must be a bit of a goon'.

Thanks to all that came along and supported our venture and thanks to the Little Green for providing the splendid venue. Courageous Mayhem, it's a National Tragedy! If you want to order a copy of the comic let me know via fuggtheworld at gmail, that's two 'g's in the fugg. I'll post you a copy of Romantic Mayhem and Courageous Mayhem for €11 – that's for over 100 pages of reading and postage. There's more about people eating their fists in the Romantic one too.