THE MAN IN TATAOUINE

Schloop schlop, off to the shop. Sausages, eggs and milk. Flip flap, back to the flat. Put them in the fridge.

I was very far from anywhere once and he was even further. Standing in a long stretch of nowhere near the Tunisian Libyan border. What was he doing there? He was just standing. He certainly wasn't going to find any figs or anything. Maybe he was a North African Harry Dean Stanton, walking off the memory of a woman. Or maybe some Crowleite who got into a spot of occult bother or maybe a Saharan demon some Crowleite summoned. Maybe just some Berber up to something but what that something could've been must've been almost nothing. All you can find is scorpions and sand until the cold night falls and the snakes move around.

Maybe he was an off-roader whose vehicle took a tumble or a refugee escaping national turmoil. To my mind at least, from a distance, out there, he momentarily became Frankenstein's monster. An existential anomaly. A slip in cosmic continuity. I once heard a baby crying far out in the ocean. It might have been some gull but I didn't see one. Maybe sometimes the Universe puts things where it shouldn't and you see or hear something in a place where you couldn't.

I'm grilling my sausages and putting milk in my coffee and thinking of him and feeling glad that I'm me. At least I'm just bored whereas maybe he's scared. I'll never forget how he just stared and stared. Maybe he was wondering what I was doing out there. Maybe he thought of calling out but just didn't dare. Maybe he thought that he was looking at Set. Maybe what I saw was an angel of death.

MAD BASTARDS

Mad bastards. 
Loads of mad bastards. 
Heaps of mad bastards. 
Swathes of mad bastards.  
Hoards of fanatical mad bastards. 
A horrendous cloud of mad bastards.
Mad bastards travelling the world.
Mad bastards flowing across borders. 
Mad bastards roaring their heads off. 
Mad bastards with a hatred of women. 
Mad bastards with a love of rifles. 
Mad bastards barbecuing people alive. 
Mad bastards playing soccer with human heads. 
Mad bastards with smartphones. 
Mad bastards uploading mad shit. 
Mad bastards looking for 'hits'. 
Mad bastards looking for 'likes'. 
Mad bastards with Twitter accounts. 
#MadBastards. 
Mad bastards with names like Abu Mahd B'Ahstard. 
Mad bastards coming in handy. 
Mad bastards doing the dirty work. 
Mad bastards of realpolitik. 
Mad bastards that are with us. 
Mad bastards that are against us. 
Mad bastards turning on us. 
Frankenstein created mad bastards. 
Mad bastards in search of their master. 
Mad bastards hating their creator. 
Mad bastards - what are they thinking? 
Mad bastards - what are they going to do next? 
What should we do about all the mad bastards? 
Where would we be without the mad bastards? 
You've got to love mad bastards. 
If we didn't have mad bastards, we'd end up looking like mad bastards ourselves.

Mad bastards - taking the heat off us for the last thirty five years.

UNBELIEVABLE EH?

People believe what they want to believe even if they know, deep down, that what they believe is entirely unbelievable and that they don't actually believe it at all. I'm not sure why this is. Maybe it is more efficient to believe the unbelievable or perhaps it is advantageous. Either way, belief seems largely to be a matter of choice.

Let me explain why I (choose to) believe this:

A few months ago myself and a few mates (Corbo, Duggie, Phlegmo, Aine Manning and her fat sister whose name escapes me right now) staged a chemical attack. We rented the gymnasium at the local recreation centre and took footage of ourselves weeping and wailing over sheets with bunched up coats, bags and cushions arranged under them so as to make the sheets look like shrouds draped over dead bodies. We made it so that some of the 'bodies' were smaller than others, like little kids. We put on a pretty good performance. Then we uploaded the footage to the internet saying that it was a recording of a chemical weapon attack in some hot country. I'm not sure what hot country we picked but it was one of those places they mention a lot on the telly.

Well, let me tell you, there was a right 'to do' altogether. Our video went viral and got on the news. Some people said that the footage was staged and didn't even originate in the hot country, pointing out that two of the people in the video were wearing O'Neills Dublin tops (oops, messed up there). Luckily these doubters also suspected that we were members of the Illuminati or giant lizards or something so no one took their suspicions seriously. In fact, most people chose to consider the footage genuine so as not to be associated with the nutters that didn't. World leaders bought it too and went on the telly saying that it was unacceptable for such a thing to happen and threatening to bomb the hot country in question, which I'm not sure would have helped but anyway...

Next came phase two of our experiment. We released a second video on the net that featured us pulling back the sheets to reveal that there were no bodies under them and just a load of bags and cushions and that. It was always our aim to demonstrate to the world how easily it could be duped – for the LOLs like, you know - and this is where it got interesting. Imagine our surprise the next day when the world's media reported that the hot country in question had developed a weapon that could transform people into bunched up coats and bags and cushions. The 'international community' (whoever the fuck that is) demanded that the hot country surrender its 'Clothes/Bag/Cushion Tranformo Weapons', which, of course, the hot country couldn't do because it didn't have any such weapons and no such things even exist. Inevitably the hot country was bombed to shit and lots of other videos appeared online featuring the grieving citizens of the hot country weeping and wailing over shrouds. This time no one was wearing O'Neills tops and this time there weren't bunched up coats and bags and cushions under the sheets, no, there were actual bodies under there. These videos didn't get anywhere near as many hits as our original one did. That's when I realised that people believe what they want to believe.

The hot country was continually bombed to such an extent that the entire place was turned to dust and then the searing heat of further bombings melted that dust into glass and then that glass cooled and the whole place was turned into a gigantic skating rink, the largest ever, and people from all over the world travelled there and paid top dollar to enjoy themselves and myself, Corbo, Duggie, Phlegmo, Aine Manning and her fat sister whose name escapes me right now bought shares in the skating rink going forward. Oh, and I got a job with a massive public relations firm.

Unbelievable eh?

Join me next time for more of this compulsive bullshit.

THE RATIONALITY OF REALPOLITIK

I, Fugger, the people's blogger, was recently invited to address the RAND Corporation. The topic of my talk was The Rationality of Realpolitik. I had a white board and coloured markers and everything. My talk went down very well. I'm providing a transcript below for you to enjoy. I kept it nice and short because in an era where everybody is busy Twittering their hashtags, it's best not to keep them long. Anyway, here's what I said:

We are 'rational actors' in a system that provides 'selective incentives'. If those 'selective incentives' do not appeal to some then we can only assume that they are 'irrational actors'. We have certain 'disincentives' that can be applied to 'irrational actors' unless those 'irrational actors' have other incentives that dovetail with our system of 'rational actors'. 

You see, in order to meet the needs of our system of 'rational actors' we must sometimes facilitate a certain set of 'dovetailing' 'irrational actors' (example: religious fundamentalists) in order to overcome another, 'less dovetailing', set of 'irrational actors' (example: secular tyrants). Once the 'less dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors' have been overcome (or reduced to crushed bone, ash, or something resembling barbequed meat) by the 'dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors' our system will set about overcoming the 'dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors' by supporting yet another set of 'irrational actors', often the remnants of the formerly 'less dovetailing' set of 'irrational actors'. And so it goes on. And on. And on and on. Forever. And ever. Until, eventually, someone comes along and decides that we (yes, we: me, you, your mom, your pop, your kitty and your dog) are the 'irrational actors' and overcome us (or reduce us to crushed bone, ash, or something resembling barbequed meat). Do you follow me? Do you get the idea? Don't you think it's clever? Don't you find it all devastatingly 'rational'?

I received a standing ovation. I was a bit chuffed to be honest but I'm not sure if they were applauding what I said or applauding the massive cock and balls I drew over the map of Syria on my whiteboard.

WAR HORSESHIT

The thing about World War One is that it was very well lit and the music was absolutely lovely, swelling and whirling and crescendoing as the boys died on the sweeping canvass of the field. Oh, the boys, the boys, so brave and some as young as thirteen. I’ll don my poppy and salute the boys and their efforts. Each one proudly choking on hardening mustard gas mucus. Coughing, convulsing and falling. And all the while so well lit, so beautifully lit. It’s no wonder they called it The Great War, it was bloody marvellous.

Maybe in the future our current wars will be recalled in a similar fashion, through the prisms of aesthetically pleasing nostalgia simulations. Instead of blurry footage of exploding buildings on remote monitors, we’ll see our brave drones swoop down and liberate post-production graded, high-definition, panascopic landscapes. We’ll have stories of an army boy’s love for his drone and the sacrifices he makes to retrieve it when it is shot down by the enemy. ‘Oh old Droney, how I loved ya Droney.’

We’ll have majestically choreographed cinematic recreations of despots being deposed. I can see it now, Gaddafi (played by Alan Rickman in a black wig) being stabbed in the arse as the sun rises over a new Libya and a rousing soundtrack denotes liberation. It’ll be a bit like Laurence of Arabia only in 3D and with a touch of Hostel to keep the kids interested. HRH or one of her family will attend the premier and Tom Hanks will exec produce and everyone will be moved to tears, for a bit.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And now a poem. The authorship of these verses is much disputed. Some say they were penned by Tony Blair, others say George W. Bush but I think this poem shows the hallmarks of one of our latest and greatest war authors, Hillary Clinton (author of We Came, We saw, He Died):

The Moral Argument for Gardening

Such beautiful seeds
descend upon
plough into
the trembling earth
Yielding searing flowers aflame

Scorching, cleansing, beautiful gardening
Trowels of truth
Ploughs of patriotism
Shiny new harbingers of
a garden of resolve

From a just winter
a righteous summer shall rise
With the sweet scent of freedom
and fresh tender bounty
Ripe for the picking

And when we’ve stuffed our faces
and all is left bare
the seeds will rain down once more
An honourable cycle
Oh beautiful war

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That’s really the great thing about war in general, it inspires such fantastic art. I mean, imagine if Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen weren’t traumatised in the dugouts of Flanders. They’d be a long forgotten pair of old queens. Their names wouldn’t ‘liveth forever’, I’ll tell you that. War makes a man of you and sometimes an artist. Here’s to the next one.

THE FRENCH: PURE CLASS.

(pictured: the French, chanteuseing away)

The French are great aren’t they? They really are. Take Christine Lagarde. I really like Christine Lagarde. She’s so sophisticated. She always looks like she’s on her way to the Cannes Film Festival. I bet she’s always having lunch with Bernard Henri Lévy. They’d be discussing the world over croissants but you’d never see them eating the things. Biting and chewing would be a bit beneath them. The crumbs and all that wouldn’t do at all. No, the croissants would just kind of evaporate as Christine and Bernard sit there looking superb and talking about fancy books and not books they pretend they’ve read either, ones they’ve actually read. Dead long books about mad complicated stuff. Nicholas Sarkozy might drop by too. He’s a grand fella. His wife is a chanteuse. Imagine having a chanteuse for a wife. That’d be great. Lévy would compliment Sarkozy on his handling of Libya (they’ll all be eating croissants in Libya come Christmas). He’d pat him on the shoulder and say ‘formidable’ and offer him one of the croissants for evaporation.

Christine would get her share of compliments too. She’d be told she’s looking well and that the new IMF job really suits her. She’s well worth the $467,940 a year. As far as I’m concerned, she can do what she likes in the new post. As long as she does it with style. Any cuts you want Christine. Any assets. Work away. She loves us Irish. She says we’re a great lot, paying up and not moaning like the Greeks and Portuguese. The Greeks and Portuguese are bold. But we’re good. Ms. Lagarde said so and she looks like someone who is off to the Cannes Film Festival. Have you ever been to the Cannes Film Festival yourself? No. No you haven’t. You’ve never been to the Cannes Film Festival. You pitiful little Irish bollix.

You can trust Christine. She’s beyond reproach and even if she isn’t, she looks like she is and that’s the main thing. So forget about that dodgy business with Crédit Lyonnais and just sit back and sigh at the sophistication.

Ah yeah, you can imagine the three of them there. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas at the outdoor café, folding their legs, stroking their chins, lighting Gitanes, je ne sais quoing all over the place. Fantastique. The only thing that could put a dampener on proceedings would be if Merkel showed up. That wouldn’t be good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s OK and it was dead decent of her not to use tanks when she took over Ireland, but, . . .well, . . .she’s a bit dumpy isn’t she? I mean, you can imagine it. She’d come along and plop herself down and kind of ruin the picture. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas would look at her. Not enjoying the sight. Reminded of the strict teutonic governesses their parents used employ. Merkel would pick up a croissant. She’d take a bite out of it. Chomp. The pastry would flake and fall and land on her ill fitting blouse. The others would avert their gaze. Their conversation would continue. Merkel’s interjections would be acknowledged with polite nods but never directly addressed. It’d go unsaid but there’d be a mutual hope that the old bag might just go away after a while.

Here, just for Christine and Nicholas, is a song by a good friend of theirs. A friend who they perhaps shouldn’t be seen with for a while to be honest. He’s a former jailbird and we don’t want any scandal. It’s bad enough with Christine’s predecessor jumping out on chambermaids but I’m sure no one knows anything about any of that and find talk of it distasteful. Ah the French. Such a classy bunch of fuckers. Anyway, here’s the song:

NATIONAL TRANSITIONAL COUNCIL APPPOINTMENT BUREAU TM.

(pictured above: pick a loony, any loony)

I’m setting up a national transitional council appointment bureau. ‘What’s a national transitional council appointment bureau Mr. Fugger?’ I hear you ask. Well, what we do is go around the world filling political vacuums by appointing candidates from the area to govern. So, imagine for example, some despot loses the run of himself and his subjects are forced to shoot him in the head, what happens then is that we come along and find the right people to replace the despot before things get out of control sans leadership and the place goes nuts and people start looting Foot Locker and the like. My national transitional council appointment bureau is called The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau (registered trademark, in association with Foot Locker).

‘But how do you know who is right for the job Mr. Fugger? Ruling a country is a lot of responsibility’, I hear you pitifully bleat. Well, with the assistance of Google, Wikipedia, a few old copies of The Wall Street Journal and Folens Geography for the Leaving Certificate (1997) we familiarise ourselves with the layout, economy, and customs of the area in question. Once we feel we have the measure of the place, we select various candidates from positions of responsibility (such as bankers, business people, and military types) to take up the reins.

The main thing is to find out who the masses would like to lead them and then select individuals who might sort of resemble that type of person (kind of, in a way) but who would also be unlikely to cause any hassle for the more organised nations of the world and business ventures therein going forward. We don’t want loonies or upstarts. No one wants loonies or upstarts. However, we might appoint the odd loony depending on what kind of loony he or she (but more likely ‘he’) is. Some loonies are quite sane when looked at from a different perspective and we in The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker) are all about perspective.

In short: It is the mission of The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker) to provide leaderless nations with the appropriate knowledge and related BAE Systems products to properly fulfil their needs and set them squarely on the world stage as they embark on their newly won springtime of freedom, ...and all at a reasonable price (national assets being the preferred form of payment going forward). Our friendly, knowledgeable and professional staff will inspire, educate and problem-solve for our customers whether said customers like it or not.

. . .OK, look, it doesn’t always work out. We usually make a right shit of this sort of thing to be honest but we try our hardest and that’s what counts isn’t it? Well, that and the pay and we always make sure we get paid. IN FULL!

BTW: Snickers is the official between meal treat of The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker). Why not try the new Snickers peanut butter or almond bars? Mmm, chocolate just got better!