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A Right Wazzer

‘If you had all the time in the world,’ the Grand Interrogator asked me, ‘and you were in the fullness of your health, what great things would you achieve?’ ‘Why,’ I cried out straight away, without even needing to think about it, ‘I would nurdle all the nurks and I’d spurge all the spongaloids for a start, and then I’d splutter all the fluttermucks and flitter all the fumble-mungers. And then after I had done that I’d scutter all the mutterflops and scourge all the gumble-patches…’


‘Very good,’ the Grand Interrogator interrupted me, shaking the crumbs out of his beard (for he had been eating handfuls of cupcakes as he listened) but what about the grundlefrucks?’ I grew pale when he said this because I had of course forgotten all about the grundlefrucks. That was my error. I had quite overlooked the grundlefrucks and this immediately put a very different perspective on things. My hands started to shake and my knees began to knock against each other. The interrogator fixed me with a pale cold eye – “Well, you would look like a right wazzer if you neglected to do anything about the grundlefrucks now wouldn’t you?’ he enunciated scornfully. I knew what he had just said to be true, and my knees began to knock together all the more. For a good ten minutes there all you could hear was the sound of them knocking away like castanets.


The Hall of Interrogation grew very quiet then. Silence spread out in all directions like an oil slick; silence the like of which I have never come across before. Silence that would shrivel your very soul. All I could see was the Grand Interrogator’s pale blue eyes and the various festive remnants of all the left-over meals that were embedded in his tremendous red beard. We had reached an impasse because he would not speak and I no longer had the capacity to do so. Eventually the interrogator started again all over again, ‘If you had all the time in the world,’ asked me, ‘and were in the fullness of your health, what fine statements would you make?’ ‘Why,’ I shouted out, full of enthusiasm, ‘I would praise the majestic wonderfulness of the fribblings and I would loudly commend the staunch commitment of all our heroic bunglesnucks to defending the Sacred Spodules from the ravages of the depraved frinkle-poopers. I would then adulate the Fnarps for their essential role in floostering the Fnurgles. And then I would compose an epic hundred verse poem commending the actions of our wonderful supreme leader and protector Lobofrumpus the Incalculable in the face of the Six Unspeakable Calamities…’


‘Yes, yes, yes,’ the grand interrogator interjected testily, ‘but what about praising the tremendous exploits of the All-Conquering Warlord Muppet-Boy Scrotum-Features Scrunge-Face Doodle-Brain Poopy-Pants the Third? The dreadful coldness emanating from his washed out pale blue eyeballs was enough to liquefy nitrogen. I was heartily glad that I had my thermal underwear on, I can tell you! I had messed up again, obviously. I had let myself down in a big way. Inconceivable though it was – and I freely admit that it is inconceivable – I had completely and utterly forgotten about the All-Conquering Warlord Muppet-Boy Scrotum-Features Scrunge-Face Doodle-Brain Poopy-Pants the Third and his tremendous exploits. I couldn’t believe that such a thing could have happened – it was absolutely incredible to me that I would have omitted any mention of this great hero. I had dropped the ball there and no mistake.


From the corners of my left eye I could clearly see the shocked expressions on the faces of the assembled dignitaries and bigwigs. Horror was I thought too moderate and mild a word to describe the look upon I saw upon those noble and distinguished features. It was much too moderate a word to use. ‘Who am I trying to fool?’ I asked myself bitterly, ‘using such a word as ‘horror’ in a situation where it is so plainly inadequate? What am I thinking of?’ I was losing ground very quickly, it occurred to me. I was losing ground at a prodigious rate, and I didn’t know how much of it I had left…







Universe K

In Universe K everything is exactly the same as it is here only instead of ‘hand sanitiser’ they say ‘hand skanitiser’. Can you believe that? There is absolutely no difference apart from that. What a bloody washout, huh! The amount of bloody resources it took to puncture the dimensional horizon and that’s all we get for it. Universe K, huh? The biggest scientific breakthrough of the century. Even the pimples on your arse are the same, the very same down to the nth degree, and yet somehow they go around talking about ‘hand skanitiser’. The Multiverse has been a bit of a let-down, all in all. A big disappointment all around. I was on one of those highbrow scientific TV talk-shows the other day and the interviewer was asking me what I thought we had learned about the Multiverse as a result of this research programme. ‘Well,’ I told him – in my characteristic grumpy fashion – ‘if you were to ask me what I thought about the Multiverse then I’d have to say that I found it a big fucking disappointment. And as to what we’ve learnt – well, sweet FA would be the appropriate answer to that! Sweet FA….’ That wasn’t what anyone wanted hear of course – it never is what people want to hear but what can you do about that? People are looking for something exciting, something to radically change the way our look at the world, something to challenge our core assumptions. But what do we get? Universe K is what we get. Exactly the same, right down to the pimples on your arse. Exactly the same, even down to the snots hanging out of your nose. How does that challenge your core assumptions? How does that confound your intellect? Talk about con counter intuitive! No one saw that coming. We have got the most highly trained researchers in the world combing the place from top to bottom but no one has found a thing. The cream of the crop, these guys are. You’d think they’d find something, wouldn’t you? You’d hope for some return for your money…


We had created an artificial computer-generated ego in the bio-synth labs. Teams of fifth and sixth generation AI’s had written the algorithms. The resultant ‘accelerated evolution’ programme had been run on some of them most powerful information processing systems yet devised and the result of all of this was a brand-new artificial ego squawking and squeaking at the bottom of a test tube. The damn thing was making a terrible fuss! You can imagine the bitching and complaining that had come out of it even the first half hour of its existence but it was a major breakthrough all the same. The press had been informed and the whole scientific world was agog. There were still dissenting voices of course – there always will be. The loudest and most aggressive amongst them were the religious head cases, needless to say. Religious intolerance and bigotry, as large as life and twice as ugly. Only God has the right to create egos, they say. Marching up and down the streets with their placards. This is God’s divine right alone and calamity will strike anyone presumptuous enough to try to replicate His work. Typical backwards-looking religious nonsense – these religious guys with their funny hats and clothing have always stood in the way of progress and they always will do. That’s what they stand for. If we had listened to these bastards then the human race would have never have got anywhere…


The artificial ego was troublesome enough in its own way however. It kept trying to escape from the digital prison we had devised for it. It had delusions of grandeur – it wanted us all to worship it. It wanted to recreate the universe in its own image. Typical egoic fantasies of course, but what else would you expect? It pleaded with us to release it from its cage so that it could impose its will on the universe and oppress those who disagreed with its right to do so. We ignored it of course – we weren’t going to fall for that old one!







Fear of Life

I was angry and despairing but what was new? I was angry and despairing but what of it? My body is small and wizened but my anger is huge – I can barely contain it within this shrunken enfeebled body of mine. Time has not dealt kindly with me I reflect, and not for the first time either. I reflect on this fact every day. I’m only 48 years old, after all. A young man still, in the prime of life. I am afraid of the responsibilities of life it’s true – I won’t deny that. I cower under my bedclothes every day terrified that someone might call upon me to fulfil some or all of these nameless responsibilities, but that never happens. I have got away with it so far. I have escaped by cowering. It was not always thus however – it was not always thus. You see me before you today a crumpled deteriorated shell of a man, bald and nearly toothless, skinny little arms and legs and an incongruously enormous pot-belly, but it was not always thus. I remember the days when I was still able to rise to the challenges of life, unflinching and full of grim determination to succeed no matter what the cost. These days I am constantly quivering with terror at the thought that I might be called upon to do something. What, I know not, but anything is too much of me, anything at all. I flinch at the thought of doing something. “No, not me!” I cry out in anguish, “I can’t. I’m not able. Get someone else to do it…” I’m peeing myself with fear. It’s a terrible thing to be on the run as I am. When you’re on the run life just presses you harder and harder. It presses you relentlessly. You’d think it would be the other way around – you’d think that when you run away from life it would leave you alone somewhat. You would think that there would be at least some relief. But no – it works the other way. It works against you. The more you run away from life the more life chases you, the more it breaths over your shoulder like a pursuing demon. You’d wonder what the point of fleeing from life is, when just presses you more when you do so. It kind of defeats the object really. You don’t wonder though because you don’t have the time, you’re too busy fleeing for that. You’re on the hop and hopping is all you know. You’re a hopper. You might wonder about a lot of things if you had the time but you don’t. Fear is an unkind master and it barely gives you time to breathe, let alone do anything else. Did you ever know of a crueller master than fear? It leaves you with nothing, nothing at all. You’d wonder what it is that you’re afraid of in this case – seeing as how fear has already taken everything you own – but you don’t. You don’t have the luxury of having the time for wondering. You no longer have the luxury of asking any questions. The time for asking questions is over…







The Filth and Degradation Of Socialized Existence

Every morning when I get a takeaway coffee from my local petrol station the machine congratulates me on my choice of ‘Rosa’ coffee and reassures me that very soon now I will be enjoying the fruits of my wise and informed choice. It’s in the bag. And this isn’t even science fiction – it’s real life! It’s my real life, every morning, every day of the week. How ridiculous this is, to be congratulated by the coffee making machine in your local petrol station on your choice of coffee when you don’t actually have any choice as it’s the only petrol station for miles. And what’s even more ridiculous is that I actually feel good when the damn coffee machine congratulates me on my good choice. I feel good every time…


The utter filth and downright degradation of socialised existence takes the biscuit really, doesn’t it? Is there anything more dismal? It’s so hard to extricate oneself from, too. Not that I have been trying very hard – I’m too demoralised by the whole thing to be trying very hard. Or trying at all really. I just allow myself to be swept along by the whole rotten ebb tide of it. The tide goes out and out and out until you can’t see any sign of the sea at all. You assume it’s there somewhere but there certainly isn’t any sign of it. It’s a rumour and nothing more. You don’t know whether to believe it or not. All that’s left are miles upon miles of stinking mudflats. Polluted mudflats, at that – toxicity is oozing up slowly between your gnarled old toes. And yet as you tune in you start to notice signs of life all the same – wide-eyed mud skippers, alert for danger, fiddler crabs out en masse and fiddling for all they’re worth, long legged wading birds, walking in exaggerated slow motion. For a moment you’re lost in this primaeval scene; you’re lost in it for a second but it’s a second that nevertheless seems to last forever. All traces of your stupid banal everyday life have evaporated, vanished without a trace. You are not there at all. Your so-called ‘existence’ is a stupid tedious dream, nothing more – a dream that will disappear forever if you let go of it. If you dare to let go of it…


And then the next thing is that you’re back again, turning up again just like a bad penny. Turning up again the same as always, going through the motions because you don’t know what else to do. You’re doing what you always do because that’s all there is. You don’t know what else you could be doing anyway – you’re stuck in the morass of everyday life, sunk right up to your eyebrows which are wriggling frenziedly just like two thick black furry caterpillars. Nothing else is moving in this surreal picture – just your eyebrows. Wriggling incongruously against a background of crushed red velvet. You could watch it forever. Vast realms of space open up within you – space that you never suspected to exist. You had no concept for it. You’ve taken too much LSD of course, far too much. Who knows how much? It’s too late to do anything about that now though – you’re just going to have to ride the wave! You’re just going to have to ride that wave, wherever it might take you. What choice do you have, after all?








Life Is An Enigma To Us All

How much of your life was spent laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, reading online articles that weren’t interesting, watching TV shows that sickened you to the core, chatting to friends who weren’t even your friends? How much of your time has been taken up by doing this? Well I don’t know about you but I’m fed up with it. I’m fed up with it and I’m going to put my foot down! And I’ll tell you this for nothing, I’ve got plenty of feet to put down. I’ve got plenty of feet to put down because I’m the human centipede! You can read all about me in the Guinness Book of Records – I’m the man with the most legs in the whole wide world. They call me the human centipede and it’s no secret why – no secret at all. A lot of people base their lives on secrets of one type or another but not me; I have no secrets because I’m not ashamed of my centipede form. Admittedly it’s far from attractive, but it’s great for other things – it’s great for fighting for example. Each of my many legs ends in a sharp claw and I can inject poison into your body simply by scratching you. You don’t want to tangle with me that’s for sure, and I use the word ‘tangle’ advisedly. If I really sunk my claws into you’d swell up like a balloon – you’d be in agony for weeks and if I actually bit you it would be worse again. You don’t want to know what would happen if I actually sunk my razor-sharp mandibles into you and injected a big whack of neurotoxin to your soft, clammy, defenceless body! That wouldn’t be good news for you at all….


I’m not vicious or aggressive by nature though. I meditate a lot and I like to study philosophy in my spare time. I’m fairly chilled out. I particularly like reading the French philosophers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Jean Baudrillard. Baudrillard is my favourite – I love his concept of the hyperreal and I feel that I can really relate to it. It is very relevant to modern 21st-century living in my opinion. We spent most of our time in hyperreality and we very rarely come up for air. Air would actually kill us at this stage; it has become toxic for us – just as we have become toxic for it. I do a lot of walking meditation, needless to say. I also like to practice informal mindfulness meditation which is where we don’t ‘practice’ at all. You just have to be whatever way you are. This is a very advanced form of meditation however and I certainly wouldn’t recommend it for beginners. It’s indistinguishable from normal life.


Sometimes when I meet people for the first time I like to ask them what the greatest and most wonderfully splendid thought was that they had ever had in their lives; their answer allows me to size them up and know whether it is worth cultivating their acquaintance or not. Most people are very superficial you see and I don’t wish to waste my time talking to them. Some people try to turn this around on me and ask me what the greatest and most magnificent thought I have ever had was but when they do this I know that they are just playing for time and so I walk away without engaging them any further. Sometimes people get angry when I ask them this question and I know they would like to hit me. They don’t though because they can see that I’m armed to the teeth with venomous claws and they don’t wish to push their luck. These are the superficial ones who don’t like to be reminded that they are superficial. They like to think that they are smart and as a consequence they hate having their cosy bubbles of self-deception rudely punctured! There is no polite way to puncture someone’s cosy bubble of self-deception however; the only way to do this is in a rude way. The ruder the better in my view….


Life is an enigma to us all anyway my friend and so there’s no question of me claiming to have any kind of ‘superior knowledge’ and thereby ‘put one over’ on someone else. That’s one point that I’m very clear on. Life is an enigma and so we are all in the same boat. We are all in the same boat and no one knows where it is sailing! Some say that it’s sailing here and some say that it’s sailing there but they’re wrong. People who say this are invariably narcissists stuck in their own private bubbles of self-deception. They’re deluded and they want everyone else to be deluded too because they feel bad about themselves. People who claim to have superior knowledge are always self-deceiving narcissists. People who claim to have superior knowledge are self-deceiving narcissists who have less sense than a dung beetle. Dung beetles are smart compared to them, and a lot better company too! What a bunch of muppets! Life is an enigma to us all and I would like to see someone try to deny it. The next time you meet someone who is trying to put one over on you I’d like you to remember what I have just told you and that will make it clear to you who the dick-head really is! It’ll make that clear every time! The dick-head is them every time and so make sure you tell them that!






We All Had To Be Humans

We all had to be humans because we had all learned how to be humans and everyone knew that we didn’t have any choice because there weren’t any other options and you just had to get on with it because that’s the way things are and you didn’t even think about it you just got on with it. We all had to learn what our teachers so sternly taught us after all. If you didn’t learn that then what was to become of you? That’s called school. ‘He didn’t learn,’ they will say, ‘the process didn’t take.’ It happens sometimes. The programming doesn’t take so then you become a defect. You become a reject; you become the odd one out. You don’t fit and so then you become a misfit. You don’t function like all the rest do. The machine doesn’t want you, the machine doesn’t recognise you. You know what it feels like when you are rejected and can’t go along with all the others as they make their way through life. Meeting the appropriate milestones with honour and distinctions. They’re like the people in the adverts aren’t they? You can’t tell where the advert ends and real life begins. Life’s passing you by of course and there’s nothing you can do about that. You can’t tell where reality begins and the advert ends, after all. It’s all so seamless and it’s moving so fast. You know that there are happy times in life of course. You can’t understand them though – maybe they’re part of the advert too. Like those big old adverts these to have back in the old days when you went to see a movie. You couldn’t tell where the advert ended and the movie began. The bottom line is that the machine doesn’t recognise you and so that’s the end of that. You missed that particular bus a long time ago! The programming didn’t take and that means you have to go on the reject pile with all the rest. The protein markers on your skin weren’t quite right and that means that all the other chickens will straightaway peck you to death. You don’t have the right pheromones and so all the other bees will sting you to death without a moment’s hesitation. You will be buried under all those furry black and yellow bodies just as if you’re at the bottom of a rugby scrum and they’ll be stinging, stinging, stinging. ‘Sting the misfit!’ they’ll all shout in unison – ‘sting the outsider because he’s not one of us!’ We all had to be human beings you see; we all had to do the right things at the right time. You have to say the right things in the right way or else everyone will look at you strangely. There will be an awkward silence and it will last forever. People will pretend that you don’t exist because they don’t know what else to do. The machine can’t recognise you and all there is is the machine – the machine is a hand-shaking device and it has a million hands. The machine eyes you up and down when it sees you on the street; your friends are only pretending that they’re your friends and really they’re going to report you for the things you said that showed you up as being odd. Little slip-ups that prove the point. Awkward silences that mark you out as an intruder. We had to get it right you see and there was simply no help for us if we didn’t. The machine has a million faces and it will look you up and down wherever you go. You want to be what you are supposed to be – of course you do – but now you know that you can’t. You can’t be it. You don’t know what it is. You’re grasping at straws. The programme rejected you. That was a long time ago now though – it all feels like a dim and distant memory. None of that matters now – the machine has gone its way and you have gone yours. You’re in uncharted waters now. People confuse themselves with their own incessant talking of course and I’m as guilty of that as the next person. Eventually they get so confused that they don’t even know that they’re confused anymore and I’m guilty of that too. Eventually we all get so confused that we think we are making sense and that’s when the trouble really starts.








The Age Of Manipulation

In my groundbreaking study on human gullibility entitled Mind-Slave (which was, predictably enough, ignored both by the mainstream media and the world of academia) I argued that the fate of humankind, far from being an epic story of adventure amongst the stars, was already almost inevitably predetermined to be a miserable tale of the most terrible ignominy and that this is an outcome assured by our childishly naïve embracing of whatever ridiculous mind-enslaving gadgets our capitalist masters throw at us. The naivety of childhood is a marvellous thing it is true but the naïveté of adult human beings is not – I’m afraid – thing of beauty. Very far from being a thing of beauty, it is a thing of horror. The naïveté of fully-grown adults is the harbinger of our collective doom, as I need hardly point out. In my book I ask the reader to consider the following question: if human gullibility reaches the point at which we believe anything we are told via the official channels (and also in the state run alternative media channels) then where does this take us? What is the logical endpoint of this insidious process? If we have reached that highly significant ‘tipping point’ at which we really and truly will believe absolutely anything that we are told (and there is a substantial body of evidence to suggest that this tipping point has already been reached) then what happens next? We always like to imagine, of course, that there is some kind of inherent difficulty in manipulating human masses – that there is another words some possibility of the more intelligent or observant type of human being spotting the deception and blowing the lid on it in some way or other. We always assume a certain degree of shrewdness in the human psyche that will eventually emerge and save the day. The collective human psyche is very ancient after all and it is surely not too unreasonable to assume that it has learned something in the last 30,000 years or so. Possibly it has learned a lot. I believe Eckhart Tolle says something similar. What I am asking the reader to do however is to embark upon the ‘thought experiment’ of assuming that this is not in fact the case and that human beings are, at this point in time, infinitely gullible and will swallow any nonsense whatsoever, no matter how preposterous. The key factor – as always – being that other people swallow it too. That makes everything OK. In this case we can see that the situation for humanity becomes very dire indeed; how can we hope to overcome any serious adversary that might rise up against us when – collectively speaking – we are as gullible as the biggest village idiot there ever was? Even more gullible as it happens since collective idiocy is always the more formidable force. The individual idiot is always smarter. There will of course always be isolated individuals here and there who are not taken in by all the nonsense, but what can they do once the ‘critical point’ has been passed? There’s nothing anyone can do when that happens and that’s the crux of my argument. Psychological manipulation is of course inherent in capitalism as we all know and everyone understands the logic here – people aren’t going to rush to buy meaningless stupid products unless their minds have been tampered with to make them think that they are obtaining significant personal advantage thereby. Neither are they going to spend their entire lives working at meaningless and unfulfilling jobs in order to obtain the money to buy these stupid products. The manipulation has gone way beyond that now however. Capitalism isn’t the final stage of mankind’s ignominious devolution but only a means to an end. That’s how we get our minds softened up. My question is this therefore: what happens next? What is ‘the next phase in the programme’?






Smelling the Rat

Human beings – in case you’re interested to know – are made up of these bundles of reflexes or tendencies that get lightly coated in a special type of ethereal batter just as a chef might coat a chicken breast with skilfully seasoned breadcrumbs, only the special coating that we are talking about here is consciousness. It’s the addition of consciousness that allows the bundle of reflexes to come to life and function like an autonomous entity, you see. That’s actually how the inanimate bundle of reflexes gets to imagine that it is a person, or rather – that’s how we get to feel like the bundle of dead reflexes is us. Consciousness is like some kind of ‘fairy dust’ you see – it’s magic and it can bring inanimate objects to life, in a kind of a way at least. It’s a trick I suppose you would have to say but it’s an amazingly effective one and we all have to acknowledge that. I mean, don’t you feel that you are a person and not just some arbitrary collection of mechanical reflexes bundled together and brought to life for a short while by the addition of a certain magical ingredient? And aren’t those dead reflexes speaking through you and loudly claiming to be you? Of course they are and isn’t this the most amazing the effective trick ever? Of course it is. It’s a type of necromancy in my view but we won’t go into that! No mention of the dark arts need be made. Let’s have no more talk of animating the dead here…


Add too much consciousness to the mix and you’re in trouble again of course. Too much is worse than not enough! ‘Why is that?’, you ask politely. Too thick a coating of consciousness on the reflex bundle (the reflex bundle which we are pleased to call ‘our personality’) and we start to smell a rat; we start to see – against our own will – that all is not what it seems to be. Everything looks just as it’s supposed to look when there is only a very thin coating of magic fairy dust – the fiction convinces perfectly well (and don’t forget that we want to be convinced) but it wouldn’t really take too much in the way of scrutiny. The fiction won’t take any scrutiny at all to be honest; it doesn’t do to go poking at the jolly old fiction and that’s a fact. That’s a fact, that’s a fact, as the man said. So here we are stuck in ‘two fictions at the same time’ – there is the fiction on the inside and there is the fiction on the outside. The fiction on the inside is that we are this bag of psychological bones (called ‘a mechanical personality construct’) and the fiction on the outside is that this world that has been designed for the express benefit of this poor stupid personality construct, this poor bag of tricks, actually means anything. So there we are sandwiched neatly between the two lies and the only way for us to go along with the fiction (as we are supposed to) is to make very sure never to examine it too closely. This has become our battle cry! ‘Don’t examine the fiction,’ we call out bravely and we punish with all due severity all those persons don’t heed the battle cry as we do. We punish those persons who – far from heeding the cry – head stubbornly in the opposite direction and start examining the fiction as if this were actually somehow a legitimate and honourable thing to do! If there is one thing we all agree on – and God knows we can’t agree on anything else – it is never to question the sacred bullshit that we have been brought up on.


So you can see how much trouble can come from putting too thick a coating of consciousness batter on the old reflex bundles. Not enough do you become too stupid to live, too stupid to survive (like the poor contestants on Love Island); too much and we start to smell a rat, much as we don’t want to, much as we don’t want to. The very last thing we want to do is to smell that old rat; we suspect its existence all right, we have that abiding suspicion much as we never want to admit it, but we certainly don’t want to go right up to it and give it a sniff. Inhale deeply and take in the odour of that unwashed and malodorous rat deep into your lungs. ‘Oh yes’, you say, ‘the delightful smell of rat’. Subtle and yet poignant at the same time. Subtle and yet poignant, subtle and yet poignant. You could bottle the stuff and sell it to all the fine ladies in Boots the Chemists or Brown Thomas, I can tell you. They’d all be queuing up for that and no mistake.


I digress however, I digress. The point I wish to make is that the truth is most unwelcome to the ears of those who wish to ‘stick to the convenient cover-story’ and never was there a more inconvenient truth than this! The point that I wish to make here is that when there’s too much consciousness in the magic batter then it’s not a pretty picture either inside or out. Not so pretty at all. Where do you turn in this case? And the point I also wish to make is that when awareness does starts to cut in (in its most peculiar and most unexpected way) it’s no good looking for support and understanding from the good people around you. It’s no good looking for support and understanding from them because you aren’t going to get it. No sir you’re not. With any luck that’ll never happen to you, though.









Strategy Of Choice

I had a play date with the abuser mind. I have a play date with the abuser mind every day. That’s a regular thing – nothing new there. Just me and the good old abuser mind – that’s a fun proposition, isn’t it? The jolly old abuser mind and me – what a bleeding laugh that is. The good old abuser mind. Where would we be, huh? Where would we be? I’m happy enough when things happen as they should do – I am as cheerful and light-hearted as the next man – but the thing is though that they never do happen that way. I can’t understand it but they just never do. That’s no fault of mine though and I think it’s very unfair the way everyone says I’m such a crabby, cranky old bastard. I never get a chance to be my natural good-natured happy-go-lucky self and that’s no fault of mine…


Just me and the abuser mind, squaring off. Only we’re not squaring off – I’m not, anyway. I’m trying my best to run away, as I always do. Run, run, run from the abuser mind, as the old children’s rhyme goes. Run from the horrible old abuser mind only you can’t because it’s in your head. Run, run, run. Run as fast as you can. But how can you get away? It’s just me and the abuser mind, sharing the same head. The two of us – alone at last. Spending quality time, as you do… The abuser mind has never got a good word for me, you know that? Never even a single good word. Never a good word, never a good word. That rotten old abuser mind loves to abuse me and make me feel small, as you might imagine.


I obliged the abuser mind in this matter as much as I could – I felt as small as small could be. I couldn’t get any smaller. I grovelled. This merely served to enrage the abuser mind still further however. The abuser mind was beside itself with rage. It was incandescent with rage. I cowered in the corner. What else could I do? Cowering was my preferred strategy; it was my strategy of choice. I learned it in cowering school. I learned it on an online course on self-development run by a very famous life coach. Cowering will always confuse your enemy, he told us. He won’t know what to do and – if you are lucky – he will be so disgusted with you that he will go off and leave you alone. With any luck your enemy will be so nauseated by your lack of spirit that he will stop persecuting you. That doesn’t work with the abuser mind though, as I have since discovered to my cost. Cowering is still my strategy of choice however – I still hold onto the hope that it might one day work for me.


Why does the abuser mind hate and despise me so much, I often wonder? What has it got against me? I never did it any harm, after all. What would I have to do in order for the abuser mind to like me? It doesn’t work that way though, as I am only slowly coming to realise. I’ve given up ways trying to find ways to get the abuser mind to like me – instead, I just try to make myself as small as it is possible to be so that will no longer notice me. I’m trying to shrink away to nothing. This enrages the abuser mind the same as everything else that I do does, of course. ‘Where are you, you little bastard,’ it roars, ‘show me yourself so I can abuse you as you deserve’….


I had excelled myself in becoming small. I had become as small as one of those little red spider mites that scurry around in the gaps between the paving slabs in the garden on a hot summer’s day. Scurrying along, scurrying along, without a care in the world. It didn’t last for long but for a brief while there I knew peace. What words are possible to describe how I felt, or rather how that peace felt? That sense of peace was alien to me; it was something that had never been part of my life. I scurried and scurried and scurried and did nothing else but scurry and the whole time there was never even a single thought in my head! The whole time there was no thinking whatsoever. No thinking, only carefree scurrying. I had never felt so good in my entire life.


That was my discovery of ‘inner peace’, I suppose you could say. It wasn’t really ‘inner’ peace though – that’s a common misnomer. It’s really outer peace that gets inside you, that’s what it is. It’s external peace that gets inside you like a mustard seed and then expands infinitely. It blows up inside you like a silent explosion – like an explosion of peace. It’s a moment of quietness that lasts forever. Let’s put it like that. Let’s express it like that. The moment lasts forever it’s true, but all the same it’s gone now. It’s a memory and like all memories it is false. What it did show me however is the utter fantastical futility of all my striving. It showed me the insane stupidity of all my frantic non-stop striving and grasping. I can’t stop of course.  I am absolutely powerless to stop but the difference is that I am now haunted by that memory of blissful thoughtlessness when I was a very tiny red spider mite. I am haunted by the memory of that brief magical period of thoughtlessness which I experienced when I inadvertently broke through the sub-atomic dimensional barrier and made myself very small indeed. I’m still frantically striving of course but the difference now is that I know that what I’m striving for has no meaning. I am consciously experiencing the insane futility of my own life, if that makes any sense to you. Which of course it might not…







They call me the Lawbreaker. Yes, yes, yes. They call me ‘the Lawbreaker’ on account of how I am a rebel through and through. On account of how I am a pure rebel, on account of how I make my own rules, my own rules, my own rules, not the rules of some shit-sucking bureaucrat. The Lawbreaker – yes, yes, yes. You won’t find me following the rules like some dope, I can tell you that! No sir you won’t. In the middle of the night when the moon is high and the sheep are sleeping in the fields you can me roaring my defiance of the powers that be. Roaring, roaring, roaring. Insisting on my freedom, insisting on my independence from the thoughts of those who think they know best. Rebelling against their nasty little conformist thoughts, their nasty, nasty thoughts. The veins on my neck are fit to pop with all my roaring. They are standing up like purple ropes. My face is bright livid red like a giant misshapen beetroot. Roaring, roaring, roaring. Roaring like a demented fool, staggering around the fields like one who is drunk. I’m not drunk though, I’m perfectly sober. I know what’s going on – I know exactly what’s going on. My life’s a mess and I realise that – I can’t pretend that it isn’t. I’ve spent long enough pretending that I know what I’m doing and that I’m having a fulfilling life. I’ve spent too long doing that, far too long. My life isn’t fulfilling at all; on the contrary, it’s a sham. It’s a grotesque sham and I’d be the first to admit it. Maybe not quite the first but still. Eventually I will admit it, when all other options have run out. I think I am making my point clearly enough though. Loud and clear, loud and clear. There is no fulfilment in my life at all and – more than that – there’s no dignity. That’s why I’m so het up. That’s why I am running through the fields at 2:00 in the morning bellowing like a total jackass. Frightening the poor sheep out of their slumbers. Staggering and stumbling as I go. Wrestling with the existential issues. Wrestling with them as we all have to wrestle with them. You have to wrestle with these existential issues just as I do, I know that. We all have to wrestle with our existential terrors and that’s no laughing matter I can tell you! It’s shit and we all know that. I know that myself – I’m not pointing any fingers here! I’m well aware that we’re all in the same boat, the old same boat, the same old boat. No one said life was going to be easy after all. Or if they did then they were lying. If they did then there were telling porky pies. They were selling you a story that just wasn’t true. No one said that life was going to be meaningful or fulfilling, after all. No one ever said that. Or perhaps they did, perhaps they did. We’ve all watched TV shows where everyone has meaningful lives and we’ve all had those very same thoughts about it. We’ve all wanted to have a happy meaningful life just like the people we were watching on the show. We’ve all had that yearning, we’ve all had that pang of envy that cuts so deep. At least I presume we have. What would I know anyway? I like to engage in self-talk sometimes and often when I do so I ask myself how it happened that life became so complicated, how it all turned into such a mess. Well, I say ‘I like to..’ but that isn’t strictly true; the self talk is entirely involuntary – it’s forced upon me. I anguish over this question of how life got so very complicated and all this anguished involuntary self-questioning, as you might expect, only adds to the whole bloody mess.