Insert clever airhead based title here ....

Discussion in 'Airheads' started by planktonnn, Aug 25, 2009.

?

I have been to the county of Fuckshire, it was ...

  1. Nice?

    31 vote(s)
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  2. Nasty?

    33 vote(s)
    14.2%
  3. Nasty but nice?

    169 vote(s)
    72.5%
Multiple votes are allowed.
  1. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
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    D J S

    3 – Well I wood, wouldn’t I? (or, how my fire got put out…)
    Pt 2.
    <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]-->
    Some considerable time later I was woken by the lightest of tip-tapping, just as the opening salvo of the coming rains began to hit the tail end of my overly-porous-cheaply-acquired-but-for-the-most-part-functionary-nylon-cocoon. Despite teething troubles everything was going quite well and the circumstance was still at the ok end of the scale, at least better than being on an acute psych ward, which had of course been the other option. Overall I&#8217;d rather have been living in my Shed-Quarters back in the back end of my old garden, it would have offered everything I needed, however it was back at what had been home, and there was no other space being offered on which to now pitch it&#8230; It&#8217;s that Town & Cuntry Planning act all over again &#8211; if I&#8217;d been allowed to relocate the shed to the woods I&#8217;d have been fine. Why do two people have to work their entire lives just to pay for a place to live, and by what strange fate is the cost of housing coincidentally about the same figure as that which can be raised by two people working their entire lives&#8230;

    The initial trickle of sky-piss had been enough to lift me from the stream of my dream and I bemusedly prepared to initiate &#8216;Operation Not Soaked&#8217;. I can&#8217;t say I&#8217;d planned it sufficiently well but things started out ok as I&#8217;d just spared myself the grossly inconvenient indignity of becoming sodden straight off the bat, but from there on in arrangements predominantly consisted of me being stood up, leaning against the base of the magnificent tree, sleeping bag worn wrong-way-down over my head just like an ankle length hat. I let the weighty sleep meds lower my threshold of &#8216;BLOODY HELL&#8217; to the point where I dozed off a couple of hours at a time. Yes, I have conducted scientific tests and it is in reality possible to slumber solidly while saturated, slumped on a tree in standing somnambulism. I proved it, though I might suggest there comes a point where being beside the tree as it conduits & funnels accumulated water towards its heart doesn&#8217;t work so well, no? I suppose trees are made in such a form as to funnel any available moisture toward their base, and thereby to its roots, in this case via me. Indeed each swaying branch or shaken leaf was aiming its moist cargo unswervingly in the direction of my shivering en-sleeved semi-self, but I just stood there and took it. Maybe you should try it if you&#8217;ve not already? To model all this in a convenient manner switch off the lights in your shower room, stand leaning against a tree analogue, or just put a bit of actual mossy tree in your shower if you&#8217;re really dedicated. Wear a cheap sleeping bag bottom-end-on-top and have the shower turned to the coldest cold. Now internally repeat &#8216;Noah calling Mount Ararat, come in Ararat...&#8217; and switch on a couple of very cold fans. Make an effort to synthesize the overwhelming, if not all encompassing sensation of your entire bloody life having collapsed, and then snatch uncomfortable standing sleep for two hours at a time. Granted any discovery has to be replicable to find its place in the pantheon of scientific opinion, but given the right physical, pharmacological and psychological conditions you could do it. I did. Let me know how you get on.

    As a broadly relevant aside: While we&#8217;re trying on other peoples experiences for size (yes we were) might I humbly suggest that trainee psych staff be made to &#8216;mystery shop&#8217; a ward in the guise of a patient as part of their training. It wouldn&#8217;t be too hard as they are all mad too. They&#8217;d only do a couple of days, and I can&#8217;t imagine it would do anything but illuminate their profession to them on a personal level, & feed into their future practice. Might I also suggest the same in the education of judges, police, prison warders etc. ad inf., which ever their relevant placement might be relative to each of their future functions. Can&#8217;t hurt the self-confirming arrogant assed born-in-a-bubble-bastards can it?

    I was now completely and utterly soaked. The hospital had run me on pretty weighty sleep meds, and that was what I was discharged with, and they were certainly able to keep me well & truly out until I&#8217;d become irreparably drenched in a wood in the middle of the night, now slumped at the base of the tree that was supposed to be helping me. I don&#8217;t think it said anything about that in the leaflets accompanying the variously coloured pills & capsules, but I couldn&#8217;t have told you because I&#8217;d burnt them already, they gave off blue-green flames in an earlier vain attempt to enflame my fire, which had long ago died out. Personally, I&#8217;m disappointed it took me far too long to grasp that it was drier out away from the tree than under. Now I&#8217;ve little doubt that in the right circles this is a well-known thing. Well I didn&#8217;t know.

    By around 4.30am I could no longer submerge myself with sufficient commitment to maintain my wretched saturated semi-sleep, and was forced to take action. Now, one of the League Of Janets had kindly passed on a Bill Bryson book to keep my infantile ill-exercised intellect somehow occupied in my woody time. I&#8217;ve not read him before and didn't particularly get engaged by the first couple of pages, and so when I got soaked in the rain that night his hard backed & voluminous work came in very helpful - I opened it in a fanned fashion, added a little petrol, again from the carburettor float bowl, and hurriedly set it alight to form the core of my nascent fire - drying my ass off is not possibly (tho/ough probably) the best use his works ever been put to... I imagine it might make him happy? I know it made the League Of Janets laugh, but whether or not it&#8217;s literary sacrilege I couldn&#8217;t really say, I&#8217;ve only read 2 pages* This fire-making-circa-Fahrenheit 451 capability is one benefit of the printed word that e-books may find exceptionally hard to triumph over. They call it a Kindle, but I doubt it would&#8230; My hearth was also warmed by cigarette rolling papers that had become unavoidably conjoined into a huge unusable concertina by the all invasive wet. This of course spells disaster for us roll-your-owners, and I learnt again that night to store packets in different locations so if some went away with the wet, it wasn&#8217;t a total disaster. In an inverted way I&#8217;d had the same problem on Barbados, in that the inescapable humidity did the same conjuring act of transforming rolling papers into a pack-long string too challenging even for Mssrs. Cheech & Chong off on a weekend in Amsterdam with Hawkwind & Linton Kwesi Johnson & the rest of Hawkwind.


    * Harry Heine 1797-1856: &#8216;Where one burns books, there one eventually burns people&#8217;

    On that adored isle of the bearded trees, which we visited a few times via a long-time-&-beloved college-acquired Bajan friend of ex-Mrs Me, finding cigarette rolling papers presents problems in itself, as tax on ready-mades is so low that no-one smokes roll-ups unless the contents are, shall we say, augmented, and even then they probably use Philly Blunts. Again with the tragedy of capitalism wherein, as was also so often evidenced in what was until recently my scummy home estate, we see people so gripped by poverty that they&#8217;re forced to share their ciggies&#8230; There are beach public access laws around all but a few hundred feet of the coast of Barbados, and though we had twice stayed in beautiful Cattlewash on the east coast, some way off from the tourist version of the island & just north of Bathsheba, we occasionally travelled to access a beach thru/ough one of the &#8216;celebrity&#8217; haunted hotel complexes, Sandy Lane I think?, or sometimes Crane Bay, but whichever it was we there exercised a right of way the site security guards would rather we didn&#8217;t know about. As we The Crane resort one day, having climbed the rickety wooden steps up the sheer cliff from the bay back to the hotel I paused to smoke a roll up before getting into the hire car, to purposely get lost again just so we could wander around the island thereby to discover some other delightful surprise via whimsical providence. The site guard approached in a firm stance & remonstrated with me for smoking weed round his place. Always maintaining a pleasant island way carried by those that live in localities where, if it kicks off, it really kicks off, but nonetheless he was variously conflicted, vexatious & troubled. It took a little explaining to get him to sniff the poor conical-yet-innocent nicotine provider, and absorb the idea that high tax on ready-mades back home in the Former United Commonwealth Kingdoms meant roll-ups = significant savings, and that swapping to tailor-mades on holiday wasn&#8217;t appreciated by this ciggie-connoisseurs palate. He ultimately understood and contentedly smiled us off, and I wished so very wholly that we were somehow made able to never leave; to Crusoe it in a colourful chattel house in a quiet corner of that island, and to see just how little we really needed vs. how much we just wanted. It was my mental malfunction that had seen such sublime sanctuary unsecured, and now, thru/ough the redundancy & failure to recover health, it was forever beyond reach.

    By this point in the here and then, in the cold rain in the woods, the drizzle had lessened out there in the open, though my &#8216;helpful&#8217; tree friend continued to channel its accumulated cargo of condensed cloud so that it rained more under than out from under. My literally literary fire had caught, and with the addition of previously collected wood I began working myself towards dryness, once or twice almost setting fire to the steaming ass of my pants. After suitable levels of &#8216;not so wet, let&#8217;s get on&#8217; were reached I damped down the fire & fired up the bike, and headed back towards the Crapopolis that is Nailsburgh, taking a short &#8216;sojourn par sandwich or similar&#8217; in the nowhere that is Windover. I sheltered from rain in the doorway of a hardware store & watched the morning fruit & veg stalls setting themselves up, as I consumed calories supplied in the much more convenient shape of a can of Dunns River Nourishment, rather than in the solid (subsequently stool inducing) form of the fruit or the veg or convenience store sealed tuna sandwiches etc., that were accumulating there before me. Having assembled their bedouin &#8216;Vegetarium&#8217; the traders gathered around mugs of tea to look at the bike, then to look at me, and then at the bike again, and I felt it was time to skeedaddle. Not thru/ough any sense of nuisance or danger, merely because that particular morning I just didn&#8217;t want/couldn&#8217;t encompass talking to people. So instead I rode the wet roads straight to the Doctors surgery to stick in a repeat prescription request and try to sneak a little &#8216;dry&#8217;, as of course I was now soaked again. Drenched but thirsty.

    Some time after I&#8217;d finished the scrip forms (complete with new hospital levels of pillage) and had popped them in the requisite box I remained in the waiting room sitting quietly by a seemingly heatless radiator in the far corner. Eventually, as I failed to warm from the outside I fancied a coffee of sorts from the machine near the desk, and this gave the normally pleasant & quite chatty receptionist opportunity to ask if I had an appointment, in what seemed to me to be a much more frosty & sternly disapproving manner. Perhaps it was just me, but I felt judged & scolded. I&#8217;d shuffled out from the safety of my distant corner and was in the process of trying to understand the one armed bandit that was their public drinks dispenser, so I guess she&#8217;d leapt in with her query whilst I&#8217;d broken cover was vulnerable out in the open at her end of the waiting room, but her communication coincided with me having pushed a button that started the machine into life, either making me a coffee for a cup I&#8217;d not yet found or initiating the self destruct mechanism with all the attendant steam & beeping & lights & countdown. She was asking, it was wheezing & whirring towards imminent puddle or implosion & I just did a confused dance which I quite naturally expected her to interpret as a simple but eloquent representation of &#8216;Ooh, are there any cups, hang on, it&#8217;s dispensed one, ok, now what were you asking?&#8217;. What must people think of we madites? To make things simple I simply lied and told her I was meeting someone there in 10 minutes and then going on somewhere else. Like any good & gentle fib I could have stretched it out in any one of 15 directions of plausible explanations if pushed, however she, like most, was satisfied with just a headline justification as to why an itinerant puddle had taken up squatters rights in the far corner of her waiting room, so she left it at that. I left too, true to the word of my lie after a further 15 minutes or so, but how exactly does one pull a face of &#8216;Bloody hell, they&#8217;ve not turned up, I&#8217;m not hanging around, thanks, byeeee&#8217;. I think I&#8217;m one step closer to knowing.

    When I sat back on the bike I got a fresh load of wet arse that undid all the &#8216;dry warm chair&#8217; I&#8217;d just mendaciously purloined, but I also noticed the sky was clearing and that the &#8216;great sleeping bag drier in the sky&#8217; was shining thru/ough intermittently. So I made my way &#8216;home&#8217; and set about some housework in the woods. I found my blue cocoon still there, draped over a fence as I&#8217;d left it, and set it out drying on a bench, which it did with quite remarkable speed. I too dried out, and was struck with an urge to tidy my environs, so took a carrier bag & collected up discarded beer cans gulped down by alcoholics who&#8217;d stopped off on their way home from work to sup a quickly before gargling mouth wash & driving off; food packaging cast away by secret snackers; and yes, just one condom, dealt with like hazardous waste as best I could. I put this collection of the detritus of others by the gate, away from &#8216;my&#8217; area, to try and best illustrate that it wasn&#8217;t me making all that mess, oh no. I could really have done with running water though I had some one litre bottles filled at the local garage &#8211; Exterior design, what a headache&#8230;

    But now I also had an interior to consider as I&#8217;d relented and bought one of the (back in stock at the multimart) £7 tents, given the major (but soon to be surpassed) drenching that was last nights debacle. Wet had well and truly intruded into happy and triggered the requirement of a solution. Think what you like but reality always sets you right, uh? &#8216;Caesars Commentaries on the Conquest of Gaul&#8217; refer to having a clear battle plan which understands resources & terrain, but then getting on the field of play and just killing people, depending on what happens, you know? I might see it as &#8216;Flex plans to meet actuality, it&#8217;s only infrequently possible to do the reverse&#8217;. Is this another tenet of Solvation? Or simply an act of submission? A symbol of a giving-in a young self told me he wouldn&#8217;t do those two or three generative cycles ago.

    The value range tent was indeed value, pretty good quality & fit for purpose, and took just a few minutes to put up. I didn&#8217;t pin down the fly sheet separately but mounted it with the over arching flexible poles at the groundsheet corners, so that nothing at all was actually nailed to the floor, thus, in the event of me having to vacate super fast, it could just be lifted easily and placed outside the gate. I positioned the tent so it rested on top of my rocky rubdown bedstead, and tied the door flap to the mammoth motorsickle. The skull-stone lay naturally at my door, with the hearth just out of &#8216;easily starting a tent fire&#8217; range in what I considered was a safe & conscientious manner. Having said this, once I was established in what I thought was a smart arrangement then I lay my phone down in front of me whilst I lovingly welcomed the life heat of the fire, and then little more than a crackle-pop-ping later an ember had hurtled itself from its hell and landed on my phone screen with much slightly melty effect. That&#8217;s one of the innumerable hexes I&#8217;m evidently stricken with - &#8216;The Curse of the Mildly Inconvenient&#8217; - little things, all the bloody time, it&#8217;s quite irritating really. Straight off the top of my broken head I can think of 10 instances, in fact it seems I will&#8230;

    01. After hunting for something interesting to watch on cable, and finally defeating the schedules and stumbling across a touch of &#8216;not entirely terrible&#8217;, at the very moment I think &#8216;This is not entirely terrible&#8217; the signal immediately goes kaput&#8230;

    02. I had a really illuminating example typed in here but the programme crashed, and any attempted re-rendition wouldn&#8217;t have the improvised unprompted charm of the first version, and I would always hate it, even if you never knew.

    03. After beautiful intimacy with the woman who was to be my ex-wife, I walk across the room & stab my foot on a discarded cocktail stick&#8230;

    04. I write 90 or so job applications without even a single short-listing&#8230; OK, so maybe that one&#8217;s just a little more than inconvenient. Maybe that should be on the &#8216;Curse of the Destroyed Soul&#8217; list&#8230;

    05. I get made &#8216;Employee of the Year&#8217; & then made redundant (see latter part of 04 above).

    06. I return from a successful installation test run of a new engine, turn the bars hard right to get in front of the house and an errant wire shorts out & sets fire to the electrics thus ruining the bike, and wasting all the work. Oh woe is me n shit.

    07. The bike really only likes to break down just before a rainfall of biblical proportions.

    08. Something else irritating that seems to happen just as I think things are going well.

    09. When recording tracks I might just sneak a fragment of a passing thought that the thing is coming together & BANG, the machine crashes.

    10. In later accommodation secured as I will later describe, later, I lose a flatmate who incessantly floods things and gain a next who sets things alight instead. Might the next have an curiosity in having every window & door open to the windy max?, or another whose concern lay in filling every room with earth?

    It&#8217;s not entirely that I believe these things are being done to me, or that they are so irritating or significant/debilitating that they might cause me to fall towards total collapse. It&#8217;s just that I&#8217;m carrying such a small bag of &#8216;I is ok&#8217; that, being punch drunk from repeated niggling left jabs I fall to the canvas before the icoming right hook even connects. Though I must admit I could, without much exertion, without doubt think of 50 things I would have done to deserve it all, things done somehow to someone somewhere at somewhen. It&#8217;s a bit petty though don&#8217;t you think? I mean what must I have done that meant that I would be eternally plagued by such curse events such running out of blank CDs when I only needed just one more to complete the task at hand; or I just arrange somewhere to heap my iPod touch with content, & I drop it smashing the screen; or I&#8217;d be riding away from having secured the distant possibility of some work and just as I&#8217;m thinking &#8216;that went well&#8217; I get a nail thru/ough my tyre/ire and have to borrow £10 from one of the League Of Janets for an inner-tube; or I&#8217;m constructively dismissed; or my entire life implodes; or; or; etc ad inf. Everything just begins to go &#8216;not entirely badly&#8217; and then: bang. It&#8217;s like standing backwards on the edge of the cliff, and the pitiless game gives me one step forward & two steps back. To paraphrase Einstein contrarily 'In the middle of opportunity lies difficulty'. The glass is half full, but half full of PISS... Oh this Vita Detestabilis.

    So we&#8217;re agreed that my weather reading skills need work, but this tent should cover last nights Intrusions Into Happy, and if it didn&#8217;t I could turn up sodden on Asstralls doorstep, as long as it&#8217;s not after having taken my sleep meds, under which I lost too much balance to ride, tho/ough I probably would. I was also wholly averse to appearing there as he lived directly beneath the flat that had been our first marital home, the place we brought our first born home to - and being beneath there unlocked a distressing assortment of unkind refractions of recollections of the former state I so desperately thirsted for&#8230; Still, at least I had enough actual water to keep me going today.
  2. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
    Oddometer:
    4,206
    Location:
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    Solvation
    D J S

    3 &#8211; Well I wood, wouldn&#8217;t I? (or, how my fire got put out&#8230;)
    Pt 3.

    <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> There in that wooded time I did have such elongated periods of no thinking. Now, for one as ignorant as I, not thinking is both easy and of course hard, but the sense of having no-one to be, mixed with utter powerlessness, eased from me the need to try to think of ways forward, or solutions to what was behind, and so an empty headed jerkin' gherkin such as I was, at times, able to become truly empty headed. All without the aid of a formalised religious structure or the payment of even the slightest membership fees. Should I now charge others subscription fees to reach the same void? All I need is a wood & sack-fulls of willing cashed-up suppli-cunts. Yet another unlikely, undeliverable business plan devised in every detail in just a flash of thought. I&#8217;ve got hundreds of original TV shows devised, & licensed spin-offs worked out too, the least of which is, ooh let&#8217;s make one up now&#8230; Er, &#8216;My Name Isn&#8217;t Earl&#8217;? wherein I find &#8216;everyone who ever pissed me off but I didn&#8217;t mention it&#8217; and incessantly swear & rage at them for whatever it was, whenever it was; Or for the late-night audience perhaps I could sub-license &#8216;Big Brothel&#8217;, the natural final base extension of the genre; Or perhaps at a stretch &#8216;I Was a Minor Celebrity Get That Out of me!&#8217; wherein various incongruent items are inserted into inconsequential former famous persons in an attempt to see how far they&#8217;ll forego self respect. Again, probably a late night one eh? All these are of course derivative knock ups, but there are plenty more self originated ones, & one day I may come up with a plan that would actually work, tho/ough it seems doubtful doesn&#8217;t it. Out in't woods I only had no solar charger and a cracked screened iPod Touch full of assorted video shorts I&#8217;d made & some spoken word versions of various books I could identify from a single Vectabook Touchscreen graphic my dear insightful & massively capable Lusean once sent me. Even we hedgehogs have to make an effort toward enlightenment you know? By a circuitous route, powerlessness does indeed lead to dealing with loss with aplomb, because if you can't do anything about something, you can't deal with anything, ergo the end result of clear headedness, even if reached thru/ough stupidity rather than wisdom. I could &#8216;Will To No Power&#8217;.

    As far as actual battery power was concerned, I worked out two or three places in the Cacktown of Nailsburgh where, whenever I got the chance I could sit beside a spare mains socket & surreptitiously juice up the iPod and &#8216;I ditn&#8217;t do fuffink&#8217; steal away my electric swag (the specific offence is one of abstracting electricity), tho/ough on one occasion I did pull the plug on a photo booth by mistake. The delightful & compassionate League of Janets had been kind in so very many ways, one of which was net access for topping up the iPod content with a reading of Mr Happy A. Schopenhauers &#8216;Studies in Pessimism&#8217; and other light listening to keep me occupied. I&#8217;ve still to find a reading of Ouspenkis &#8216;In Search of the Miraculous&#8217; (£128 on Amazon?!?) - Oh the troubles & privations I face&#8230;

    For example, does the person that inhabits the space set aside for your personality seek to project or imagine futures? When faced with &#8216;any given reality&#8217; does that you inside of yours produce an incessant torrent of potentials & possibilities however unquestionably unbelievable they might be? Does your s/he that is also your me reach beyond the reasonable & attainable limits of what might actually really actually be do-able in the real world?; and do you get stupid thoughts of what&#8217;d be just downright perfect even tho/ough they&#8217;re obviously observably clearly impossible? You may know by now that I do it repetitively. All aspiration/no actual ability. Always, forever, for all time, for eternity, until the end of time, for ever and a day, at all times, all the time, constantly - Always. You guessed that yeah? This is why I need a benevolent billionaire/ss, who isn't easily offended, making undemanding fiscal overtures towards my little self. At the very least they could pay to point & laugh, none of this Equipe Excellante nonsense, more "Look at what this clods done now :-D". So sort of like this here writting here, but cashed up. I could come to terms with being somebodys tax write-off. I&#8217;m not proud. Do I possess nothing that can be moneterised even on a miniature level? Oh the fickle fates of skill distributions, the stick of which is apparently for ever facing me with its shitty end.

    I&#8217;d thought long since of seeking out the bliss-ed haven of a secular non-ascetic hermitage within which to become without. A simple place where one might revive the vocational craft of Anchorites, & in my all alone time to survey Platos exhortation to &#8216;become not a man, but a beast or a god&#8217;. Still tho/ough, despite even my most excellent attempts to find an expedient road to dehumanisation & friendlessness thru/ough Hermitry, it seems such luscious openings only arise exceptionally infrequently, if at all these days, and when they do (they don&#8217;t) they do almost universally have a tendency to be either a great deal too interconnected to X religion (i.e. any dogma is too much dogma for me); or to the self&#8211;deluding remnants of hippydom, still expecting to prevail over the base selfishness I see scribed onto the core of human nature; or opportunity is dispensed at the whim of capricious benefaction from the wealthy senile remnants of (Ibn Khalduns) thoroughly undeserving 4<sup>th</sup> & 5<sup>th</sup> generation collapsing post-industrial cash-carried Ninnies, who might quite probably insist on a vibrational test in somewhere like Toulouse before deigning to open the path to the paradise pad down by the rock pools; or are basely bungled at their very root, their foundation fouled by some other appalling jambalaya of well intentioned yet lucent socio-politico-spiritual foolishness. Any of the above, and by extension the myriad other undescribed expressions of the same basic principles, offer much too distorted a lens to see &#8216;poor twisted irreligious non-hippy unsociable non-theist antipathist catch-all personality disordered&#8217; me toward anything even approaching &#8216;alone&#8217; &#8211; The results are now in, and I can tell you that for me there is no available isolated anchorage within which to quarantine or edit out my uncomplicated plain-old misanthropic rage.

    It&#8217;s not as if you can even apply for the post of Hermit on any of the great estates any more. One used to be able to sign up for seven years (payment on completion), thereafter being obliged to strike a pose of cultured contemplation or tragedic melancholia when your Lord, his retinue or his goat passed by. So not that unlike religion after all? They were not to cut their beard or nails, leave the grounds, talk to the servants, attack the guests, or wear anything other than a camel-hair robe. But where do you see that kind of job advertised nowadays? Is there a section for it in one of the daily papers? Or a specialised media outlet or at least an association newsletter? There is a (oh so predictably) sparsely inhabited (Ha. Haha. Cough) web forum at www.hermitary.com, tho/ough I couldn&#8217;t find a &#8216;Situations Vacant&#8217; section. What circles should one be moving in to come across such an opportunistic opening? And how does one infiltrate the rich when ones unfortunate personality causes one to seek out &#8216;separate&#8217; in the first place? For sure this stolen right of self-seclusion was victim to the land inclosures of the late 18<sup>th</sup>/early19th century, & the imaginary right of ownership over the soil around us all, the underground beneath it & the overground above to the top of the sky granted therein. Surely the mooted historical migration of the whole human nation from out of isolation to all across Gondwanaland & Laurasia was just a matter of someone getting to the point of thinking &#8216;Fuck this, I&#8217;m moving over those hills to get away from these twats&#8217;. If such were so, you&#8217;d really have to hand it to those hardy peoples of the furthest north no? A people prepared to endure populating privatious polar habitations just to get away from the rest of us.

    And could it be a better life?

    Well, whilst at contemplatious peace in this days ending here in my wooded time, I drank deep of the extra water I&#8217;d collected from the nearest gas station, and I let me loose to take a mental rambling route that led me to let me wander & wonder, and therein to envision a brilliantly complicated and/or simple design for a home I could build there, subject of course to being allowed to, which you wouldn&#8217;t, as I&#8217;ve no doubt already moaned about, and will again. There was a raised doughnut (torus?) shaped living space encircling the great tree I&#8217;d made my current home, built to two imaginary floors looking over an inner courtyard dominated by the living timber centrepiece. There would of course be fully kitted workshop facilities for both my Wife, myself & the Kids in San-Zhi like pods at differing heights on the outside of the ring, modular additions of further pods would naturally be possible as and when required, eventually becoming spokes to an outer ring, or semicircular section thereof, one floor above ground with a basement below, all in phase three of the development. For sure it all had an unashamed unselfconscious derivative/referential quoting of 60&#8217;s &#8216;future buildings&#8217;, but would be the ideal refuge we deserved so much & needed so desperately. There was of course much more detail to the exquisite magnificent design & fitting out of the impossible dwelling that was my pointless dream, but there&#8217;s really no function in going any further because absolutely none of the components of &#8216;getting this done&#8217; are anywhere near being in place. Nepotistic &#8216;career&#8217; development & consequent finance, land ownership, architects drawings, relevant permissions from &#8216;friends on the panel&#8217;, materials, production of modules, earth moving machinery, construction & assembly labour, a family to share a perfect home with&#8230;

    Why on earth did I bother to conceive yet another unobtainable ridiculousness, an added absolute impossibility, one more unreachable contentment to whine about & pine over, whilst all the time I couldn&#8217;t even get my life together enough to get a dry nights sleep? The reason is quite simple, it&#8217;s because I&#8217;m an enormous twat - an idiot trapped in the life of an imbecile directed by the brain of a fucktard&#8230; All the plans hadn&#8217;t come together, ever. All the grandiloquent quests had flopped, all the seemingly &#8216;normal hopes&#8217; were quite evidently pompous purposes because they were dispersed & fell short. Every attempt had been stymied, mired deep in almost cavernous incapability & innate &#8216;unable&#8217;. I was simply a &#8216;could not&#8217; within the societal context set by the generic/ubiquitous &#8216;them/they/their&#8217;, because if &#8216;their&#8217; set of measurements were applied then, if I were a &#8216;could&#8217;, I too would be brazenly exhibiting the visible spoils of confirmatory acquisitive &#8216;winning&#8217;, and I&#8217;d have 5 houses & private schooling for the kids, or an international (tax free) career and early retirement in the western shires (why does the abuser always profit?), or at the very least a bloody doughnut shaped pod house in the fucking woods. For fucks sake I&#8217;d make do with a couple of buried shipping containers side by side with an adjoining portal - a poor mans underground space station&#8230; Like when people used to build their houses replete with nuclear bunkers, only without the house bit on top.

    But even simple &#8216;warm & dry&#8217; had shown themselves to be beyond my feeble wits to arrange. Things weren&#8217;t going very well, they hadn&#8217;t really been going well for something around 45 years, and I wasn&#8217;t getting any of the validating signs of being at the &#8216;winning&#8217; end of the aforementioned stick &#8211; strictly the shitty end for yours truly, just so often so as to become usual. In case of any doubt, this was undeniably not a good thing. I took a long swig of the last of my water to wash down the pills I&#8217;d need to get any sleep at all with all this shit on my mind. All this and so very much more leaves me forever feeling extraordinarily & breathtakingly low, and ultimately leads me to the inescapable conclusion that there is but one simple truth in my life &#8211; &#8216;Nothing Cannot Be Destroyed&#8217;. That is to say that only by wholly expunging all aspirations, plans, aims & goals can I lead myself to the becalmed peace I ask for, in that whatever I try always goes wrong, ergo if I try &#8216;nothing&#8217; then there will be nothing to go wrong. Pure sophistry on one level of course, in that the nothingness itself could be broken or mis-formed, and something might in fact succeed by mistake. However my disproportionately bad reactions to the trifling tumbles & trip-ups of everyday &#8216;alive&#8217; leave me irrestorably broken & lame. A suspiciously large number of things go wrong, and I am the one common factor between them all. It&#8217;s enough to bring one to what in that little sliver of orange suited America perched aboard Fidels little lifeboat would be recorded as having reached &#8216;The Futility State&#8217;. It leaves me &#8216;thinking about the jaws of life, and how they chew you up and spit you right back out into the frying pan&#8217;, and I can say aloud that the unceasingly recurring negative nature of this &#8216;luck&#8217; scares me.

    Now, you tell me. How can I face you unabashed and tell you that I woke the next morning and had right royally pissed myself? What!?! Have you never? I don&#8217;t mean in childhood, but as an adult? And not just a little leak, but a full bladder unwillingly unloaded. Well I don&#8217;t need an excuse, but I have one - I was so under with sleep meds that I&#8217;d not been roused by my body signalling its needs, and even the &#8216;dreaming you&#8217;re pissing&#8217; big ringing alarm bell hadn&#8217;t alerted my somnambulate self. I&#8217;d had too much water intake the day before (because of dehydration the day prior to that), or the preceding rain had insinuated itself into my cells, and the dam inevitably busted itself wide open. But it was far too late to do anything about that now, and it happens to us all one time or another doesn&#8217;t it? No? You&#8217;re liars :-D

    I guess I can say there was only one time in my life where I&#8217;d been genuinely happy to piss myself. It was back when I was being made redundant, and I&#8217;d screamed my battered de-piped BMW K75 121,000 mile rat-bike away from a staff meeting in not the best of moods, in full knowledge that the following day I&#8217;d be in a meeting with my &#8216;superiors&#8217; being formally notified of what was already an appallingly unsuccessfully kept secret, i.e. redundancy. &#8216;Left or right at the gate?&#8217; is something that&#8217;s obviously troubled most of us at one time or another. Right was medium speed twisty & across the hills, left was flat out dual carriageway. Both took me to home, and I probably ought to have taken the former, tho/ough the latter better suited my mood, and I paid for this poor choice by hitting the roundabout at the far end of the speeding ribbon of roadway - head first, followed immediately, it seems, by the bottom of the bike, and the engine thoughtfully bashed my head back into the roundabout brickwork as evidenced by the sump marks on the back of my somewhat shattered helmet, and the little tuft of my jacket on the bottom of the gearbox, torn off as it hit the rear of my left shoulder. Wear marks on my gloves showed I must have landed on my palms and slid before hitting the roundabout and pain in my wrists & shoulder seemed to confirm this, but I couldn&#8217;t really tell you, as I don&#8217;t remember anything at all of the impact itself, only approaching the junction that ended the dual carriageway and lifting off & braking early, my lane entirely clear. I hadn&#8217;t been going that fast anyway, and started the slowing process in plenty of time, but the bike seemed to push on a little* and started bucking on the suspension as the rear wheel slid & gripped & slid. A vehicle ahead in the stationary other lane began to indicate & made to begin pulling out into my lane so I initiated uncontrolled movement towards the outside, and in the gravely dirt & diesel there the brakes & suspension misbehaved even more vociferously, and the last thing I can remember is being high-sided & cast off the right front of the bike by the widening centre reservation at the junction, towards the curving brickwork, with the bike following me. I hadn&#8217;t had a lot of choice at the time - it was either that or lay it down in a low-side slide, at the end of which trajectory lay a moving articulated lorry or three, all ready & willing to squish me. At the time avoiding being flattened seemed a good choice, but there are times I wish&#8230;

    * A failed throttle position sensor.

    As you can imagine the above resulted in an undefined period of unconsciousness, and, as is so often the case in such crashy matters, it was right then that my bladder thought &#8216;fuck it&#8217; & let go. Did it not realise I&#8217;d guess what it&#8217;d done given the lack of alternative likely suspects? Maybe it thought it&#8217;d get away with it because I&#8217;d be confusedly convinced that someone else had sauntered along & pissed on me while I was spark out? But I wasn&#8217;t hoodwinked. Any of you whose life has included (or includes) the potential to knock yourself out will fully recognise my bladders bitter betrayal of me given the circumstances. This must have happened to most motor-bicyclists some time or another whether they like it or not, but after all this descriptive guff this wasn&#8217;t even the actual time I was pleased, almost joyous, to have pissed myself. No, that came a short while later, after having been questioned by ambulance staff as to the date & my mobile number (and explaining I never knew either so this was no sign of brain injury), and having declined medical service* & then dealt with the filthy pointy headed cnuts who trailered the bike away having promised to pay the recovery fee**. I was then offered a lift home by a hateful & otherwise malicious &#8216;colleague&#8217; who&#8217;d pulled over. The bike was almost untouched & eminently roadworthy as I appear to have cushioned it somewhat, but the aforementioned cnuts wouldn&#8217;t let me ride it away with a smashed helmet, or chain it to a post for later retrieval, so I reluctantly took up the heavily detestable co-workers offer of the lift back into the Shitopolis we call Nailsburgh.

    * I always decline hospitalisation unless there&#8217;s something sticking out or hanging off. I&#8217;ve absolutely zero desire to sit in A&E for hours when there&#8217;s little or nothing they can do.
    ** They didn&#8217;t of course the lying cnuts, they kept it for a vehicle inspection, which it passed of course, and then I had to pay £266.00 to release it from the &#8216;you&#8217;ll have to talk to the coppers boy&#8217; yard.

    Then, while being ferried by a despicable woman who I knew was one of the primary instigators in my impending removal, who would be behind the enacting that dismissal in the meeting tomorrow, and who had repeatedly been a big shit whenever possible, it occurred to me that from my point of view the damage was already done, and so for the rest of the journey I marshalled all available urine & beseeched my bladder to make up for its earlier disloyalty by silently slopping another hefty pool of piddle discretely into her front seat. I can&#8217;t say I&#8217;m either ashamed or guilty, I&#8217;d given her plenty more chances than she deserved, but she just didn&#8217;t know how to play nice, and I don&#8217;t even recognise your right to judge me either way - be as appalled as you like, but you should meet the woman, you may think me crude, but hear me when I say she got off light, if I&#8217;d have really taken appropriately scaled level 4 action then I&#8217;d have shat myself in the car and shaken it out my trouser leg to under the seat, no worries - It&#8217;s little things like this that make me happy :-D Some people, thru/ough their repetitively malicious actions, just don&#8217;t deserve any mercy. First time, well we all make mistakes. Second time, we&#8217;ve talked about this before. Third, &#8220;You are now on the &#8216;wanker&#8217; list, please stand on the other side of that line there, Where the floor is marked &#8216;WANKER&#8217;, and do not approach me.&#8221; Fourth? I will now shit in your car, face, life etc. with total impunity. Fifth? Don&#8217;t now be surprised to wake in a bath full of icecubes missing your kidneys. Who am I and how am I any better than them? No-one, no better. It&#8217;s simply Plato and his definition of justice as &#8216;You leave me alone & I&#8217;ll do likewise for you&#8217;. I don&#8217;t think that&#8217;s unreasonable&#8230;

    Soooooooooo, as I lay in my urine sodden state back in my tent, contemplatively considering this pleasing past piss based affair, and shaping my present reaction & consequent crafty plan of action to my most recent urethral indiscretion, I again become agonizingly conscious that the state of resignation has never proven easy to summon at will. Certainly it comes a micro % easier when you&#8217;ve really no choice in matters, but then the efficacy of this resignation is inescapably undone by the inexorable indignation at my overall innate powerlessness, and that makes everything anything but easy to deal with.
  3. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  4. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  5. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  6. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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    Solvation
    D J S

    3 – Well I wood, wouldn’t I? (or, how my fire got put out…)
    Pt 4.

    <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> So how did I deal with it? Well, I dug out my filthy but (mostly) piss free third set of clothes (I was wearing the other 2 sets), packed them into a carrier bag in the rucksack, alongside the sleeping bag, and rode my way back to Nmaj. With an amusing plan in mind. It was raining again, however this time it conveniently served as part of my improvised design, and I rolled up a dirty dank mess at Nmaj. Once your face is on the recognised list it’s easy enough to get thru/ough the two locked doors into the ward, you could be there for any number of plausible reasons, so the outer door from reception gets opened easily enough, on this occasion by a Doctor who knew my face but not my status. Similarly the inner door was remotely unlocked from the ward office as they saw me on the monitor muttering about meeting someone and I, who was no longer an inpatient, had once again gotten myself inside the asylum. I deliberately selected a staff member I didn’t recognise & asked for some towels & access to the laundry room. There I immodestly stripped off, emptied my rucksack & took occupation of both washer driers, putting them on a quick wash/long dry cycle. I then compounded my fraud by asking the poor staffer for some washing powder. I didn’t know them, which of course meant they had little chance of knowing me, and therefore knowing I shouldn’t by rights be there at all. That’s the thing with new staff, as you can see in their face the desperate look of ‘What the HELL is going on, who’s that? Towels? Towels is easy enough to do, what time does my shift end? Aaaaargh etc.’ I got the nod from one of the cleaners &, draped in said towels, asked the staffer to unlock the just scrubbed shower most adjacent to the laundry, locked the door behind me and gratefully sat & unwound under the high pressure near scalding water. I knew I ought to have plenty of time. Each half hour they do the observation round & tick internees off a list, so there’s sort of a system for seeing when they’re down one, tho/ough I’ve seen it take them some considerable time to actually work out they’ve had a runner and do something about it. But there’s not really a system in place to tell them they’re up one (i.e. admitted after list was printed/visiting for consultation etc.), so I was contentedly confident I pretty much had as long as I liked. It’s thru/ough these little gaps in the world that one may find a form of coping with the outcomes of unprompted incontinence, and so I got to clean me of my own soiling.

    However, lets not forget that to achieve this I’d also had to re-insert myself into the staining chaos & disorder emanating from out of the wrecked souls residing there on the acute admissions ward in Nmaj. Some patients I knew, some were new, some had left while I was there but were back in, some had left. One I knew for a fact had been trans-navigating between in/ill & out/still ill for near on 20 years, and he’s still trapped in the loop the poor fuck. There was mild scale hollering coming from a variety of directions, and tho/ough this wasn’t unusual it did proffer a stark & timely reminder as to exactly why I’d not returned there and had booked out of Nmin. instead, it was unreservedly confirmed as having been the right choice even tho/ough it’d resulted in me living within the woods in my own urine, but then that wasn’t turning out to be so bad. On the ward, when one becomes acutely aware of the incongruity of ones immediate environs it’s often because one has progressed to ‘a bit better’?

    One washer/drier concluded its mission before the other, so I was able to dress in toasty warm clothes and sit discretely in the visiting room opposite the laundry & wait a while. It was just outside visiting hours, and patients or staff rarely ventured up there, so no-one bothered me. I was surreptitiously inside doing what I needed to get done, could get out as simply as I got in, and was managing to avoid the full engagement with the ward proper. This was going so well I began to get nervous :-D

    How do you describe the inside of an acute psych ward? Anyone that’s been in one will doubtless swiftly vouch that you’d not believe most of what goes on if you were to be told. If it were recorded here verbatim you’d unquestionably presuppose it far too far fetched & fantastical. Even accounts from staff or visitors wouldn’t encompass the experience of the internee themselves, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen or read a candid & correct representation that captures the accurate texture of the experience. If you know any Nutters* just ask them, they’ll tell you that any true description would seem utterly implausible, for sure. Also, to be fair, I ought not delve into describing authentic events because of rightful patient confidentiality. They have a right to it, and even if I herein waive mine, I’ve no right to waive theirs. It’s sort of like ‘What happens on tour, stays on tour’ you know? (Nothing ever happens on tour).

    * Remember, being one then I’m allowed to use the ‘N’ word, that’s how it works isn’t it?

    But still, you may wish to never find your wretched carcass in a mental hospital, or perhaps you find yourself unable to conceive a situation that would ever lead to this. However, should such a thing occur in your sorry facsimile of a life do not be fearful. Some of it will shock you, other parts will stretch your capacity to believe or understand the breadth of human behaviour, while some will just confirm your suspicions as to the profound depths that can be arrived at by the humanzees… Is madness exclusively found in the mental wards? Well no, for as much as you may find yourself locked in you’ll also find the outside locked out, and believe me this is, for my taste, half the point of being there. Do not let the stigma leech itself onto your experience, nor preconceptions come between you and the ‘being there’. Never allow the illness of others to project or imprint itself onto you. Just be there and embrace whatever had caused you to be there. Take it all in & know that no-one will believe you if you tell them even some of happened right in front of you. Not even if you included diagrams.

    Hospitalisation is a great leveller, hitting all classes & backgrounds. It’s only the nature of the individual mental disease in question & its expression in you that will separate you from your fellow madees. They’re all there for a reason too, and tho/ough the exact nature of their brain disease may differ from yours, they are humans stripped to the core instinctual responses and subject to their ‘faulty DNA’ just as you. Yet if one were an adherent of Darwinism (I’m not, but then neither am I deity driven, or cradled by animistic totemism, nor do I even know what Humanism is?) one would accept that progress only occurs at the mutational margins, so faulty in what way? Anyway it’s generally been my experience that one quite probably meets a far better class of semi-awake humanoid in a mental hospital. I worry for the those outside who stop working on recognising the sickness in their souls & hearts. Those classified as the model norm who fall short of spectating their genuine place in the scheme of things. Do they not know that, as Lusean once delightfully quipped - We are all plankton? :-D

    Getting out of Nmaj. was no harder than entering. One of the three visiting times was approaching and I took the entry of the first wide eyed relatives as my opportunity to exit, seemingly fumbling for my swipe card & not acting ‘nuts’ was enough to convince them I was allowed out. I could have worked another way out sooner, but was in no rush. I’d been happy watching the Magpies hanging around the large smoking garden as they so often did, I’d seen more of Magpies there at Nmaj. than anywhere ever…

    Outside now, my right thumb pressed life into my metal mares monstrous motorissimo & rode that spartan form hard back to woods the long way round, on roads now parched & irresistibly grippy. Everything I’d left there was still there, I’d not been sure it would be, and I parked up in front of the tent, clipped the door flap to the adjacent bike and sighed to myself, slowing down, calming. My brain became made of sand, each grain dropping thru/ough the narrows of my neck to rest below. Each grain denoting steps in time, every one slower than the last. Finally I came to respite & could think, sort of.

    I was immediately reminded why I was there rather than back in the hospital. That’s not to say I was no longer nuts, I always have been, always will be. I’ve gone beyond thinking this could ever be overcome. Oddly, to my mind, people have asked if I was ‘scared’ in the woods, but no. I was entirely free, completely relaxed, ah the quietness – both inside & out :-D Now, comparing these woods hereabouts to the sort of woods one might get in the former Soviet states or the US, they barely register as more than a large garden. But for Grate Britannia (or as we now know it, the Former United Commonwealth Kingdoms) they’re wood sized and that’s plenty big enough for me thank you very much. And comparing the broken brane issues I face then I could be far worse cast with any of the mental dis-eases I’d watched in the hospitalisation. I could have done with a more vast separation between me & ‘civilisation’, but I was far enough out to be able to imagine I was entirely away from the world. These woods were so called public access and so theoretically open to all, as opposed to most land in F.U.C.K. which is owned by ‘The Man’ or one of his cousins, business associates, or cousins business associates, and therefore access is rigorously restricted – Thus here we have the phrase ‘Get orfa my laaarnnn’, the ‘my’ being the result of the many & various Land Inclosure Acts and the eons long battle of ‘previous or primitive accumulation’. Tho/ough we may have been encouraged to imagine we’re in the 21<sup>st</sup> century, you know we are in fact somewhat pre Magna-Carta & they get all Baronial on our asses when it comes to who owns which land, what they can do with it, and what they can stop you doing on it. You know that all, right? Try and keep up at the back there.

    But, in the shelter of a car park in a picnic area in the woods I am afforded a kind of general legal protection from outside interference. I’m not on private, private land, yet neither am I pitching up un-allowed to seek to actually reside in the forbidden depths of the woods, and in doing seeking to conceal presence. I checked the sign on the gate and it basically said ‘NO FUCKING’ in more proprietous parlance, but said nothing specific regarding ‘no camping’, so being there I was somewhere I wasn’t not allowed to be. As if to illustrate this, late one afternoon I heard a Landrover & trailer come rushing down the single track road adjacent to my little empire. It abruptly halted as it went past the gate, thru/ough which I could be seen, and reversed back into the car park so that the rear of his trailer was facing me, and he could observe me discretely thru/ough his drivers side mirror. I opened my tent flap & glanced out, and he sat there for a short while, and then began to pull away, presenting his flank to me as he left, complete with Cunty Cuncil logos etc. It was apparent he was a junior park keeper type as they’re responsible for such locations, and he gave me a cheery wave, so I gave him an equally cheery wave back & he was gone.

    Then a couple of nights later I was predictably visited by passing Peelers, they were driving down the lane late at night and, as I’d made no attempt to conceal myself, they spotted my abode without an address, stopped and reversed back shining the lights of their pig-mobile at me. PC Gone-Mad climbed from the vehicle, leaving Sergeant Liar safely inside (Detective Inspector H.T. Leads was on leave?), and he cautiously wandered toward my little abode calling out ‘Where are you all?’ in a sort of slightly timid tremulous tone of a kind which doesn’t make one feel full confidence in the approaching officers confidence. I replied that there was only me and slowly made myself visible without any sudden moves, keeping to low status body signals, but he still shone his little light around the area looking for some gun toting comrade who’d leap out on him and make him earn his pay for once. Having satisfied himself I was indeed alone he straightened up, swaggering & all dressed up in his action-man kit, and tried to make himself grander to impress me, I wasn’t impressed. He grudgingly asked why I was here & what I was doing so I briefly explained my situation, and he wanted to see some form of ID. I had my driving license to hand and he officiously carried out a radio check to see if I was Ronnie Biggs (I’m not) & therefore wanted by the forces of law & order (I’m not) for being a very bad man (now that I am). Are they a police service or a force? There’s a big difference. I for one don’t feel protected by them, am clearly of the mind that they’re there to keep me in my place, which is below them, and I can’t say I’ve ever met one who didn’t piss me off in one way or another. His check came back negative, and, seeming somewhat saddened that he wouldn’t get to exercise his ‘powers’ and wrestle me to the floor or tazer me (either before or after I shot myself, it won’t really be clear). He bade me goodnight and drove off to hassle some other poor shit for doing absolutely nothing at all.

    I can’t help but get into ‘debates’ with my old chum the venerable vegetable based life-form known as Asstrall about the nature of ‘Ye Olde Cops & Coppery’. He’s of the (half blown) mind that they’re almost all very nice fellows oh yes indeed, while I tend towards my dear friend PJCR12s view that they’re pretty much all pointy headed cnuts who are intellectually like builders but in uniform, to me they’re all playing little boys games with big boys toys. I’m thinking of having Asstrall needlessly arrested and stuck in a cell for a few hours more than it takes to find out a persons done nothing, just to wake him up a little you know? He tells me its decades since he was last cast into a cell, and that was just the once. Perhaps periodically one needs a reminder of just what ‘they’ can do if they feel like it. Would the great swing be possible where the ‘middle classes’ (as discussed elsewhere here no doubt, actually the medium working classes who’re fooled into unfounded aspirations) experienced this for themselves & came to realise they are as oppressed, repressed & befuddled by state lies as the rest of us? You’d have thought that after the pasting meted out to the ‘Cuntryside Alliance’ they’d have woken up wouldn’t you? But no.

    Then, unsurprisingly, a few days after the police stopover, there was a second visit from a park keeper type, this time a boss. Not only did he look as tho/ough he were, but proto-amiably took the trouble to broadcast himself as such. He asked various innocuous questions to get the measure of me, but was really quite pleasant and said (off the record) he was quite happy for me to stay there for as long as I liked, and that I was probably helping him by driving off any undesirable types. He mentioned how I’d tidied up for them already, and implied that the locals had for sure reported a conspicuous decrease in the previously prevalent problems over the weeks I’d been there. He locked the gateway behind him in the knowledge that I could get in & out via the brief pedestrian access-way directly alongside it, as he himself indicated, and he gave the now customary cheery wave as he departed.
  7. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  8. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  9. bill42

    bill42 Old-School BMWs

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    HOLY FRACKING COW!!!!!
    Dude, I love your personal blog disguised as an Advrider's post about airheads, because you post spontaneous shit and often prove to be one of the great kings of google and finding unique BMW motorcycle related material. But this!!! I was going to inform you that you are insane but much of this is about how you are fully aware of this fact!
    I do not mean to sound condescending. In fact I am quite jealous of your vocabulary and you are more educated than I am. But I must confess I couldn't read more than maybe, 10% of this. It had very little to do with BMWs. Has anyone read it all? What does it MEAN? I would appreciate a summary from you or anyone else.
    Are you well? Are you on medication? drugs? How can someone write this much so quickly? You need to be studied.




  10. disston

    disston ShadeTreeExpert

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    Bill,

    I was in the same boat you are in some time ago, not that long ago really. Take a deep breath and grab a chair. It will all make sense in the morning when you wake up.

    Charlie
  11. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  12. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  13. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

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  14. jings

    jings Been here awhile

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    holy shit that ogange boxer gave me a banging sore head
  15. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
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    Aye, it is rather unique isn't it... :lol3
  16. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
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  17. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
    Oddometer:
    4,206
    Location:
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  18. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
    Oddometer:
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    Location:
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  19. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
    Oddometer:
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  20. planktonnn

    planktonnn .also, i am a twat

    Joined:
    Jan 9, 2008
    Oddometer:
    4,206
    Location:
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