Friday, 24 April 2015

Scar Tissue

Bigup the body's ability to heal.

Now i just look like i have a massive spot on my nose. Shit could be a lot worse.

Chicks dig scars.

Hellraiser got poon.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

Trees Rustling

A longing to wander tears my heart when i hear the trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, the longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home.

Hermann Hesse 1877-1962 Poet and novelist

Wednesday, 22 April 2015


Went for a sweet birthday dinner with my old man on monday. Shooting the breeze, munching our way through Heston's very reasonably priced take on Salmagundi, he told me he'd liked the post i'd written about love, which i'd sent him seeing as he was mentioned in it, knowing full well he'd appreciate the limelight on my fly as hell blog.

Apart from that crap you wrote about the septic tank. That was bullshit, he said. 

I looked at him in consternation. That was a direct quote from you, i rallied. 

Me? I never said that. How could i have? It's a ridiculous assertion. You said a septic tank, i retorted. I remember it perfectly. I said a water tank you idiot. Not a stagnant, septic tank. How on earth could love be stagnant, or septic. Love is always moving, morphing, the idea it is stagnant is complete rubbish. And septic, is even worse. This tank i speak of is full of the water of your own love, and has its very own water supply attached, that keeps topping it up anew, this water being the new elements of love that keep flowing in, changing the shape and consistency of the love already there. Because love is exactly that. Ever-changing. The tank idea holds absolutely true, but your stagnant septic theory is ridiculous and smacks of your stupidity. It's no wonder nobody reads the rubbish you write.

Whatever mate. Yeah so anyway i changed it.

If you missed the post you can have a dibble here.

Apparently it makes more sense now. Cheers pop.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Third Birthday Bashment

It would be unjust to let this day go by without celebrating the 3rd anniversary of...

The Dog House Part 2

One of the all time top dropthebeatonit moments, and a firm fan favourite.

It concerned an email altercation with my ex-girfriend back in 2012, and all the fun that then ensued. The content caused a great deal of debate amongst the sexes, i received aggressive levels of hate-mail from the female populus and more than a few muffled 'fair play's and missed high fives from the mandem. Yet more proof if ever it was needed that the biggest chasm in our fragile world remains not rich or poor, black or white, young or old, but male and female. But without further ado, who let the dogs out

Strap in


Monday 16th April 2012

A couple of weeks ago i mentioned i was Dog House bound for the foreseeable future.

There was me thinking i was out.

But no it seems i'm back once again.

So languishing here at the bottom of the garden, scrutching around sniffing my balls and perspiring through my tongue, i figure i might as well enjoy it while it lasts and share the root of my predicament with all you people. Below is an email thread between me and She who must not be named. Another way of describing it would be to call it a stunning attack of vitriol based on extremely little circumstancial evidence, in response to a pretty great joke.

I've selected my favourite bits and blown them up for your viewing pleasure. 


'Stupid little email' cut me deep since i thought it was a pretty funny email, not to mention a valid request at the time. I like it though.


'Spoilt little teenage brother' is also good. I'll take it.


MacGyver-style diversion tactics, a classic for the scrapbook.


 Repetition of the word 'off'. Ouch.


Last but not least the killer parting shot. Not even any kisses at the end. Cold.

Apparently this is 'Not on'. Which leaves me wondering what is on? As far as i'm concerned i'd hope some sausages might be currently on the grill turning and spitting nicely, and my pants be on the bed washed and neatly folded. Let's hope this doesn't get blown out of all proportion, but in case it does i feel there are two lessons to be learnt from this debacle. One is never mess with a man with his own blog. And in light of this and in my defense, the other comes straight from the mouth of the original gee Oscar Wilde.

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about. And that is not being talked about.


With three years of hindsight, it seems fitting now to mention that there is no way in hell i would ever have deigned to write something like that were it not for the nextlevel preternatural dopeness of said aformentioned ex-girlfriend, one i saw for breakfast this morning and whose coolness i was once again reminded of, as well as a warm fuzziness i feel to have spent all the time i did in her intimacy. Bigup Skindi. Sorry again for the dirty pants and socks. Still can't believe you fell for the 'don't worry about all this i'll do it' before you left line. Definitely still a classic for the scrapbook.

Friday, 10 April 2015

A Love Supreme

Another one with its own soundtrack. Plug the fuck in.


'If i have the gift of prophecy, and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if i have a faith that can move mountains, and i have not love, then i am nothing' 

wrote Corinthians-dawg back in the day.


What's with this love thing. The most deficient word in the english language, the most complex, the most simple to them that know it, the most elusive to them that seek it, the most painful to them that lose it. The subject of countless books, songs, works of art, declarations of war, professions of faith, and BangBus porn-subscriptions. I remember asking my old man once if, out of all the big subjects in the world such as death, tragedy, religion, war, money etc, was love the most important. And stealing me a glance that inferred i needed a special-needs checkup, he replied of course it is.

The main problem with this word is that no-one knows what the fuck it means. We all might think we know what it means. The trouble is that it means completely different things to different people. And it doesn't help that when it comes to using it we're pretty fucking far from discriminatory. We bandy it around like snowflakes in blizzard. 

It's always the same four letter word, expressing joy for a bowl of Shreddies, a sunrise, Daniel LaRusso's crane manoeuvre at the end of the All Valley Karate Championship, Snoop Dogg's clinical addiction to fried chicken, our grandmother's wedding ring, a particularly tasty apple, and the apple of our eye.

But there are so many different kinds of love. The Greeks broke it down into six different catchments. 

Eros was for desire and sexual passion (which they saw as dangerous and irrational).

Philia stood for friendship - the lifelong type shared by brothers returning from the battlefield. 

Ludus meant playful love, such as the love between children, and flirtation. The love facilitated by memorising the first twelve chapters of The Game and hitting Cheapskates on a tuesday night.

Agape was selfless love, kindness, the love for humanity, what we might know as Christian love. 

Pragma was the love and understanding established between long-standing married couples.

And lastly Philautia represented self-love, by turns both damaging, and if perfected, life-enhancing.

My motherfucking quandary is about the love described in pop songs and sonnets, the romantic one. 

A french badman from the 17th century called Duc de La Rochefoucauld pointed out the fact that 'Some people would never have fallen in love if they had never heard of love.' I suppose he was asking the question: is love a feeling we put a name to, or a name we put a feeling to. Is it something we seek so relentlessly that we attribute all sorts of minor dalliances to it, or is it something so completely transcendental that only when we get sledgehammered across the face by it, and we're on all fours picking pieces of our skull and brain up off the floor, that the realisation dawns on us... oh that must be love then. That's the trouble. Some people fall in love every single day, and some people never fall in love once, in an entire lifetime.


Then comes love's declaration. Also a prickly motherfucker.

Alain de Botton makes a rude point about the inconsistencies of saying i love you.

If i told Chloe that i had a stomach ache or a garden full of daffodils, i could count on her to understand. Naturally, my image of a garden might slightly differ from hers, but there would be reasonable parity between the two images. Words would operate as reliable messengers of meaning. But the words i was now trying to say had no such guarantees attached to them. They were the most ambiguous in the language, because the things they referred to so sorely lacked stable meaning. Certain travellers had returned from the heart and tried to represent what they had seen, but love was in the end like a species of rare coloured butterfly, often sighted but never conclusively identified.

My old man, the same one who waxed lyrical about love being the most important subject in existence, broke Alain de Botton's theory down into slightly less romantic terms. Love is not a river or a stream, he said. Love is a high-walled impenetrable water tank. Two people who love each other are like two high-walled impenetrable water tanks lined up side by side. Saying i love you to someone means nothing to them, it can only mean something to you. When you say i love you, your love is not a tsunami obliterating the walls of a dam and spilling into their reservoir to mix in a new ocean of undiluted hyrdopassion, the dam is holding fast motherfucker. The love declaration is nothing but three words coming out of your mouth, to serve your own purposes.

This isn't to say two people can't love each other simultaneously, of course they can. Rather that their respective loves can't mix. Like two magnets repelling each other. The two loves can sit there perfectly contentedly side by side looking out on the horizon, with just enough distance between them for one not to start magnetically flipping the fuck out.

Natalie Portman takes it to the hole in Closer.

If this is all coming across on the cynical side, that's because LOVE IS A FUCKED UP THING.

As always The Wheels Of Steel has the right idea.

The Wheels Of Steel is keeping its head, when every bike around it is losing theirs and blaming it on The Wheels Of Steel. When every other bike spends 83% of its life before getting stolen seeking out the attentions of easy lamp posts, my ride once again proves it's wisdom and sagacity, above all in affairs of the heart. Look closely and you'll see, my bike has given up on the lamp post. 

Instead my bike has locked itself... to love

A Love Supreme

If love is a fucked up thing, it's also sacred.

Which explains pops' water-tank most-important-thing-in-existence U-turn.

Homeboy Steinbeck said it best in a letter to his lovestruck teenage son, making a marked distinction between the subject of our love, and the object of love itself.

Being in love is about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don't let anyone make it small or light to you. Glory in it, and be very glad and grateful for it. 

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.


Perhaps in the end, the emotion the other elicits, is the closest we can ever hope to get to the other.

Maybe we should cash our chips in and just learn to love....

- d r u m r o l l

Take it away Jaaaahn.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

The Monster's Roar

I think this pretty much sums up everything that hasis, and will happen.

Alfie Lay 1982-present thinker philanthropist