March has been a slow month for blog entries on The OPINION but that isn’t to say there isn’t a lot to say. Jonny Opinion, as you may already have gathered, has started talking about himself in the third person. For a brief period last week he became Chinese. Both these things were in the interest of protecting himself from identity theft. One morning the week before said Oriental experience, he woke up to find that he was still asleep, but dreaming about being awake. The best thing to do, under the circumstances, he decided, when all was said and done, truth be told, after all, was consume gallons of coffee. One evening he spent 46 minutes on the toilet. The following morning he called in sick for work, but then showed up for work to find his subordinates indulging in an orgy of drugs and vice, and had to fire and/or blackmail them all. He was never found out but only because the police were all in bed. A man on the scene composed a poem, it went:
Well, how delightful. Really very, very jolly indeed. Splendid. Smashing. Super, and delightful. Wonderful. Delicious. What? What. How? How. Yes? No. Maybe? Maybe not. It’s all just fabulous. Delightful. How delightful. Isn’t it all, kind of, lovely? Lovely? Lovely.
Alternatively, you could be stranded, naked on a cold beach with no prospects or broadband. The sky could be darkening, menacing. You could be very scared. All the more scary, it would be, because you don’t know why you’re scared. You don’t know what you’re scared of but you know it’s big and ugly. It wants to eat you. It will be slow and painful. The audience, if there was one, would laugh like maniacs. Except there is no audience. There’s not another human being for miles in every direction. This is not at all delightful.
Even at the grand old age of 27, I still slip the occasional up and find my feet planted almost firmly almost inside the circle of being vaguely aware of what’s become of pop culture. This Christmas, this has happened in a roundabout way through, of all people, Leonard Cohen. It happened because of Leonard Cohen’s song, one of the most covered songs of all, ‘Hallelujah’.
Ego ego ego
Dick cock dick,
it’s a piece of cake
snake rake lake take make
Now listen here Michael
David, Frank, John, Jim
jam bam blam
the sun won’t rise unless you laugh at it
thick, trick, thick
Take a photograph of a photographer taking a photograph of a photograph depicting just that
Don’t think about it:
You are wrong.
Fuck fuck you you fucking fuck
Aufbau! Oh, Rudolph Carnap, you are so sensible,
you could quite easily have been in Kraftwerk
but everything is always as it seems.
Cock block tick tock flick flock snock sock plock quock quack
quank wank fish tank right flank sink sank blankety-blank
neither of these people understand that the bandstand has been banned.
If you do not entertain me promto I will chop my head off all the time
crime lime sine wine whine time Tyne mine all mine all mine
atyne, flyne, aquine, St Thomas Equinus,
horses horses horses horses
mices lices entices flices fleeces reeses pieces quiches
blag blog beg
fat fit fot cot rot chot chat flat cat/mat/sat
code mode sod
sodding sod fucking fuck
walla walla bang bling bang band fland hand quicksand
Beth is best east is yeast west is chest breast festival
flyer flier fire FIRE FIREEEE
fgh you you fghing fgh.
Girls girls girls girls girls I do adore
girls girls girls girls
girls all over the floor.
Vienna van Savanah,
sig sag sagh sgah saharahahahahahahrah shepherd quiet keg fleg phlegm nem nom nam nemnomnamnigsigwigbigflighig-high!
dada / sex / void
We’re all familiar with the tinyurl.com, which usefully makes your URLs smaller for reasons of convenience, so we should (for reasons of symmetry) also become familiar with hugeurl.com which makes small URLs a lot, lot longer. This is just as convenient, if you think about it, while also making a mockery of tinyurl.com, and itself. The OPINION thoroughly approves of this sort of thing.
Things have a tendency to finish prematurely. This is the explanation for the rather pathetic length of this
recorded spontaneously on my way home from work. Had my batteries on my dictaphone not run out less than one minute into this delightful saxaphone (Simpsons?) seranade, you would also hear my afterthoughts on the situation as it unfolded, which were as follows:
While waiting for the first bus of my journey home, someone threw an egg at me from the window of their speedy car, an absolutely excellent shot which somehow managed to break on my wrist and burst slimy egg protein all over the contents of my bag. I wasn’t pissed off about this, really – throwing eggs at strangers is, I’m sure, a valid form of self-expression within the right context; and who am I to say whether or not I was in the right context? Although I was the protagonist, I was also just a bystander. And while we’re on this train of thought, who’s to say if I was innocent or not? Not all bystanders are, you know.
I’m not sure how ironic it is, exactly, that among the egged contents of my bag was a brand new copy of John Ruskin’s On Art and Life, but I’ll let you know.
Anywho, with this somewhat unpleasant physical assault in the recent past, the subsequent aural assault became immediately extra-pleasureable. Had the batteries on my dictaphone not run out, you would now be listening to me explain this, and even adding a sufficiently pretentious afterthought about how wonderful it is that music has its own mystical way of balancing things out. What’s more, my walking down the street apparently talking to my hand (I have a very small dicatphone) would not have been quite so in vain. But as I said, things have a tendency to finish prematurely. That’s just life. And you know what the say about people with small dic