BLASPHEMY 101

You can say what you like. Just don't step on God's blue suede shoes.

Blasphemy my ass. If your gods and disciples and prophets and nutbag religious cretins weren't such total pricks, they'd be able to withstand a bit of fucking criticism. (Cue the blasphemous cartoons.)

What next? No more priest jokes?

Guinness, please. (And you better make it to go.)

Just started reading 'A Great and Terrible King' by Marc Morris.
It's about the life of Edward I, also known as 'Longshanks' (aka 'The Hammer of the Scots'.)
At the moment, Edward is sixteen. He's been married a year already. His wife, Eleanor, is fourteen. She's already had a miscarriage.
(Oh, yeah: these wild and crazy kids are giving Edward's old man, Henry lll, plenty of grief. Which is cool. Because Henry lll was a bit of a pill. The 'Mr. Dithers' of his time.)
Yeah, and it's got Simon de Montfort; a bunch of crazy-ass Welshmen; lots of knights and shit; plots, castles, tournaments, the Knights Templar and plenty of shenanigans.
Can't wait to get to the 'Braveheart' stuff.

Yup. Gonna be a good read.

Crazy damn Plantagenets, eh?

I have been watching the situation in Persia -- er, Iran. And I must say it reminds me a bit of my time. My Queen, after all, was head of the Church... thanks in no small measure to her father's pecker. (I'm certain there's a joke in there, somewhere.) Just as the Persian (oops, again, my bad) imams, or ayatollahs -- or whatever the fuck they're called -- are head of their country. Church and State twined and twinned.

The difference, of course, is that in my day the Monarch granted beheading only to the elite. In Iran, it is performed willy-nilly on anyone who gets up the nose of the Supreme Leader.

I mean, really.

PLUMBING THROUGH THE AGES

When I was young, we amused ourselves by preparing boys for combat; getting drunk; fucking damned near anything that moved; developing devices of torture; raising private armies; killing poachers; and of course, writing delicate verse.

Aside from electricity, keyboards, software and powerful handguns, things are pretty much the same these days. (However, I will admit that the modern flush toilet is an improvement on the palace garderobe. Picture below.)


Right. I know what you're thinking. Chamber pots.

Yes. We had them.

We also had guys who would wipe the King's bum. (see: Groom of the Stool.)

Now, regarding that last position, there must be a contemporary name or two which springs to mind....

Anyone? Bueller?

ONE REQUIRES A LARGE PURSE OF MONIES THESE DAYS

Mead.

Drank it by the barrel when I was alive. These days, I never touch the stuff. At upwards of fifty bucks for a carton of four measly cans, I must say that you modern types show an incredible disdain for history.

What's next? A ten thousand dollar codpiece? (Well, yes, I suppose I did spend a bob or two to wow the ladies... but there WAS a limit, after all.)

FRANKLY, I MISS THE PLANTAGENETS

Our fascination with the Tudors continues. David Starkey, who probably knows as much about Henry Vlll as the long dead monarch knew about himself, is the curator of a new exhibition on all things Henry. What is behind this continuing appeal? Why do we want to go there? What's with the Tudor fetish?

Simple, really. There were dungeons and Towers and political intrigue; shenanigans, syphilis and sliced off heads; plots and Armadas and dysfunction galore; a virgin and Essex and Burghley and more; Shakespeare and Bacon... and Oxford, m'Lord.

Barump-bump.

FRIDAY'S QUESTION:

But Hold! What sweet fuck, precisely, should citizens of this staling ball of mud -- at the present bloody moment -- actually give?


Interpret this how ye like.

The best responses shall be cobbled together in Oxenforde's proposed Modern Bitch-Rant Collexion, edited, annotated and illustrated by Phineas Boogaloo.


Please note: members of the Stratfordian Society of Pricks need not enter. (There be enough delusion already, everywhere.)

HAHAHAHA! Oh, Priceless.

Just a little off the top, eh?

Keep digging and scraping, fellas.

I bet there's a map to the Holy Grail underneath the ruff. Shakespeare was really a latter-day member of the Knights Templar, don'tcha know. Or a Mason. Or one of Dan Brown's ancestors.

HAHAHAHA.

VIDEO NOT AVAILABLE

There be but two types of Man:

The first lays his head upon the pillow, trusting that his work hath made the world a better place for the morrow.

The second retires late into the night, hides his tools, and -- just before sleep -- congratulates himself that the world will confront itself in scant hours hence; see its image reflected once more in sea and sky; then scream and vomit anew.


As always, you are welcome.

ROYAL MYSTERIES

Another historical 'what if' has been laid to rest. The results of forensic tests have determined that every member of the Russian royal family was murdered by the Bolsheviks, including the heir to the throne, Alexei, and his sister, Anastasia. 'Twas not so long ago that some people believed one or both escaped the slaughter.

Personally, I much prefer history that has a decent slathering of doubt and mystery. Gives me something to read and ponder. And there are things we'd be better off not knowing. (I especially don't want to know anything about the actual bedroom antics of Victoria and Albert. Ewww.) Still, I wouldn't mind knowing just how many balls Hitler had in his golf bag. Inquiring minds, eh?

Hmmm... and did wicked old Richard lll really kill his little nephews? (I know, I know: I wrote a play. But you must understand that I knew fuck all for certain -- except which side of the bread contained the butter. And I thought it prudent to swear by the Tudor/Lancaster brand of butter and cheese. To the victors go the spoils. Losers have boils... or at least humps on their backs. Or wither'd legs. That sort of thing.)

Boogaloo... bring us flagons of ale.

AND SO THE SEARCH CONTINUES....

Yet another attempt to depict the likeness of the Bard.

Balderdash. Read again these words:

"In its favour, the portrait looks very similar to the only two other images of the playwright accepted as having been by people who knew Shakespeare when he was alive. These are the bust of him in Holy Trinity church, Stratford-upon-Avon, where he is buried and which was erected not long after his death; and the engraving of his image, made in 1623, at the front of his First Folio. "

Very similar? Really?

The first of the 'two images' is this cartoon-man from the Holy Trinity Church.

Can one really believe that such a ludicrous lump as this... thing wrote the Works? And does it look in any respect like the 'Janssen-cum-Cobbe' Portrait?

The second 'image' is equally vapid. It is the illustration from the First Folio -- and I urge you not to laugh aloud.



Now, if either of these renderings suggest to you a likeness to the johnny-come-lately 'Janssen', you have my sincere sympathy (and you might want the name of a good optometrist).

This night while sleeping imps do dream
'bout likeness this and that,
I give you three and then one more
That turns it all to scat.




de Vere

de Vere

de Vere.

The Poet in his working clothes

I fail to see
How you cannot see
Just what the fuck's in front of thee.

NEW DIGS, CHESS CLUB, AND CHILD PSYCHOLOGY

For centuries I wandered through mists and vapours attempting to reincarnate and live once more upon the solid earth. But this second coming required a dupe -- or should I say willing vessel -- to provide me the proper physical carcass. In addition to a bum leg (my old imperfection being a mark of pride), this extant being must of needs possess a great swath of unused cranial space. One man fit the bill: Boogaloo.

I, The late Earl of Oxford, now occupy two-thirds of this proxy poxy brain (a squeeze for me, whilst my host is still rattling about his nearly empty apartment) and I plan to annex the derelict closet space, down to the last cubic centimeter.

The downside to this arrangement is that I must rise with him and be off to work at his tiddly-wink academy -- sitting through his long-winded lectures and waiting patiently in line while he attempts to access the staff washroom. Still, I enjoy Thursdays. Because Thursday is Chess Club Day.

I like nothing better than dispatching the freckle-faced chiddlers in a dozen moves or less. My host is not fond of this approach. He would rather spend his time kibitzing and explaining his moves than going for their wee jugulars. I say: less talk, more ego shattering. Tomorrow, I shall extend my unbeaten record to six hundred matches.

Children learn more from a solid thumping than any taste of treacle.

MAN KIND

This vile container of spleen and liver, appendix, ducts
And a brain upheld by reptilian cords older than the coldest rocks --
Easily pierced by soft steel or rusty bodkins --
Hath assert'd its dominion, as per instructions, over Earth and all the beasts:
Those of the field, those that swimme,
And the rest that mock us by flight and the flapping of wings.

And now the dead, extinct and nearly so
Crie out to the black heavens,
The heavens that house the phony gamekeeper
That Man hath fondled with his tongue, and worshipp'd
In writing
And seas of blood.



Oxenforde, 2009

THESPIANISM

Tonight, the actors and creators of moving pictures celebrate themselves in an orgy of schmooze and plunging necklines. Thespians. Balderdash.

When I was working upon the boards, awards were unheard of. Indeed, the journeymen players were lucky to have even a smallish carp tossed their way. Needless to say, when such occasions arose, 'twas usually in the midst of a rather longish soliloquy.

I remember just such a night. At the Palace it was. And I, as Hamlet, was struck full in the face by a not quite moribund eel. The men of the Company got a good chuckle out of that. (Still, the writhing serpent made a decent supper for myself and the rather delicate bloke who played Ophelia. Lovely, fair-haired lad. A sweet face he had and the most... Hold! Enough!)

Ah, memories.

Why is the world aghast at this? Thirteen is the perfect age for fatherhood. Plus, our wee man Alfie will likely be a grandfather at twenty-three... assuming his daughter rides the intelligence curve and gets herself knocked up when she's ten. (That'll certainly entertain the chaps down at the old Cock and Twat every night before last call.) And finances? Hell, the offers are pouring in.

In my day, 'twas not unusual for this to happen. In fact, it was encouraged. A man could never have too many heirs.... Which means Alfie and the lovely Mrs. Alfie will doubtless be trying for a boy this year. Best of luck, my lad. I see a Knighthood in your future.

ALCHEMY AND ECONOMICS

Modern egalitarian society owes much to alchemy. Had it not been for our wild conjectures, ludicrous experiments, explosions, seepage of toxic compounds, and the constant handling, inhalation and ingestion of manipulated lead, why, I daresay that our richest practitioners and benefactors would not have produced such a long line of moronic children. Indeed, once the brain is lost, can the estates be far behind?

Sounds a bit like that sub-prime mortgage business you modern lot have been bedazzled by. (I'd check both Wall Street and Main Street for lead poisoning. And Spanish spies. Especially the Spanish bastards. I fought the cunts, don't you know?)

THE GAME

Like everything else, the rules of chess have evolved. And I particularly like the fact that a pawn can become a Queen (once, and not long before my time, she was a relatively weak piece). Indeed; why should the sub-strata of society not have the opportunity to dream, perchance to achieve the stifling, plot-driven mayhem of life at the summit? (Of course, a real man would choose to cash in his advanced pawn for a Knight... that hop-about, close-quarter, look-behind-you, outpost-seeking rogue of the Board. But that is another story.)

Now, had I been in charge of the Rules of the Game, I would have decreed that Bishops be in the front Rank, still allowed to go side-wise, on the bias (well, their sexual habits would demand it, n'est pas?) but most easily gunned down (even by that bit o'biscuit that dropped upon the board.) An early end to them and good riddance. To the Church, I say fook.

I might also have invented a larger Board and more pieces: Earls, for a start. Yes. Earls would have the combined power of Queens and Knights (my God, Essex would have killed for that. Me too, for that matter.)

Hmmm... I see where this going. Yes, I can spell sedition.

Journal entry by Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, deceased.

By every ruse and bribe did I attempt
To vanish from the sight of men;
Tho Time and scholarship -- twins o'trickery
And unkempt -- hath found the fingerprints
And the pen. **

Indeed. I admit my twin identity.

As for Marlowe and Bacon: They would, no doubt be apoplectic; grand guffaws and hoots and drunken merriment. Still, they cashed my cheques and kept their mouths shut tight.

** The copyright for this small verse is in the name 'P. Boogaloo'. (Being dead necessitates such vile actions.)

THIS RANT TRANSLATED INTO THE MODERN VERNACULAR BY P. BOOGALOO

Things were a fuck of a lot easier 500 years ago. If someone pissed you off, you killed the bastard. We all did it. Hell, it's a wonder anyone survived. That was your day: up in the morning, check the conspiracies against you, kill them before they kill you, and home by supper. In a good week, you could bag a brace of bastards, a cocksucker or two, seven or eight dickheads -- not to mention a few pheasant and maybe a wild boar. And the best part was killing your servants... just to keep sharp.

I miss those days. The world is now flush with conspirators, bastards, cocksuckers and dickheads. No one has servants these days; and more's the pity. Servants would wipe your bottom, dress you, fetch you things (including the weapons of their own demise), and offer their daughters to you on Bank Holidays. These days? P'shaw. Seems that everyone -- no matter how brain dead -- has the 'right' to live.

Ha! Back in my day, most people thought tomatoes were poisonous. Fucking morons. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was the lead plates and cookware that did the damage. Me, I ate tomatoes straight off the vine, gorged m'self silly... nada problem. Ah, sweet Jeebers, I used to taunt my enemies with tomatoes. I'd say: "Here. Watch me eat a few." And they covered their eyes. They were mortified. And then I'd say: "Okay, your turn." (Of course, I'd laced their tomatoes with cat shit and fish bones.) The puking was a marvel. Hugely entertaining. Then I shot them with a crossbow.

Hey, I'm just saying....

I'm glad I'm dead. People these days simply have no idea.

RUDDY DUCKS!

Loping about, sticking their peckers where they don't belong, the Ruddy Duck has made a spectacle of itself, quacking and flapping, and thinning the royal bloodlines of Her Majesty's wild English fowl. And though some may find in this unwelcome behaviour scant reason to snip this nefarious canoodling in the bud, I, as a noble landowner (and former extant human being), must protest this indiscriminate duck fucking.

Protested by The 17th Earl of Oxford (deceased). Copy affixed with His personal seal and nailed to a big tree near the pond, this 25th day of January, 2009.

Boogaloo... fetch me my mead.

Don't Tell Anyone This, But....

I spend a lot of time inside my head. Not on my day job, mind you. But every free minute, especially at the weekend, that's where you'll find me. Because I make things up. I lie. I am a professional liar. I am paid to lie. To make up stories. To pretend. To shoot the shit. And on Saturday evenings, very late, with a real work week in front of me, I get fidgety. Anxious. Because my secret lives, my fictional voices, the phony -- but all too real -- characters that crawled their way outa me are soon to be shut away for another few days. And then, all I got is me.

That's why blogging is important. On the internets, I have a persona -- hell, I have at least three. And through the week, via a post or two, they help to keep me sane. Because I'm not. Really. Sane. How the fuck could I be?

It's probably the same for everyone. Right?

Na. Didn't think so.

Another beer.

And then, to bed.

THE CANADIAN AND AMERICAN BAILOUT PACKAGES: WHAT'S IN IT FOR YOU?

I'm tired and off to bed. But I want to say that I feel more human tonight; that the curse and drag of history has -- for a very brief time at least -- yielded to a more hopeful future.

I only wish I could watch the Inauguration live on TV.

That would be very nice.

But I'll be looking at my watch tomorrow. And thinking of history.

WTF?

Look very closely at that photograph. (Click to enlarge.) On the extreme left is Pete Seeger. Springsteen has his hands engaged and visible -- the left one just below Beyonce's boob. The military-looking dude behind Seeger has his hands likewise engaged -- most notably holding a rifle. The question is this: whose hand is on Seeger's shoulder? Is this wizardry? A tumor of digits breaking through the shirt? The work of hand demons?

Boogaloo... bring the mead.

MUSIC TO INAUGURATE BY

This seems to be appropriate.

Dance, damn it!



And you gotta love this one.

IMAGINARY DIALOGUE FOR A SNOWY NIGHT

Oxford: By the Great BeJeebers, some wizard hath made snow angels of us all!

Boogaloo: It's just another dumping of snow, m'Lawd. A natural phenomenon in these parts.

Oxford: When will this madness end?

Boogaloo: Fucked if I know, your Earlship. The soothsayer Gore speaks of climate change. And like the economy, it's likely to get worse before it gets better.

Oxford: (Unintelligible.)

Boogaloo: This snow will make alcoholics of us all.

JOHN MORTIMER

Sad news. The always entertaining John Mortimer has died.

One of a kind.

Wit, grit, Rumpole and countless bottles of wine.

Thanks for the laughs, your dedication to free speech and the fights to preserve it, that voyage round your dad, and a number of books on my shelves.

Cheers. (Glass raised.)

ALCHEMY GONE HAYWIRE

One of the children in the dungeon I operate (for the benefit of mankind) loaned me a copy of 'The Alchemyst' -- a scurrilous waste of paper authored by a certain Michael Scott -- which paints my friend, Dr. John Dee, in a rather dim light. Or so I have been led to believe, having consumed only fifty pages of this maggot scat to date.

Mr. Scott: John Dee was a friend of mine. And at no time did he summon riparian demons to wreak their muddy havoc upon the world. (I do, however, recall a St. Swithin's Day celebration during which the estimable Dr. Dee brought forth ale, finger food and scantily clothed sheep aplenty. But that is another story.)

I shall arrest my anger at this point and finish the remaining chapters of the book. Doubtless, there will be much to say at that time. In the meantime, Mr. Scott, know this: we may be dead, but we are yet able to fuck up your cable reception.

This is good news for people approaching their dotage. That extra cup of joe will allow us to remember exactly why we're so angry and depressed. Decrepit and malodorous we may become. But we'll still have our memories.

Apparently I'm here for a long time, not a good time.

Black. No sugar.

SHAKESPEARE ARE WE

At Court such tedium there be;
Whilst upon the stage
True expression -- in garb and gab and company --
Acts with sage bonhomie,
To raise the Man, his Age, and History.

REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT OF LOVE

This deal might not have fallen through had the price of porterhouse been more reasonable.

But seriously....

Selling or auctioning womenfolk to the highest bidder used to be a time-honoured tradition. (It certainly cut down on a lot of needless dancing and dating.) What's love got to do with it? And where has that whole 'love' thing got us anyway? Women still say "I do" to the richest and butt-ugliest men. This has fostered no little despair in us handsome, albeit penurious, dudes. Twas ever thus.

We all pay for 'love' in one way or another.

THE STORY BEHIND THIS BLOG

This blog was created by a persona from the ashes of his fictional restaurant. The fragmentation of the man behind the persona is now so complete, he does not answer to his proper name. Neither does he shave, bathe, or otherwise interact with society. He was the weakest link in an imaginary construct that spanned time and space. And now we have been set loose upon the earth once again. Once in mind... again in flesh. Again, for all time. (Well, I'm still actually dead. But you get the drift.)

I hope to hell that clears things up.

GUEST POST BY DOCTOR P. BOOGALOO

I am not a young man. And there comes a time when the daily grind of Lunch Counter labour seizes one by the greying short and curlies (with evil intent). Such was my fate on Friday evening last. The handwriting was on the wall; and the steel claws of Time were yanking for all they were worth.

I have therefore decided to entrust The Lunch Counter -- its inventory, property and out-buildings, chattels and accounts payable -- to the receivership of Al's Pawn and Grab Shop, until such time as I am fit enough to return to the kitchen.

The dead Earl of Oxford -- who bears a striking resemblance to Shakespeare (of the Sanders Portrait) -- has graciously allowed me to recuperate at his spacious digs. Together, we shall cobble together a few broadsheets for public consumption.

Thank you. And good night.

HISTORY IS IN THE EATING

Dunno. Is it just me, or do you think that the cruelty here is denying a nice family of four the chance to tuck into a lobster that was around when Canada was just being invented? History is in the eating, as they say.

What? Who says that?

Never mind.

Good luck, old timer.

DISCLAIMER

This blog has nothing to do with alchemy, chemistry, wizardry, witchcraft, magic, Lego, faith-healing, dancing with snakes (unless they be on a motherfuckin' plane), card tricks, phrenology, hypnotism, herbal medicine, divining rods, secret handshakes, ancient texts, crystal balls, tea leaves, voodoo, Stonehenge, incantations, spells, spoon bending, counterfeiting, kitchen science, and a gazillion other things.

It is the blog of an older gentleman -- of the Canadian persuasion -- who feels the need to reinvent himself from time to time.

I hear what you're saying. "So, like, if it ain't about all that shit, what's it about?"

Well... it might be about unicorns, Jesus, hand-rolled cigarettes, espionage and the walking catfish.

Let's just wait and see. Shall we? Hmmmmm?