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.