At this point I must confess, that I am the President of the secret society for the overthrow of the entire capitalist society, or SSFTOOTECS for short, a shadowy organisation of which I am the only member, it's stated aims to act as catylist for nothing less than global insurrection through the subtle dissemination of Anarchist propaganda into the body politic, through the home improvement industry.
Tony Blair, and give him a good kicking, for I wager that like all other warmongering demagogues, he has never been on the receiving end of extreme violence. I suspect history will not be kind on old Tony, but it remains to us to extract retribution upon our glorious leader, but what is a appropriate sentence, Saddam took the drop, but that is not the British way, some sort of life imprisonment would also be of no use, for after a short while in assessment, he would end up in Ford open prison working openly in the community, after 7 or 8 years, he would be allowed home visits,spending only weekends in stir, and after 12 years,he would be eligable for parole, and this surely does not befit a mass murderer, no, criminally insane, it has to be, he need not even face trial, he could be arrested on a minor public order offence, his messianic complex would be plain for all to see, all it would then take is 2 Doctors to verify his insanity, and he could be sectioned under the mental health act, force fed Largactyl and other anti phsycotics, the side effects turning him to a shambling wreck, which could then be used as physical evidence to his madness, discreetly placed in Broadmoor, where he could atone his crimes by administering to the spiritual needs of Peter Sutcliffe et al, and we could simply never mention him again,for that is the British way.Another person I would love to meet is George Dubya, in a reverse extra ordinary rendition. Men in orange jump suits would silently enter the room, place a cotton bag over his head , his hands would be bound behind his back with plastic tie grips, his clothes and underwear removed with scissors, a meditative pessary inserted into his anus, he would then be placed in a large nappy (diaper) and dressed in a black suit and tie, with a white shirt. He would then be bound hand to foot, driven in a unmarked van for three hours ,to a airport where he would be bundled into a aeroplane and flown for 7 hours to a airfield in Scotland. Upon arrival in Scotland he would be stripped, his arse wiped, another pessarry another diaper, another black suit and tie, and another flight, this time 20 hours to Cuba, Guantanamo bay. Upon arrival in Guantanamo he would be placed in a wire cage for two days, when for the first time, he will be spoken too, upon his protestations of innocence he will be taken to the camp commander, who will tell him, there has in fact been a case of mistaken identity, at this point, Jeremy Beadle will appear and tell him, “you’re game for a laugh, and you’re ‘aving a laugh, you is going home my Son, tell him what he’s won†and a voice over a tannoy will announce “yes George Bush, you have won a one way ticket to Texas where you will stay in a penitentiary upon death Row, subjected to a round of appeals, the final one being a personal call to the governor of Texas, who will mock you live on national TV, Please let me live, you will then be lawfully executed by lethal injection†For that is the American way.
I love all sorts of music, but unfortunately I have no musical abilities, therefore I write parodies, initially I was to be the Anarchist Frank Sinatra, 'they got you, on the end of a string, onAnon, 'come fry with me lets fry lets fry, is there no begining to my talents. Unfortunately my singing wasn't up to it, my parodies reached the bottom with Jamie Oliver Twist the opera, based on Lionel Barts musical, you gotta have a tattoo or two kid, you gotta have a tattoo or two.
I am not a great film buff, though I like to fall asleep in front of inane drivel such as Jean Claude Van Damme and that Robson Jerome fellow, good movies are, well, good movies, some like it hot, I like that film.
It is that square thing in the middle of the room.
Where to begin, Brave new world by Aldous Huxley, Shibboleth by jerry Ratter,Bash the rich (only because i am in it) by Ian Bone, the berlin of Sally Bowles by Christopher Isherwood, Michaelangelo and the Popes ceiling, the plastering encyclopedia, the adventures of English, mother tounge, dead famous by Ben Elton, a summer in the park, by Tony Allen, adventures in the underground by CJ Stone the last of the hippies a hysterical romance, London the biography, prater violet, the oxford english dictionary, the thesaurus,
I am in the fortunate position to say that I have met most of my heroes, washed up old punk singers, sozzled old sots who used to be, once were, and might be agains, most were a complete disappointment, when i was a but a lad, my hero was Anarchy Sid, from Wolverhampton, who had W-ton Punks tatooed on his right cheek bone which my mother wouldn't allow me to replicate, I saw him 20 years later on a no 2 bus in Brixton, I said "hey, Sid, long time no see" he appeared puzzled and asked me for a quid, I felt compelled to give him a fiver, I later saw him outside the Ritzy Cinema, where gentlemen of the road gather to imbibe, he'd obviously graduated from the glue to the brew, at the very least, and was crouched over, sitting on a bench,rather too closely to a conspicuous pile of vomit, I had to chuckle to myself "my hero eh! Now just look at you! Still living my dream!you Bastard" Other heroes that didn't dissappoint were Jerry Ratter and Steve D Williams, who had the courtesy to mean what they said,and a comic called Simon Munnery is a genuine inspiration. But my ultimate hero had got to be wee oor Wullie frae Auchenshoogle, who stands alone as my guru and mentor, a imaginative young scallywag with spiky hair, tackety boots, who sits and ponders upon a bucket.It came as a revelation, but it is all there, the catapult and policemans helmet, the incidence with the haircut and the magistrates court, The dressing up in drag, the truancy, the wanderings and the wonderings, and finally, there i am, sitting upon a plasterers bucket, eating me peice in big boots, spiky hair, and a bib and brace, and it dawns upon me, I am oor bloody Wullie.Any talk on heroes must end with Dave Sudeena, a old west indian plasterer who taught me a trade, and last, but never ever least, Tony Allen who, to me, constitutes a living legend.mspmb allowScriptAccess="never" src="http://lads.myspace.com/slides/slideshow_random.swf?u=1 63289191" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="426"