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In a blog challenge I set which
...has somewhat backfired, it has been requested that my entry is in some way linked to, or inspired by, spirographs. Here is a picture of an old spirograph set, depicting two ginger kids locked into its geeky magic : What spirograph sets seem to have in common is a photo of usually two children, 78% of whom are ginger (this percentage is an approximation of the amount of children featured overall; and not just from the two children depicted in any one instance, as the maths would be fairly obviously wrong), and 92% of whom are dressed in a fashion that can best be described as 'twatty'. I guess the underlying premise is that something of beauty can be created from something quintessentially nerdy. To illustrate this beauty, here is a picture of a spirogram that looks like a doughnut : Looks yummy, non ? At some point during one's development, there is a shift of emphasis from making stuff for recreation, to breaking stuff for recreation. I had a spirograph as a child, and I don't really recollect any highs or lows associated with it. That game where you used to trash your enemy's castle using discs projectiled from catapaults (or crossbows of sorts) that featured Barbarians vs Vikings (as far as I recall) quite simply rocked my world like a pulsating motherfucker. I would be grateful if anyone could remember what it was called. Then there's the thrill of smashing stuff up that isn't yours, in an environment which isn't controlled. I'm sure many of us did things that we're not especially proud of now (breaking windows, letting down tyres, playing tennis with a dead bird... etc). And some go beyond into the amalgamated constructive and destructive stage - that of pyromania and the desire to blow stuff up. I once attended a lo-fi fireworks display in someone's back yard. It was too cold to remain outside the whole time, so we went inside to drink and eat hot-dogs between bouts, as the two resident slavering pyromaniacs prepared their arsenal for the next round. When we came out for one particular stint, I noticed that the trajectory of a rocket was ridiculously low. It is worth bearing in mind that this was in an area of fairly dense terraced housing. I urged the primary (by which I mean most reckless) pyromaniac not to light the fuse, and we had a brief quarrel. I suggested that we put the planned course of action to a vote. A good friend of mine approached the rocket, looked up the shaft (as was her wont), and said "Yep - that looks like it'll clear the fence". Primary pyro needed no more opinions, and lit the fuse before I could stop him. The rocket did indeed clear the fence. It then almost failed to clear the house opposite, bouncing off the roof and exploding in the street beyond (one of the main arteries of our home-town) a mere six feet from the ground, bringing all of the traffic to an abrupt halt. Fortunately, no-one was hurt. I have often since pictured an innocent teenager emerging from the Christian hangout café in the immediate vicinity, thinking 'I had a great time tonight... Nobody there bullies me, I made some new friends... Life's not so bad after all', immediately prior to losing his face to the rogue rocket. Shame on you if an evil smile was raised when you read that. Yet, despite my brief liaisons with destruction, I now find myself back at the spirograph. It seems that, no matter how off-centre we go, we can always swing back and use the deviation to create something of beauty. Nerdy beauty perhaps; but beauty all the same. Now that I've come full-circle (and entirely milked the metaphor), I think it's time to stop. For now.
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1.2.05 13:28
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There's a new girl
...starting in the office next week. And guess wot ?
If you guessed that she's hot, go straight to the top of the class with a sticky gold star, and a Kinder Surprise.
If you guessed that she's a stinky biff, go staight to the bad cupboard, where you will be tied-up by a large man wearing an eye-patch, and spat on and humiliated by children and pensioners alike.
So there are going to be a few changes around here. I have noticed that, as I have relaxed into my (no longer new) workplace, I recline by an extra degree each week. When I'm delivered coffee by anyone else in the office, they now ceremonially put it on my stomach. So that's the first change that'll be seen around here; my sudden excellent posture. And I'll probably start shaving more regularly. And stop picking my nose. And I'm considering washing sometimes, too.
In other news, I've been asked to go to the cinema this evening to watch 'Meet The Fockers'. This is the kind of thing I'd usually wait to come out on video before watching (and probably get someone else to pay for the rental even then). However, the new object of my affection is going too. I only saw her two nights ago. Now, assuming I was blogging about this new potential heart-accident, which I'm not (for fear of jinxing it); assuming I was to ask if it would seem too keen my showing up at the cinema, what conceivable response do you imagine you'd give in said (entirely hypothetical) circumstances ? Would you urge me to go; or wait until the weekend before seeing said (fictional) person in order to preserve mystique ? Not that I care, obviously. I'm just wondering, 's'all...
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2.2.05 17:34
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I know this
...feeling. The spinny head. The reality divorce. The desire, nay - need to return to bed... They all point towards the fact that today is a hangover day. Gnah and frug.
Today's question is this : if you had the opportunity to gain residency for a country you'd love to live in, through marrying a friend (this marriage would not be consummated), would you do it ? What, to your mind, would be the main argument against doing so ?
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3.2.05 10:45
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I am presently taking
...suggestions as to wot to blog about each day. Yesterday's 'spirograph' suggestion came from the bird to whom talking about a certain winter sport is taboo. Mindful of my boozahol-induced fragile state, Mr Incy has suggested 'absinthe'. If any of you would like to suggest another topic for bloggery, fire me off a mail. No topic is too daunting, taboo, or downright filthy to blog; so get suggestion making, chaps and chapesses. Now, absinthe. I could tell you about the time I tried to make my own with wormwood and sambuca, and it all went a bit King. Or about my friend who snogged me almost immediately after I bowked off a balcony and into a courtyard in Prague. But instead, I've decided to give you a brief history of absinthe. For those who don't know, it is a strong green liqueur made from various herbs, and tastes like what might seep out of a large beetle that died through gorging itself on aniseed balls, and has been left to rot for a couple of weeks. The green colour is a due to the presence of chlorophyll. If you drink absinthe and swallow something that emits strong light (or drill a hole into your stomach and point it at the sun), you will cause photosynthesis inside your belly. One measure will produce enough oxygen to allow you to stay underwater for twenty minutes without needing to breathe. Absinthe was invented in 1797 by Swiss boozehound extraordinare Dr Pierre Ordinaire. He woke up in 1805 surrounded by butchered alpine goats and covered in green sick, with no memory of the past eight years. He decided that the concoction was too dangerous to keep for himself, and thought it would be funny to palm it off onto the French. There it was very popular amongst the infantry, who had been looking for a pet excuse for humiliating defeats and no-shows in battle for centuries. It also became a firm favourite amongst the upper classes and Bohemians; who would often feed it to dwarves, chimps and zebras, and goad them into copulating and then fighting. Containing both narcotic and aphrodisiac properties, absinthe caused Van Gogh to believe that cutting off his own ear in order to fornicate with would cause the sparrows in his garden to fly backwards. In the States in 1905, a chap called Jean Lanfrey killed (and then sexed) his wife, believing her to have been having an affair with a clock. This lead to absinthe being singled out as the main gateway for Dark Forces being unleashed on the unsuspecting populace, and was prohibited on July the 25th 1912 by the Department of Agriculture, who were driven to hysteria at the prospect of Engorgement. It was banned a few years later by the French, who reasoned that they no longer needed an excuse to be crap at war, as their German masters could do the fighting for them. Though never banned in Britain, a blanket ban across most of Europe meant for years that it was difficult to import. Now that the ban has been lifted, it is now freely available at bars, supermarkets, hospitals, and certain branches of Mothercare. Most absinthe in the UK does not contain wormwood, however; rendering it mostly pointless. Since one cannot trip or get the horn through drinking it, it is now exclusively drunk by cretinous males in their mid-thirties who are trying to impress their mates; blissfully unaware that one can buy very pleasant cocktails or shooters that will have exactly the same effect for half the price. If you want to drink absinthe, go to the Czech Republic. That is all. *No offence was intended by this entry to any pervert that actually likes absinthe, or the French. And yes, that was ambiguously worded on purpose.
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3.2.05 16:39
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Just a
...quickie. I know the 'what people entered into Google, and got me' blog has been done to death, buried, exhumed, violated, re-buried, re-exhumed, flown around for a bit like a kite, burned to cinders and then stamped on... *But*, this did make me laugh like someone who's just seen a toddler get a massive electric shock. The fact that someone had found my little place on the web with 'girl with massive front wedgie' raised a smile; but I wasn't prepared for 'there was a young fellow named shit'.
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3.2.05 22:24
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Today's topic, as
...suggested by the ambrosial Beso (for whom - for the benefit of those that have never read this blog, or those that have been lobotomised - I have something of a soft spot), is 'Morris Dancing'. Now, I do not know a great deal about this pursuit, and naturally assume that it is enjoyed mainly by complete tweakers. So what is it, exactly ? According to the Morris Dancing enthusiasts Seabright : It is a high-impact, anaerobic form of dance done to live music by teams (or sides) of six who are all dressed in brightly colored kit. The stepping is done in a style designed to maximize the ringing of the bells whilst minimizing the danger of impact injury... Dances done while waving handkerchiefs often contain spectacular leaps high into the air. Dances done with clashing of sticks could have nasty consequences to dancers or audience.I'm fairly sure that anaerobic means 'without oxygen'. Watching Morris Dancers made to perform in a transparent box without life-gas would certainly make for more interesting viewing. I might email this suggestion to Seabright. Anyway, here are some of the prancing tosspots enjoying a trip to the shops : The bare minimum of research that I could be bothered to do revealed that no-one really knows the exact origin and history of Morris Dancing. All of the propounded hypotheses are far too boring to even read through, let along précis here. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that Morris Dancing is such a national embarrassment that nobody wishes to associate it with British heritage full-stop. I guess that anyone charged with researching the ludicrous jig has questioned the merit in doing so, and decided their time would be better spent down the pub. I do have a notion as to what the bells, sticks and handkerchiefs symbolise, however... This brings me nicely to the sexuality of Morris Dancing. What would a Morris Dancer be like in the hay ? Would they be energetic to a level that one could reasonably describe as being 'violent' ? Or - considering that these are folk whose idea of cutting loose is to 'go nuts' to a fairly regimented traditional twat-fest that dates back at least to the times of the Tudors - would they insist on fully-attired missionary with the lights off ? If anyone reading this has ever had sex with one of these freaks, please email me and let me know exactly what it was like. Whilst I was at university, I went out with a girl who had once tried her hand at rowing, but had (wisely) given up after her first term. At some point during our relationship, she threatened to rejoin the rowing team. As much as I loved her, I told her that I would be forced to dump her if she did. I was entirely serious. All of the rowers were horrible sloanes and try-hards, who would very loudly bray piss-poor innuendos about the 'team's cox', and 'catching crabs' (because 'crabs' are also pubic lice - geddit ?). As such, I found the mere association to rowing could render the most beautiful person catastrophically unattractive. By the same token, how could any right-minded person ever find a Morris Dancer attractive ? A curmudgeonly Northern friend once told me that "when you see a really beautiful woman, before you wish that you could get together with someone so hot, it is best to bear in mind that someone, somewhere is sick of putting up with her shit". Now, there is always bound to be a lot of give and take in a relationship (which is I'm sure wot my black-and-white chum intended to say); but I think that - if I found that the seeming love of my life was into Morris Dancing - it would prove insurmountable and spoil her forever. Now that I've written an entirely prejudiced and one-sided tirade against Morris Dancers, is anyone prepared to leap to their defence and clash sticks with me ? Maybe there's a Morris Dancer in your family, and they are an entirely reasonable person. Maybe you've had sex with a Morris Dancer, and their performance was quite adequate. If you'd like to tell me that I'm pig ignorant, and explain the merits of this imbecilic activity to me, then I'm all ears. I like nothing more than to challenge my preconceptions.
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7.2.05 15:54
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Last week, I went
...to a junior school to take some snaps, as the kids had dressed up in 'international' themed costumes to raise money for tsunami relief. Amongst my favourite costumes were a kid dressed as a pizza (inspired), a boy with a black-lipstick Maori tattoo over his face (I wanted to show him my tattoo, but figured that I probably ought to set an example), and a child who was wearing what seemed to be Gestapo attire. There was also a child dressed as a knight, who had clearly misunderstood the brief. We had to split the school into two halves in order to squeeze every last one of the horrible little parasites... er... I mean, little miracles into a couple of photos. This was a slight ballache to organise, but we got there in the end.
I got back to the office, and issued the snaps to the news editor. She complained that we only needed a couple of example representatives, and didn't have room for a large shot of squillions of kids, let alone two. She pointed out that she had told the school this. I was about to tell her that maybe the person to which this information would have been best conveyed could be the person who was going to take the shot; the person who sits on the very next desk to her. To wit - me. I decided against it. I think I would have felt the same type of guilt that I feel when I tell my mother off. She is, after all, lovely; but a total jellyhead. Now every child in the school thinks they're gonna be in the paper tomorrow. And since we had to choose one of the photos and crop it, all but about an eighth will be disappointed. Multiply the amount of disappointed kids by three if you include disappointed parents. Actually, considering the location, multiply it by two. But still, that's a lot of people I've accidentally let down. Oops. I shalln't complain if I don't win a hamper in their raffle.
On a slight tangent, I was once returning from France on a Sea-Cat with my then ladyfriend. An announcement came over the P.A., requesting the attention of a Mrs. Nami. At the time, we both said simultaneously "wouldn't it be weird if she was called Sue ?". Two minutes later, there was another announcement, again requesting the attention of Mrs. Susan Nami. My ladyfriend at the time saw this as an omen, and slightly freaked out. Two days later she dumped my sorry ass. So I don't know why it was her that was freaking.
And that is true.
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8.2.05 14:25
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For the first time since
...Monday, my in-tray is empty. So I can get back to my list of suggested topics. I say 'list'. At the moment the index of keen participants can be condensed into three letters; one of which being P, the other two being og. She has suggested I blog about 'failure'. Don't forget kids, if you'd like to suggest a topic or key-word for lemonbloggery, email me. It will make me feel popular. Now, there has already been an interesting analysis of failure blogged recently; and some irritating little cunt has a whole blog about it. So I will have to approach the subject of 'failure' from an entirely different angle. I don't usually strike up conversations at public urinals. Obviously you have to if you already know the person; but I wouldn't usually commence chatting with another chap at the latrine just for the sake of it. I don't really know why. There seems to be something odd about a total stranger making idle pleasantries with you whilst you are both standing next to each other, each man operating his own unit. I kinda think 'if you wouldn't normally accost me and impart your opinions about the change in the weather - albeit politely - why are you doing so now that we're both handling our staves ?' Or it could be that the stuff I say tends to land me in trouble. I remember an occasion when I probably hadn't turned twenty, and I was standing at a wet-wall in a hotel bar. Half-way through my effusion, a chap twice my size stood next to me, and began to relax. So much so that a colossal fruity fart belched out. Feeling the social awkwardness, I was gripped with the need to say something. It was the first thing that came into my head. "Heavy lunch, then ?". The guy gave me a look that said 'bludgeon'. I finished up in double-time, and left briskly without saying another word. Since then I have learned to respect comfortable 'silences'. It would appear that I haven't addressed the issue of 'failure' in this entry, and have thus failed in my blog challenge. Thereby succeeding. Oh the irony.
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10.2.05 17:21
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Today is the
...anniversary of this blog. Now, every fucker on 20Six seems to have had their 'blog birthday' at the moment. So for those of you who actually enjoy reading vacuous 'blirthday' entries, just read this bit : Yay. It's my blog birthday today. Woo. One year... My, hasn't it gone quickly ? Just think... Wow. But still - yay. Woo. Happy birthday to me. Gorge me with sweeties until I puke. And for those of you who prefer a little more substance (though admittedly not much more), here is a retrospective on the year : February 2004In his very first entry, LemonSquash sings the praises of curry for breakfast. You'll never guess who commented first. I'll give you a clue : she has commented on every blog known to man. I still haven't decided if she's beyond über-skill at her job, or if her position in the company is a superfluity and no-one there has noticed. She certainly can't be doing any work. Also this month I murdered a horny insect, did a silveretta impression, got my leg humped by a dog, and met Cute Li'l Art Girl (*sigh*) who probably felt that she was getting her leg humped. March 2004Spring is spronged in the UK, and it's turning into Autumn for our loveable superhero Captain Squash, who finds out that Cute Li'l Art Girl (*sigh*) has a partner, eats carrot cake for the first time, kicks a bowling ball, gives David Hasselhoff a valuable line to add to his CV, continues to be fascinated by insects, and changes the name of his blog. April 2004Lovestruck loser LemonSquash fluffs up a golden opportunity for sweet sweet lovin', meets another new girl (with whom he again fluffs it up), gets invaded by microscopic hedgehugs, questions others questioning his sexuality, lets slip Cute Li'l Art Girl's (*sigh*) real name, writes some limericks, and goes on holiday. May 2004Intrepid traveller Mr Squishy spends most of the month walking around with a heavy backpack on; in which time he tries to re-pierce his nose with a needle, unsuccessfully. On his return, he re-falls in love with Cute Li'l Art Girl (*sigh*) , gets invaded by maggots, has a birthday, gets 'lucky' with a total fruitloop, and gets a tattoo. June 2004Charming gent Lord Squash Esq fluffs up yet another opportunity for love, sees Cute Li'l Art Girl (*massive sigh*) for the last time ever and tells her how he feels, moves back to the UK, enjoys some peanut butter, and meets Nooma (*new sigh*). July 2004Stalwart Trojan LemonSquash gets a job at The Ship Of Fools, realises that psychologically profiling girls is maybe not the best way to woo them, witters on about Nooma (*sigh*) a lot, tells an anecdote about Bruce Willis, describes a recurring childhood nightmare, has Nooma (*sigh*) cook him a phenomenally shit omlette, surfs with Nooma (*sigh*), is called "creepy", and offers everyone free oral sex. August 2004Lackwit bumpkin LemonSquash foolishly chooses Big-Eyed Irish Cutie over Smiley Surf-Shop Gal (and she ends up stringing him along for months), fluffs up another opportunity for rumpy-pumpy (shit - I am now starting to really regret writing this cocking retrospective), meets Simon Pegg's dad, gets some exquisite Snugglystuff (© B.A.), meets a whole bunch of 20Six mutants, and there is some pathos as he says goodbye (for the third time) to one of his favouritest chickies ever, not knowing if he'll see her again. September 2004Prancing dandy Mr. Tartlet does the 'Death Slide', fails to get it on with Big-Eyed Irish Cutie, gives Nooma (*sigh*) a Bruce Willis badge (courtesy of the sublime Mr. E. Baboon), turns his attentions to Flame-Haired Aussie Barmaid, has existential concerns, and is amused by a rabbit spoozing onto a toy-rabbit's head. October 2004The days draw shorter, and pillar of the community Dr. Squash is pleased at his first inclusion in the 'Top Blogs' list, looks for another job, explodes his toe, has the perfect day with Nooma (*sigh*) and his housemate, is weirded out by a dodgy old pervert, gets better acquainted with Question, gets a job at The Rag, and fears that Dark Forces will Engorge him. November 2004Beginning to endure his first winter in two years, decorated war hero Sgt. Squish bids adieu to Nooma (*sigh*), likens God to his nostrils, secures armageddon, blogs at work for the first time, revisits his role as Big-Eyed Irish Cutie's bitch, fesses up to being anticupid, is superhero Captain Commando for a day, and finally sees Surf-Film-Maker Chap's movie. December 2004Roving reporter LemonSquash darts about with a camera, fails to get a shark's fin past the subs, hears his housemate 'in the act', writes some more limericks, finally shaves off his enormous sideburns, spends Christmas ill, and makes some Flash Gordon badges. January 2005Irksome twatfink Looming Squits eats some cheese, falls in love with the local Parliamentary candidate, realises that his terrible luck with women is all down to his blogging, considers becoming an escort, goes to blinks, gets a phone call from Nooma (*sigh*), and jinxes yet another potential love. February 2005Nothing happens. So there you have it. A year in a rather pointless nutshell. I almost didn't make it through, but here I am. This entry I mean, not the year... I've had so much caffeine I can hardly type, and my screen seems to be vibrating like a large luminous dildo. But anyway, please don't wish me happy birthday. And don't give me any sweeties either. Unless they're humbugs. Bah.
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11.2.05 13:10
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As a special treat
...for those who have stuck with this dismal excuse for a blog for this long, I finally got round to uploading the video of the 'Death Slide'. You can download it here. It's pretty big (11.6 meg), but if you have broadband, it's well worth it. It's got me in it (I'm not telling you which one). But more importantly, carnage. Lots. Check out the marvellous moment of impact in the very last second and try not to wince.
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11.2.05 15:08
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As I'm sure everyone's already
...aware, Mondays are motherfucking bullshit. I'm not going to go into the downside of St. Hallmark's Day (or wotever the fuck it's called), as for all lovelorn singleites, this would be far too obvious a thing to bitch about. So much worse than the fact that nobody loves or even fancies me is that Ora (my darling Kia) has broken down. Not only is this an expensive nuisance, but it also means that I couldn't go to take photos of some escaped elephants rampaging on a nearby village green this morning.
You read correctly. ESCAPED ELEPHANTS.
Nooooo....
*Sobs wretchedly under his desk*
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14.2.05 12:54
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I haven't forgotten that
...this week is Solis Week. That is to say, The Princess Of Darkness has called the shots on my blog topics ( blopics ?) for the rest of the week. Feeling that 20Six is becoming culturally barren, the umbrella topic for the week is 'Culture'. Why she thought I'd know anything about culture Christ alone knows. But today, we tackle the keystone of British culture, Shakespeare. I have read 'King Lear'. There was some eye-gouging in it, as I recall. Aside from this hilarious mutilation, it all seemed a bit far-fetched. I have read 'The Merchant Of Venice' too. What a satchel of spunk. The fact that this is considered to be one of Bill's 'comedies' is the only faintly amusing thing about it. I once went to see 'A Winter's Tale' at the theatre. The 'exit pursued by a bear' bit was unintentionally amusing (the bear was beyond shit), but there was far too much suspension of disbelief required. I fell asleep for most of the second half, and my girlfriend had to wake me up every time I started snoring. I went to see 'Romeo and Juliet' at the cinema. It was alright; though I'm fairly sure that Leonardo was wearing sandals with white socks, which makes one doubt Clare Danes's cerebral integrity. This is the sum total of my consumption of Willy's work. I can only assume - given his legendary status - that all of his other works are überbrill, as one would have thought that 'The Merchant Of Venice' and 'A Winter's Tale' must be crippling to the overall average. The average would be beefed-up massively to my mind if he really had written the Shakespearian insult that was stuck on my door in my first year of university, which read 'Thou art a swag-bellied buggering hedge-pig [lemonsquash]'. How he could have possibly known that some 400-odd years before I was born boggles the mind. Either he was an exceptionally talented mystic, or it was made up on some 'crazy' web generator. I suspect the latter; in which case Bill is still struggling to tread water. I guess I'm not giving him enough credit, so let's concentrate on the positives. He did coin the expression 'hoist by one's own petard', which I like. It is claimed that this means 'blown up by one's own bomb'; but, since petard comes from the French noun pet - a trump - it can be more literally translated as 'stunk-out by one's own guff'. Anybody who has ever eaten chillies and lentils in combination will know exactly what he means. Furthermore, if it weren't for Shakespeare, we wouldn't have Alfa Romeos and Great Danes; mistakes wouldn't be funny; shrews would still be rampant, barbarous livestock-botherers; and all that was well would end shittily. And if it weren't for Shakespeare's sister, The Smiths would have had one less jaunty number for earnest Smithsites to use in ammunition against those that claim they were terminal miserablists. So his contribution to culture is far-reaching indeed. The most interesting thing I have discovered about Bill - in the minimal research I've done on Google today - is that Shakespeare appeared in numerous town minutes and court records as 'Shagspere'. Now I suspect that 'Shagspere' performances - such as 'Much Ado About Stuffing', 'Coriolanal', 'A Midsummer Night's Cream', and 'Tits Andronicus' - would have made much more compelling viewing.
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14.2.05 18:49
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It has just gone
...ten past nine, and I've already had three cups of coffee this morning. I would like to blame this on the fact I had to get up particularly early this morning to take my car to the vets. However, if I'm honest, it's probably down to caffeine dependency. For most of my working day, the office looks like this : I worked out that I have about seven cups of coffee on average before three in the afternoon. Is this too many ? Has anyone here successfully given up caffeine ?
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15.2.05 10:13
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For the second
...installment in this week's 'culture' series, Solis has suggested 'Ancient Egypt'; something which I know even less about than I do of Shakespeare. So here is a very brief synopsis of Egyptian civilization. That is to say, I'm going to reword something I found on Google. According to the Washington State University website : Seven or eight thousand years ago, at the farthest reaches of human memory, before there was Egypt or the pyramids, North Africa was a lush and green place.I would instantly question this, as I sincerely doubt anybody can remember that far back. And they seem to have called this section 'Prehistory'. I have problems with the word 'prehistory'. I grant that you can have stuff before 'history', as I take 'history' to mean roughly a narrative of events relating to the subject matter at hand. But surely anything that happened before this period is irrelevant ? Unless it is relevant, in which case surely you can say it's part of the subject matter's history ? Sorry... I got a bit carried away there. Anyway, the account continues : There were vast grasslands and green forests stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Red Sea. Over this enormous green area, humans wandered in small groups; eventually, about eight thousand or so years ago, some of these small groups began to plant and cultivate their food.Now that just *can't* be right. The original starting point was ' Seven or eight thousand years ago', in which case one might ask how long these nomads were plodding about for before they 'eventually' settled down eight thousand years ago. Minus one thousand years ? Or about six minutes ? Even if we grant that they didn't stroll idly backwards through time, it's still a bit like saying that 'Alvin was born about a century ago, and eventually died about a century ago, aged ninety'. Right, if I don't stop picking holes, this is never gonna get written. I've got about seven thousand years of Egyptian civilization to cover and we're only three sentences in. Ok... Egyptians may well have invented irrigation and farming. They certainly invented writing. These are two good things. Mind you, according to the one (questionable) nutshell history I read, they also invented racism (segregation and non-naturalisation of foreigners during 'The Middle Kindom' period (2040-1640 BC); and subjugation of foreign land and enslavement of non-Egyptians during 'The New Kingdom' era (1550-1070 BC)), and also invented monotheism (the belief that there is one god) during the reign of Amenhotep IV. So one might argue that they did more harm than good. The fuckers. And not all pyramids were that great either. This is the Djoser Step Pyramid : I think we can all agree that it's quite shit compared to all the big ones. If anybody ever comes over all mystical on you, and asks how you think they made such enormous and mathematically precise constructions, and even so much as hints that aliens did it, you can quite rightly tell them that it was thousands of years of practice, just before setting fire to their clothes. This is what happened at the arse-end of Egyptian civilization (332 BC - 395 AD): Ptolemy I began a new dynasty in Egypt, the last in history, the Thirty-second Dynasty. Although Ptolemy was Greek, he adopted Egyptian customs and the Egyptian theory of kingship. Like the Egyptians, the Ptolemaic kings married their sisters, who were all named Cleopatra ("kleos"="famous", "patris"="parents"). All the Ptolemaic kings, likewise, were named Ptolemy.That must have been very confusing. But it's a great argument against eugenics, (and - on a wider scale - folk who don't believe in interracial breeding) that the reason they don't wish to widen the gene pool is that they want an excuse to fuck their siblings. Also, did you know that, in the first instances of successful and affluent kings being entombed in preparation for the afterlife, the tombs were underground and called mastaba ? So the act of entombing them must have been called... well... I'm sure we can all see where this is going. There you go. A slightly confused, ill-structured and caffeine-fuelled précis on all of Egyptian civilization. I blame the fact that it's really hot and stuffy in this office.
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15.2.05 16:41
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Problems
...with pay-day :
1. It makes you sad when, after being solvent for about seven minutes, you pay off your debts, and realise that it's Heinz Spaghetti on toast for another month.
2. The illusion of money leads one to ask questions that shouldn't be asked. Like "it's four o'clock on pay-day, it's sunny outside... What's stopping us from getting drunk ?"
I feel like I've been binging on dung for a week. Please let me lie down.
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16.2.05 10:39
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