Sunday night ravings of a mad dog in the moonlight
Sorry, who are you again?
“My next job — after getting my brother elected President of the United States — will be the political destruction of Hubert Humphrey”
From “the balls of that quote are intact” Hunter S Thompson — in “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ‘72”
“My next job — after getting Donald Trump elected President of the United States again — will be the political destruction of Kamala Harris”
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Bobby Kennedy said that? Come on, we all need a laugh in this inverted and upside down world and anyway, now there’s two of them in the firing line for the next CIA mind controlled assassin to aim for. Now if you’re new here, welcome, help yourself to the chocolate biscuits on the table in the corner of the room and relax. I have absolutely no idea what I’m about to allow tumble from my tiny mind and as the clock, that infernal keeping of the time within our electrical Matrix is nearing midnight and my Los Angeles Dodgers, those beautiful boys in blue, have already vanquished their foe today/tonight/yesterday, I’m a little perplexed at what I’m supposed to do. You see, I’m normally still three long hours away from first pitch, sometimes one, but often three, and so that means I still have the fat end of seven hours of my day/night/morning to go. What I am supposed to do now? A normal life? What even is that anymore?
Do you get my meaning?
Ah what a lovely tangent on which to disappear and so early in the piece too. I hope you’ll forgive me. “Do you get my meaning” was a phrase so often used by my dear old Mum and she always, without fail, intoned it with a serious and often surreal twist of real gravitas. I lit a candle in her honour yesterday evening and not 24 hours before I tossed a 10 pence coin into the River Severn in a picture book toy town and I hoped, not wished, hoped, she was OK.
I tossed it toward a “Grand Old Lady”. It seemed right.
No, what I was trying to say was let’s not get off on the wrong foot here, let’s not dance to two different tunes as it were, and assume I support Donald Trump in that (s)election kerfuffle in the American wing of the Evil Empire. For I am a socialist in a world of fucking socialists that aren’t socialists. We have a socialist as Prime Minister here in the UK apparently, but he’s a strange kind of human being let alone socialist. I doubt whether more than 47% of the Members of Parliament in the UK could pass for human: dead eyed werewolves in expensive ill fitting suits reading words written for them by somebody else in honour of Gods you refuse to believe exist because you simply can’t allow yourself to accept your entire world view is now shattering to pieces in front of your own eyes. But then again, socialists scream for censorship now and the death of free speech as they cheer on a war in Ukraine that originally started when Joe Biden died in 2014. Or any war for that matter. Just keep the disaster capitalism train on the tracks, say your prayers to Mephistopheles, down is the new up, right has become left, left has become wrong, divide and rule, cheer on that weird looking creature on a stage shouting into a microphone about censorship and fuck me now there’s a new plague, three word mind control mantras magically appear on lecterns the world over as liberal socialists demand you accept their medication in a new normal that the UK Prime Minister has said recently “will get worse before we get better” (we?) and it’s all the other Government’s fault and we have to keep on giving Billions (with a B) to Ukraine to fight the forever war, Orwell’s war, for democracy you see, a democracy you only see one side of on the nightly news as they throw softball questions at vaguely human beings who, if it’s approaching midnight, are on the verge of turning into a werewolf and howling at the moon live on air.
I’m a Bobby Kennedy democrat (circa 1960) and I’m a dreamer, and I’m not the only one. But I know this is all it is: a dream. If he even comes close to doing what he’s already said let alone his historical comments on that Evil Empire around us well, they have a lot of CIA trained mind control assassins and even if you don’t believe that surely you don’t believe in the puppet show of the ex TV Game Show Host versus a cackling phantasm who isn’t actually real? I had a dream about playing pool with Kamala Harris on a Mediterranean cruise last week but we don’t have time to go into that particular sordid story right now. It’s 12.43am and I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do with the next 6 hours of my life.
Over on Twitter, owner and all around madman placing microchips in peoples head’s Elon Musk, said he wanted to boost and, I believe I’m quoting him correctly, “promote” small accounts on his platform. So I duly tweeted him saying “here I am” and could he also promote my Medium and Substack blogs and “while we’re about it” (another from my dear old Mum’s phrasebook) I have nine self-published books and seven Kindle e-books on Amazon and surely that means I’m “verified” and can I have a blue tick while you’re about it? Only seems fair. If it’s good enough for Jeff Bezos then surely Elon doesn’t want to be left behind? I’ll let you know when he replies to my tweet.
Sorry, who are you again?
I think what I wanted to say was that my beloved blue Dodger boys won again and so did my footballing sweethearts dressed all in Liverpool red and I made my son smile today and I didn’t cry, well, at least not after noon, and I reassured him that all my problems are my problems and they don’t involve him or are about him and that I’m always going to be a monumental fuck up and that I love him. I don’t understand life and I never have. Maybe I never will. Why ruin the surprise? I understand me to the point of crossing the understanding curve to view myself like Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar. I’m my own ghost, and I don’t want to be someone else’s.
What this means I’m not completely sure. Ghosts. Phantasms. Mind control assassins. Mephistopheles “reaching up to grab me” from a Radiohead song. Who knows anymore? It’s exactly 1am now and I have a fresh cup of tea amid thoughts of masturbation or maybe watching a film. I’m thinking “Magnolia” will do the trick. 3 hours of luck, chance, fate, depression, death, dying, bullying, incest, drug abuse and the sunshine smile of a happy ending after Tom Cruise melts broken hearted into a 7 year old boy and frogs rain from the sky and everyone sings an Aimee Mann song.
OK, tomorrow/today I’m going to a toy town to watch some fools mess around in some coracles on a river in central England and I’m more than likely going to read my book too in whatever sporadic sunshine I can find and eat some old fashioned sweets. I may even indulge myself and feed some ducks and swans on the river. The swans are named Fred and Mary and I’m going to continue spreading the rumour that they’ve murdered a third swan who, until recently, was spotted regularly on their treasured territory. But no more. They have a guilty look about them but then again, all swans do. If you look at them from the wrong angle. And then they hiss at you. You’d never believe such a long neck could expel such a sound! Glorious it is too, especially if they’re chasing away a particularly large and playful dog splashing and crashing towards them.
Oh the pleasures of real life.
I’ll even try and enjoy myself.
Until then, here’s a book you simply must treat yourself to.
Peace.
"Tales I Tell Myself" - link to Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.