Thursday, 31 January 2008


“In the original unity of the first thing lies the secondary cause of all things - with the germ of their inevitable annihilation.”

Mwahhh...don’t you just love that phrase?

I absolutely adore it! I worship it - rendered with the convincing ring of genius. For with these few simple words Edgar Allan Poe had already determined that every present state of material substance is necessarily a consequence of its preceding state, and in such a manner that its future is always implicit in its present.

Poe’s Eureka! - a work I’ve found truly inspiring - remains a largely neglected masterpiece. The perception is scholarly, incisive and wide ranging. Cosmology, he implies, is simply the study of mental processes of which we are unaware, and bound up with its relationship to human consciousness. Mind and creation in itself is the moving principle. And it is hardly hindsight to 'presume' that Einstein held similar views; or that all paradox and polarity transcended from that great a-causal conundrum - "the absolute irrelative particle" - with which creation as we know it began. Though, I must confess, to explain all that, one would have to start at the beginning, the actual micro-second of creation, 13,7 billion years ago!


P.S.: many of Poe's theories predate later accepted scientific theories including Black Holes.

Wednesday, 30 January 2008


ELBERRY“Women keep things going, do the cooking, have an eye
for detail, for technicalities. In my experience, cerebral women tend to be very
arrogant and nagging, and often incredibly angry.Probably women find cerebral
men a turn-off because they're interested in practicalities, e.g. how much money
you have, if you can provide for any future children. Alas, cerebral women, who
might circumvent this down-to-earthness, also tend to be insane.The trick is to
wear lots of aftershave and keep grabbing your crotch while talking to them, to
fool them into thinking you're a down-to-earth type of guy.”

“In my experience, cerebral women tend to be very arrogant and nagging, and often incredibly angry.”

No woman could possibly feel as sad and inferior as I now feel. I castigate myself for being inadequate, conceited, and furious. For Elberry is absolutely right, a woman has to be more than an accident of beauty, magnificence or allure - unlike the male of the species, she has to prove that she is gifted!

Elberry is arguably the finest mind in blog production today, with an aesthete's eye, and I realize that this is a contemptible effort to ingratiate myself with the logkeeper of the Eternally Feminine who details our shortcomings on his unforgiving balance-sheet. But this particular blogger has also taken the racial theories of the French writer Gobineau ( as demonstrated in his Essay on the Inequality of the Human Race), and developed it further, with a call to purity and a restoration of Hellenisms’ first principles, by claiming that the legacy of classical antiquity - Greek art and philosophy, Roman jurisprudence and Christianity - have to be handed down as the "Great White Way," in order to overcome the prevailing post-modern multiculturalism and usher in a new renaissance...

Needless to say, he has his detractors!

My own view is that none of this matters much. I admire his dedication to quality, his dignity, and sense of self. And I totally adore his irascible discourses on life’s absurdities. Some unsuspecting visitors who are not used to being spontaneously accosted can find him unnerving. Admittedly. But he’s nothing if not sharp, quick-witted, and down-to-earth:

“Cerebral women, who might circumvent this down-to-earthness, also tend to be insane.”

What can I say? The man has a way with the truth. On the other hand, that could have been an exaggeration. I never asked, but I appreciate the subtlety. Assiduously careful in his research, while being thoroughly careless at the retail end, Elberry uses every opportunity to catch up on his fellow man. He studies science and literature with the same abiding eagerness that he has applied to a crash courses in transcendental meditation. He is the Faustus of the modern world. His desk is constantly piled with books, paintings, and scripts of one kind or another. Personally, I am weary of Englishmen who read Wittgenstein. They want to screw us with sophistry. The same, of course, has been said of Jesus Christ, himself no stranger to a fast deal or two. But then, at the basis of every great personality is a credible promise. And the next time Elberry beguiles you with the wisdom of Kirkegaard, reflecting a tormented obsession, have a little sympathy; he may simply have forgotten how to have fun...

“The trick is to wear lots of aftershave and keep grabbing your crotch while talking to (women), to fool them into thinking you're a down-to-earth type of guy.”

From which you will now doubt gather, that Elberry and I have never been lovers. On the other hand, I've seen Orang-Utans at the Regents Park Zoo doing this, so I know it's humanly possible.
I just didn't expect it to be such a widely held view.

The questions, then, on every blogger’s mind are the ones that have dogged the UK finger-print-verification system ever since Marathon and Thermophylae. Who is he? Has he descended, as he claims, from Krishna, the divine charioteer who preaches to Arjuna on the battlefield of the Bhagavad-Gita, or - if the question is not a delicate one - from Socrates, the gallant Attic sage, beguiler and scoundrel who never gave a straight answer in his entire life. Is he a nerve-specialist in search of knowledge, Vonnegut incarnate, or a great Shakespearian scholar?

The case has never been solved!


Tuesday, 29 January 2008












ETC. (Not necessarily in that order)

As for the rest of you 25 million bloggers, be afraid, be very afraid, the hour of truth is upon you.....


Sunday, 27 January 2008


I've been rather haunted by the things that I have left undone in my life.

One of which is to match Her Majesty the Queen’s Gothic range of greeny-taupe wallpaper (apparently the best colour for viewing fine jewellery). The other, misappropriating £ For the first time in my life I have a compatriot in the innermost part of myself. The feeling of isolation and loneliness which has haunted me all those years has vanished. Thanks to the prisoner of France‘s conscience: Jerome Kerviel, I am inundated with the gratifying awareness that I have shed, in one liberating instant, all my unexpressed anxieties about failure and culpability. Nor shall I ever measure a man by anything other than the size of his ambition. I wish I could be more envious of ordinary people's achievements but I never am. What, by comparison, is a paltry £ 120,000 in proxy donations by Labour activists?

Barely the price of a jeroboam-of-champagne!

Did you know that the French are the biggest consumers of anti-depressants in the world? Which certainly hastened the need for action. Unlimited venture capitalism bent over and offered them their orifice. And Kerviel shoved it up their arse. Eureka! It doesn't get any more exhilarating than that! Nor did they see him go through any red lights. He is a rogue trader, mes amis - consequently you were buggered by a rogue.

My kind and most affectionate compliments, Kerviel, Prisoner of France:

Je suis entierement a vous, cher Jerome! Cuisses ouvertes je vous attend!

Or for those who prefer it in French:

I have no ambitions other than yours, cher Jerome. I must worship you or die!

Please God, preserve me from small and insignificant favours! Champagne just tickles my nose.


Saturday, 26 January 2008


Mutley: Sorry Selena... I did not mean to offend. I have a bottle of Benedictine and some Garibaldi biscuits and could pop round to apologise whenever you give the nod...

I first made Mutley’s acquaintance when he sent me an email containing a disgraceful suggestion.

Needless to say, I responded in kind.

Mutley is unemployed, decadent and idle. While you and I are trying to save the world, his big idea is to replace the Devil with the Deep Blue Sea. Making life rather pointless. The first thing an unemployed man must do is to recognise he has no job. But whereas Mutley the cool, wry, irrepressible blogger keeps himself pre-occupied with the most reflective and irascible log, it is his sense of fellowship with his readers which makes him such a formidable competitor. His repartees at the comment section are always as entertaining as any discourse he writes.

His doggedness is absolutely disarming. He’s illiterate, but legendary!

Nor has he any comprehension of his own deficiencies as a web-site host. His blog has two time zones. GMT and MMT. Which always tends to remind me: had I opted for Virgin Airlines, rather than Mutleythedogsdayout, I might have been half way across the Atlantic by the time he came round to see me.

But, there we were, at the SpearmintRhino, with me on my third Appleton Special, while Mutley rubbed himself against my legs in a totally incontinent way. He has short hair, a dog-collar around his neck and is continually sniffing your crotch. His eyes never seem to leave your hem-line. I might as well have been wearing nothing but a G-String. In fact, everyone I meet appears to take an interest in my virginity. I had to sit on my hands to stop myself pulling his ears. Mutley then brought out his present: a gift-wrapped bottle of Benedictine and a top-shelf magazine entitled Mongrel Bitches.

I'm a pedigree bitch," I said.

"I can see that, and I feel for you,"Mutley replied. “You're trying to get through life by spending half of it prostrate.”

La vie horizontale,” I conceded. “But, of course, I spend the other half trying out new pole-dance routines. That's something I excel in.

“Don't get the wrong impression.” He said, I love your chest. “Fact is,” he then added, “I’ve never rejected an advance from a 36DD.”

Which particular biological qualification actually gives me the ability to hold therapeutic appointments in male sexual dysfunction and on how to stimulate the nerves involved in libidinous arousal - not to mention my research into activating the brain's melancoptin receptors. I can't think of anything else that draws you so warm-heartedly to the company of men which doesn't involve cunnilingus. And even though I, myself, make very little use of the freer sexual life that I advocate for others, the patriotic education of the male of the species is in my hands. I will accomplish it.... I have, in fact, endeavoured to present a paper on the subject, and tried to be objective in presenting summaries of all the current theories. This is what I do. Do I ever get tired, blasé, uppish? No, hand on heart, I'm always excited about libidinous matters, and still get that frisson with a every new patient.

Mutley, meanwhile, acknowledged that he firmly believed monogamy was not essential to a good relationship. “I believe in open associations,” he said. And then went on to claim that he preferred fellatio to coitus.” It combines,” he stressed, “and surpasses the joys of flying.”

Even though the farthest thing from my mind, when I make love to a man, is whom he may be married to, I realize now that in this, as in so many circumstances, men are only interested in one aspect of the problem. I shook my head. “I never accept offers,” I said. “I make demands. That’s two-hundred-fifty quid an hour. Plus expenses!”

It was then, with deliciously perfect timing and, crucially against my Pole, that Mutley lifted his hindmost leg and delivered this stinging response....

“You’ll never make a Golden Retriever out of me.” he said.

Mutleythedog looks pretty fierce, and the element of macho chic that he brings to my company is very imposing. He’s got no discipline either (- but a very high sperm-count)! So people get out of the way in the street when they see the two of us coming. Other than that, Mutley is totally soppy. He's never even growled at me once.

Except with other dogs - then he's an absolute bully!

I’m so glad I’m a bitch...!


Thursday, 24 January 2008


A SURGE in the number of boys born with genital abnormalities has been discovered by Cambridge scientists, while a new study in Scotland suggests that one in six men now has a low sperm count.

Low on sperm?

Genital defects, of course, particularly when conditioned by chemicals in the environment, are inappropriate grounds upon which to reach a moral conclusion. And certainly this is no more than conjecture, but while some ladettes appear to find the pornification of the post-modern world a cause for wholehearted solicitation, I personally feel that men’s sexual behaviour is actually mutating. That they’re are prey to physical anomalies, mental deviation and libidinous dysfunction.

My various clients may rip off me of my panties, tie me up, pull my hair, whip me, chew my toes, dislocate them; and, only very occasionally, interact with my vagina in the way that nature intended. Nor do I propose to discuss my sex life. But I will say that some of the more incremental anomalies do indeed have qualities which put them beyond a definitive sexual identity. More and more contemporary genders are, even as they go through the complications of puberty, interchangeable and without any definitive function one way or another. From young lesbians whose casual attitude to sex are newly and enthusiastically male, to those males who can find love only in the perfect transsexual setting.

“I am a child of this age, a decadent. But only I know that.”

Today, if the internet is a place where a lot of people dump their most toxic feelings, there are also some 4.2m pornographic websites, 12% of the total web content, according to the anti-porn watchdog Internet Filter Review. It says users make 68m pornographic searches every day, a quarter of all search engine requests. And some 40m adults in America alone admit to being regular patrons of the sites. A recreational measure, you might say, which has morphed into an obsessive collective disorder.

Whether we like it or not, from the point of view of that trend, our permissive society, too, tempts people to do an “evil” action and then punishes them for doing it. Indeed, when all possible allowances have been made for today’s sexual offender, with no more moral sense than a beast of prey, the problem is actually insoluble. He can no more help preying than a beast can. What is worse, the beast cannot help but prey. Nor is he a criminal in the strictest sense. For what would be a crime in law, may not be a crime in nature.

“I wouldn’t walk down a street alone at night.” Jacqui Smith

The relation between violence and libido may not seem at all close enough to make a significant context, but the whole point for me lies in the contiguity of the effect - and that would seem to be the case here - of a fundamentally erotomanic age upon those maddened by sex. The gratuitous sex-and-drug consciousness of the post-modern millennium, the unmitigated exploitation of sex for commercial gain, the use of crime as a means even to predatory pornographic violence, all prove the same point. Sex is at the heart of everything. It has even become a tourist attraction. The great lover has been reduced to the level of an athlete. Though, like most athletic competitions, it requires sacrifice: loveless marriages and a phenomenal rate of family dissolution. And whereas one might suppose that the promiscuity in the physical relations between the sexes was not due so much to anything but moral barriers which have effectively been withdrawn, nothing much is left of the original language of love.

Nor is sex the equivalent of love!

A cold carnal lust and a ruthlessly marauding sensuality are the new points of reference, for a conception of sex which, not just from a conventional point of view but from any point of view, is not by a very long way the type of passion it used to be before Freud released it from the genie’s lamp to perform such functions in close and profligate association with crime.

“Through the windscreen I had a clear view of the abyss but was soon brought up sharp by the realization that it was looking back at me.”
Selena Dreamy

Indeed, never before in the history of the psychology of crime has the common delinquent expressed himself so pathologically and compulsively. Criminals are becoming ever more aggressively criminal. Dead-eyed teenagers, numb and inarticulate, hooded mutants, with no direction or ideals left - rampaging through streets and providing endless entertainment for a seamless web of CCTV. Men boasting of being cut-throats and claiming for mankind that right to absolute moral and intellectual liberty of which we no longer believed them worthy.

In fact, the full significance of this propensity emerges only when we assume that the necessity for violence is, and it certainly has so proved, a fundamentally atavistic compulsion. For if this peculiarly atavistic ‘reversion to type’ of the contemporary delinquent depends upon the psychological necessity or need for sexual violence and aggression, we must not even begin to think that it can be contained within a set of statutes or abandoned as of right.

Still, no inference seems to be drawn or even considered by the incontestable fact that the crime is not that of the individual but of society. That libido frustrated is libido perverted. No verdict, seems to be delivered on a libertine society in which fulfilment not only falls far short of promise but in which every day thousands of delinquents become the victim of situations which must inevitably put them at cross-purposes with the law. The point, moreover, is rarely made, although it is fundamental to the whole sordid business, that the character of society itself is perverted as its freedom becomes absolute. It is true, nothing may be more democratic than the freedom to view sex explicitly, such as the post-modern cyber industry alone can provide. But it cannot possibly be natural, or even pretend to be.

Take it from me, one might as well taunt the Devil.


Monday, 21 January 2008


For the benefit of the uninformed, let me say that I first met Richard Madeley when he blew life into me, and that I remain grateful to him for taking my blog in hand and introducing the graphic designs which now define its temperament and disposition. In truth, without him this weblog would still be in my head, rather than in the public domain. And since energy is made of quanta and blogs are made of digits, I am I indebted to Richard for having donated an abundance of both.

Reading in part like the progress of a knight-errant and in part like a confession, Richard Madeley’s own blog is a well appointed and impressively made affair. The daily word-count functions with awesome efficiency. Balanced, effective and supreme. His private personality, on the other hand, can only be guessed at. As a matter of fact, a lot of writers can be false, arrogant, infuriating, or downright idealistic, which is why I look upon every one of them as either an impostor or a saint. And Richard, conceivably, has been called something a good deal worse than that, and kinder, presumably, if confidentially so, by his "Nemesis" at home.

One wonders!

Indeed, I am beginning to wonder how many of his formal critics and judges are secretly his stalkers. Why should this be? Not, I believe, because most enduringly successful blogs to date have been written by humorists of one ilk or another, but rather because humorists are, almost by definition, misunderstood. Written with a certain Wodehouse touch which seems to be a cunning complement to himself, Richard’s blog is ambiguous on facts, and injudicious, even reckless, in the “maltreatment” of his friends - fictitious, no doubt, but sharpened by the effects of satire.

All satire is a struggle between fact and falsehood.

His past achievements, on that score, were prodigious and in theory set up a literary and prospective network that might conceivably serve as the commercial foundation for literary success, rather than being his flagship philosophy used for bookish boastfulness. Indeed, one would presume that, because he has the attention of the media and literary world, the publishing industry would offer him all he required. That said, Richard Madeley‘s usefulness to the literary service industry has largely been as a totemic figure.

Nor was the gain all his.

Dismally ill-equipped for the business of riding rough over his celebrity peers, he’s not the swaggering, champagne-guzzling, self-serving type. In an environment that is teeming with poisonous snakes and swarms of shameless grovellers, he reveals an affability that would grace a suburban bank clerk. For all that, he’s a great media personality. A man whose tremendous asset it is to be a conciliator - handsome and perilous with the outward habit of a WWI flying ace and the phraseology and vocabulary of a teatime chat-show host.

He couldn’t possibly alienate anyone.

But for all his charm, he strikes me as the archetypal knight-errant, the type that everybody loves to deride, the man who has realized the element of tragedy - longing for a life of meaning and significance. Truth to tell, there is something curiously deprived about Richard Madeley. And one suspects that, like many media personalities, and the intellectual and emotional constraints that hold them in a gold-fish bowl, he is an essentially misunderstood, even tragic figure who has been emotionally dispossessed -almost as if he were in a state of dissociation, standing outside himself watching himself.

There is no better way to feel like an outcast than to be a celebrity.

“I’ve enjoyed every minute of my celebrity status,” he says, and I, for one, can admire and appreciate its merits. But Judy, no uncritical admirer of Richard’s gift, may see things in a different light. All we have to go on, apart from the eloquence of the blog itself, is the daily record of his domestic court-martial proceedings. Indeed, I feel sorry for Judy, and a little guilty. Richard was the first to kiss me. And female fans, especially - relishing the way that he has brought the celebrity status to life and projected it upon his blog - are prone to plead his vulnerability. This is deceptive, and perhaps the briefing's tone is deliberately disingenuous. His courteousness, undoubtedly, disguises an uncomplicated belief in his own powers to endure. This man’s motivation is a good deal deeper, one suspects, and rather more complex than the mere need for commercial remuneration and success. Nor are success and recognition synonyms. For even though each has proved a powerful stereotype, the chances in each for personal, individual self-expression are incomparably remote!

Doubtless, it is useless for me to tell you that the information on which I rely goes well beyond what I have seen in the public domain, and that this memorandum represents pure conjecture from beginning to end. I also find it absolutely indispensable to proclaim that it was motivated by an interest more passionate by far than the random curiosity of the mere spectator. And if you asked for my judgement on the way he sustains his blog, I will suppress my habitual reticence with strangers and plainly say that I found it full of affinities, surprises and revelations, not least of Richard’s own identity, integrity and dignity. In my opinion the man Madeley has brought something individual and unique to the imposing matter of internet blogs, which are usually received with a great deal of indifference, and almost always suffer from the lingering suspicion that, if anything, they are simply not outrageous enough...

One thing, above all, is beyond argument: The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society is a woman’s blog. And if I didn't say so to his face, I am perfectly happy to say now: interspersed with Mahler and Mozart, hilarity, mirth and champagne, he is the best dancing partner I’ve ever had...


Saturday, 19 January 2008


My purpose today at the Moonshine Distillery is not to attempt fresh judgment on the general blogosphere, but - occasional lapses being accepted - to consider front-line morale of the individual blogger. When I was invited to judge the cyber contest, my first inclination was to decline. What do I know, I told myself, I’ve never been infected with the sacred madness. But then, as everyone knows, the simpleton of the family always goes into arbitration. It‘s the Solomon syndrome. Obviously I feel passionate on the subject.

I have also been extremely fortunate in having enjoyed the continuing patronage of the adorable Richard Madeley - the least jealous person I know. The natural wisdom and perspicacity of B.O. who goes by the simple name of Nige, clearly, too, is worth an entire army corps. And finding Ms Baroque in Hackney, of all places, was rather like finding John Milton in Paradise.

Other than that, I wish to thank Neil Forsyth, The Hitch, Chip Dale, Sandi Gold, Gopher Lemmings, Joey Athena etc., whose homage has been articulate - and even generous. I am worried about my lack of enthusiasm in idolizing Richard Havers, and do hope that Chip Dale will find the passion to resume his blogging. Mutley, and there is no kinder way to put it, is easily the most down-market intellectual you’d ever make love to. And Stephen Fry, in my own opinion, an extremely pathological jester. The good Elberry, despite having been deep-frozen for billions of years, should qualify as much for his poetry as his exquisitely flavoursome prose, and Stephen King for being a long-winded neurotic. Ian McEwan for having run out of meaningful things to say, and to all the rest of those Scrutons and Tutons who are not geniuses, and whose musings are most unlikely to change any lives, may I say: Congratulations - your Nemesis has arrived!

And here is my Six-Point itinerary:

1.) In its ad hoc lounge, Dreamy’s Moonshine Distillery takes pride in offering intimate massages, beauty treatments, hairstyling, micro-dermatological maintenance, Botox injections and a menu featuring a very fine any Château Morrisette 1978. You may start with shaved, raw English asparagus, celery and anchovy vinaigrette, and follow it up with fresh trout grilled over charcoal, plus coffee and amaretto - I assure you, well above Virgin Airlines’ norm.

2.) Personally, I feel very strongly that the worst feature of the abolition of slavery and the emancipation of slaves has been the creation of human rights. But as a gesture to multiculturalism it is my equally firm conviction that all blogs should be converted into soup-kitchens for asylum seekers, economic migrants and sex-slaves, serving Borscht, gazpacho, bouillabaisse, puy lentil soup, cream of pumpkin soup, Kartoffelsuppe, and takeaway chicken biryani - - washed down, needless to say, with the best of my moonshine.

3.) Anyone due for one of Dreamy’s Deluxe Manicures, will find it is by far the best deal online. No more slumming it, folks. First your hands are cleansed, exfoliated and enriched with a moisturizing mask and serum - adding a new dimension to your digital comfort - and then carefully eased, coated in emollients, into heated gloves, in order to allow the nourishment to penetrate...mmmhhaaa...!!!

4.) No U-Tube animation here. No Debbie does Dallas either. Anything to be done will be done by Miss Dreamy. Which is to say, that all videos are produced on the premises. But nothing unseemly, I assure you. Down boys, down - this is a clean, little whorehouse!

5.) No links on this blog, either. First of all, I don’t know how to do the darned things. Second, they are the last refuge of the lazy blogger. Anyone yearning for the comfort of Dreamy’s svelte thighs will find all they need on the premises. Links, in any case, always lead to Bryan Appleyard’s. I followed them once. All you do is go round in circles. Believe me, Bryan’s links always end up in his Y-fronts. Perhaps he’s got tapeworm. And while we are on that subject Bryan, don't post any more pictures with churches. I might get frantic and burn one down.

6.) Invariably, the show finishes at midnight with Auld Lang Syne, followed by a resounding Sieg Heil, the Samurai sword salute and God save the Queen...

A limousine will be waiting to take you home.

Thank you so much.


Thursday, 17 January 2008


“Lets face it, folks, blogging is bunk!”

Those were the words I used in response to commentaries on someone else’s blog. “The complete blogger is as useless to life as he is to his wife,” I wrote with masterly understatement. “One by one his deeper instincts, his spiritual requirements, are famished by stress of circumstances. The charismatic miscellany of life ceases to have any meaning for him. To console himself he sets up wilful tenets of right and wrong. Nervy mannerism replaces wisdom. Thinking in terms of snippets destroys the ability to think in terms of texture and consistency. Indeed, studies in bloggerism even suggest that chronic habits can lead to solitary addiction and subsequently to reclusivity.”

My statement to the world remains!

And yet, a highbrow attitude makes enemies. A free spirit seems to hostile critics a form of conceit. In truth, I’m a Z-lister - simply a siren possessed of enormous chutzpah. A person for whom the cyber age is not just a post-modern period, but a schizo-riddled stratum of the collective psyche, a never-ending alma mater through whose halls I can meander as an eternal adolescent riddler. Yet, I am here to taunt mortals with the frank confession that I have surrendered myself to the consecrated folly. Restraining my affliction has been daunting, not least because I was born an apostate. I had thirty-two teeth by the time I was six months old, and at twelve was diagnosed as having the mental age of about seven-hundred-and-fifty.

What’s worse, I felt the part.

Of my physical features I would rate the orbito-frontal cortex rather highly. I don’t spend much time on exercising it, preferring clitoral stimulation to full electro-convulsive irrigation, and yet it seems to do quite well. At the age of ten I had solved the riddle of creation (Though almost inevitably - and this will disturb you - the acclaim went straight to Einstein).

My puberty was marked by the development of a time machine designed to hit the 22nd millennium with an error margin of but a few weeks. Zero-Hour was set for 0317 on August 12, 13 minutes before first light. At 0317:05 hours GMT, the mechanism’s time-contraction circuit closed. The trip took me just over 45 minutes. I was almost ripped apart by mc2 and damn near perished in the process. I locked the time-vector in neutral and took a stroll through the bright orange aluminium fibre grass. By an astonishing dispensation of fate, I myself was captured intact during the battle of the Cosmos. Two weeks after my arrival an Anglo-Galactic force surrounded Ophiuchus and during a sortie on the following day I was cut off and pulled from my horse by an archer whom I found to be an Englishman. I won’t even tell you what he did to me - it’s too abhorrent! But a local tribesman saved my life. After endoscopies, colonoscopies, blood tests and further research in obstetrics, ophthalmology and cerebral circulation, he bailed me out with the only currency that was universally recognized as worth having: an unending supply of pubescent virgins. He then asked if I planned to spend the rest of the millennium having sex?

As you can see, it was a whole lot easier getting out of the solar system than it was getting back in. But now, that I’ve returned, nothing has ever looked so desolate.

The news, after all, could hardly have been worse.

Back at the Spearmint Rhino Club, I learnt that my favourite champagne is now only served on Tuesdays and Fridays. More unhappily, the sad moral of this particular planet seems to be that there is a fair proportions of Bloggers who are mentally conditioned to the acceptance of the mediocre rather than the striving to surpass. As I studied the general blogosphere, exasperated by the tedium of it all, I could not help but see the irony of the situation - the fact that I urgently wanted to deprecate what I had come here to admire:
The Higher Man!

Am I alone in this particular nostalgia?

As I began to rationalize the process, forced to appreciate the gradual stultifying power of such blogs, I arrived at an alarming conclusion: that we have succumbed to the most dangerous ailment of the human mind:


Inertia is the privilege of a sated sow. A predicament which leaves me wondering what may be the dreams and ideals after which some of our earth-bound souls are dimly groping:

More blogs?
More sex?
More Kylie Minogues?

Nor is mere blogging the true aim of the creative life. For anybody intentionally trying to sponsor that aspect of his art most likely to restrict his freedom, has no real contribution to make to the genius of his time. I am not going to suggest an exploration of the values and ethics of Plato’s legendary dialogue on the nature of death and the immortality of the soul. Nor am I going to imply that we should recreate an electronic version of the Attic sages’ Lyceum. But I must do you - and myself - the justice of saying that our lives are limited by the ideals to which we aspire. And if anyone desires to be elevated at all, to possess and treasure veracity, no blind struggle, no lack of belief in his own sense of a higher purpose will ever achieve that end.

Death is the first condition of renewal!

And for those of us who will accept neither defeat nor compromise this is the end of an era - as much as a new beginning. We live in a world gone virtual, a world which can only be judged by the technology that created it. And the materialistic, acquisitive, narcissist, self-adulating humanissimus homo of the post-modern age can no more deny this self-fulfilling trend than the tide can cease or the moon stand still.

I bow to the inevitable!