u nob
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, October 3, 2011
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Dinghy
Started work on the eighth Harry Potter novel today. Rowling initially reluctant to countenance outsourcing the project to another author but proved extremely co-operative once the scopolamine had taken effect. In one's defence, one did at first try to pitch the work to her through the proper channels but the author was reportedly dissatisfied with the way that the central plot featured Hogwarts being invaded and then occupied by Chechen separatists. Suffice to say that, not for the first time, border transgressions involving citizens of countries from the former Soviet Union are not resolved by merely shouting "Expelliarmus". One learned that to considerable personal cost in South Ossetia.
Ultimate concentration is frequently required while indulging in one's artistic tendencies. So much so that one has developed a talent for self-hypnosis that allows one to continue typing even after rubbing cocaine into an open wound (those lovely fellows in the RUF are a fountain of useful information). So it was that, as yours truly sat down in front of the PC with a bottle of gin and a copy of the Harris levels for inspiration, one almost did not hear the incessant buzzing of the early warning system, installed in 1995, alerting one to the presence of a homosexual on the inbound ferry from Hollyhead. Drastic action would be required if the Homeland's dignity and sphinctral integrity was to be preserved.
After galvanising the hull of one's vessel, the dinghy-class HMS Protruberence, with the appropriate level of armour plating required for a soujourn into the arcadian waters of the Irish Sea, one set off, making sure that the Anti-Homosexuality Device was fully loaded and mounted on the prow. The Device is surely a miracle of modern scientific achievement. It is comprised of a large, rectangular speaker mounted on the front of the dinghy with a cable feeding back behind it into a Panasonic cassette player. The cassette loaded into this audio reproduction system contains a variety of anti-homosexual sentiments, playing on an infinite loop, chanted in the manner of a rally and designed to be played at gay funerals; "THERE IS NO PORTILLO HERE", "NO MORE MANDELSONS", "JOHN TERRY WILL FIND OUT ABOUT THIS", "JESUS WAS ALL MAN" and so forth.
Navigating the Irish Sea has traditionally proved a tricky prospect. Various floating obstacles abound, from the bodies of asylum seekers to the jutting wrecks of sunken U-Boats belying the incompetent nature of German seamanship in the first half of the 20th Century. None of these, however, are quite as formidable an impediment as the radioactive turds deposited in the sea by the outstanding Irish sewage disposal system. One of these days a dilligent historical researcher will uncover the true reasons behind the sinking of the Lusitania. Then the population of Wexford will really have something to answer for. Put it this way; do you really think that's a sandbank off the Wicklow coast?
Fortunately, one had the foresight to install a lookout post on the Protruberence after numerous past attempts at traversing this cumbersome body of water resulted in considerable embarassment and, on occasion, extreme Hepatitis. The post itself consists of a broom handle sellotaped to the floor of the Protruberence with a glass tumbler three-quarters way up its length acting as the lookout perch. Acquiring volunteers for the post was troublesome but one was eventually able to locate a magpie - Jones - down on its luck enough to accept the position. Avoiding collisions like the Orange Order avoid the Gervaghy Road would surely now be as easy as dropping a cat into a wheelie bin.
One caught sight of one's quarry emerging from a rain squall over the horizon. Taking cue from the actions of the Battleship Hood during the Battle Of The Denmark Strait, one immediately switched to top speed and made straight for the Sealink Ferry with the intention of closing the distance rapidly in order to minimise the risk of plunging shell fire from the Ferry's no doubt extensive clandestine armaments (Ferrying residents of Kilbarrack to and from Wales will inevitably have an effect on ship armaments). Once the distance had been closed, one's aim was to activate the AHD, wait for the individual in question to collapse in a gibbering wreck brought on by the inevitable nervous breakdown, then board the ship, encase the individual in liquid nitrogen and dispose of him in a suitably brusque fashion.
Unfortunately, it was at this point that fate dealt its cruel hand. After activating the AHD and assuming position at the bow of the vessel, breasts shining in the mid-day sun, a sudden, unwelcome impact reverberated throughout the hull and almost dislodged one from one's pulpit at the prow. Turning to assess the situation, the cause of the impact was all too apparent: a kamikaze strike from a rogue, radicalised cormorant had compromised the rudder.
Perhaps one should explain; During one's hospitalisation last year in the aftermath of events that took place on the campaign trail for Mr. Ahmadinejad, one passed the time by training various species of avain wildlife to re-enact the Battle Of Leyte Gulf, kamikaze runs being a task which cormorants proved surprisingly adept and, it must be said, willing. All that time spent being molested or shot at by junior infants on the Liffey would admittedly sap their appreciation for life. The practical applications of such an endeavour are manifest and obvious. Should Japanese foreign policy awaken from its fission-induced slumber, what better to combat their encroachment than migratory birds equipped with Molotovs and Tesla Coils (work in progress). Granted, one encountered considerable difficulty configuring the guidance systems of the birds after one had strapped the ordinance to their torsos but if all else fails there is a flawless contingency strategy: stuff a sperm whale with TNT and beat it into heading for Tokyo Harbour.
One digresses, apologies.
It was during these sea trials that several specimes escaped captivity and fucked off leaving yours truly decidedly non-plussed as to how to relocate them. The satisfaction of now having rediscovered a wayward test subject however was tempered by the manner in which it was "rediscovered". The rediscovery now meant that one's vessel could steer in only one direction - bypassing the ferry by some forty feet. In spite of this setback, one resolved not to lower one's composure for a second. The sight of one's vessel - Anti-Homosexuality Device active, magpie in the crow's nest, deep-fried cormorant protruding from the engine, yours truly standing proud and erect on the bow - speeding across the path of the ferry as hordes of slack-jawed degenerates on board took time out from romanticising their own kin to observe one's valiant but failed interception was surely a sight for the ages. An image to rank alongside raising the flag at Iwo Jima or the Execution of KWK only with more war criminals.
With little left to do but hope that landfall took place in that narrow segment of the Cumbrian coastline that does not boast either a sewage treatment facility, a nuclear power installation or an amateur marksman on the rounds, one ended up taking out one's frustrations on Jones. Bad enough that he misses a perfectly obvious incoming projectile, worse still that his Scrabble skills leave a considerable amount to be desired, hoarding as he did all the "X" tiles when one resolved to rupture the tedium by starting an impromptu game. One has sympathy indeed for the Apollo 13 astronauts who endured a similar predicament. But even they, it must be stated, never had to deal with antagonistic avian life. Unless there is something extremely serious that NASA are keeping from public knowledge. Which if it exists is probably better for all concerned.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 Serbian film-making seems to have taken a very interesting right-turn recently. If this is the standard that can be expected from Serbia, what's going to happen in A Bosnian Film? Three-thousand prostitutes get sent on a forced march naked through a nail factory before being shot in the back by their own children and buried in a mass grave outside an abbatoir that doubles for Sarajevo's finest hotel?
#2 Possibility that ETA declared ceasefire just so they could be back in the news remains likely. Little known fact that they set off a bomb in the Costa Del Sol recently but nobody noticed or gave a toss. Sort of like when a band's 10th album goes in at number three then drops out a week later.
#3 Spider disposal techniques in the United Kingdom leave a great deal to be desired.
Ultimate concentration is frequently required while indulging in one's artistic tendencies. So much so that one has developed a talent for self-hypnosis that allows one to continue typing even after rubbing cocaine into an open wound (those lovely fellows in the RUF are a fountain of useful information). So it was that, as yours truly sat down in front of the PC with a bottle of gin and a copy of the Harris levels for inspiration, one almost did not hear the incessant buzzing of the early warning system, installed in 1995, alerting one to the presence of a homosexual on the inbound ferry from Hollyhead. Drastic action would be required if the Homeland's dignity and sphinctral integrity was to be preserved.
After galvanising the hull of one's vessel, the dinghy-class HMS Protruberence, with the appropriate level of armour plating required for a soujourn into the arcadian waters of the Irish Sea, one set off, making sure that the Anti-Homosexuality Device was fully loaded and mounted on the prow. The Device is surely a miracle of modern scientific achievement. It is comprised of a large, rectangular speaker mounted on the front of the dinghy with a cable feeding back behind it into a Panasonic cassette player. The cassette loaded into this audio reproduction system contains a variety of anti-homosexual sentiments, playing on an infinite loop, chanted in the manner of a rally and designed to be played at gay funerals; "THERE IS NO PORTILLO HERE", "NO MORE MANDELSONS", "JOHN TERRY WILL FIND OUT ABOUT THIS", "JESUS WAS ALL MAN" and so forth.
Navigating the Irish Sea has traditionally proved a tricky prospect. Various floating obstacles abound, from the bodies of asylum seekers to the jutting wrecks of sunken U-Boats belying the incompetent nature of German seamanship in the first half of the 20th Century. None of these, however, are quite as formidable an impediment as the radioactive turds deposited in the sea by the outstanding Irish sewage disposal system. One of these days a dilligent historical researcher will uncover the true reasons behind the sinking of the Lusitania. Then the population of Wexford will really have something to answer for. Put it this way; do you really think that's a sandbank off the Wicklow coast?
Fortunately, one had the foresight to install a lookout post on the Protruberence after numerous past attempts at traversing this cumbersome body of water resulted in considerable embarassment and, on occasion, extreme Hepatitis. The post itself consists of a broom handle sellotaped to the floor of the Protruberence with a glass tumbler three-quarters way up its length acting as the lookout perch. Acquiring volunteers for the post was troublesome but one was eventually able to locate a magpie - Jones - down on its luck enough to accept the position. Avoiding collisions like the Orange Order avoid the Gervaghy Road would surely now be as easy as dropping a cat into a wheelie bin.
One caught sight of one's quarry emerging from a rain squall over the horizon. Taking cue from the actions of the Battleship Hood during the Battle Of The Denmark Strait, one immediately switched to top speed and made straight for the Sealink Ferry with the intention of closing the distance rapidly in order to minimise the risk of plunging shell fire from the Ferry's no doubt extensive clandestine armaments (Ferrying residents of Kilbarrack to and from Wales will inevitably have an effect on ship armaments). Once the distance had been closed, one's aim was to activate the AHD, wait for the individual in question to collapse in a gibbering wreck brought on by the inevitable nervous breakdown, then board the ship, encase the individual in liquid nitrogen and dispose of him in a suitably brusque fashion.
Unfortunately, it was at this point that fate dealt its cruel hand. After activating the AHD and assuming position at the bow of the vessel, breasts shining in the mid-day sun, a sudden, unwelcome impact reverberated throughout the hull and almost dislodged one from one's pulpit at the prow. Turning to assess the situation, the cause of the impact was all too apparent: a kamikaze strike from a rogue, radicalised cormorant had compromised the rudder.
Perhaps one should explain; During one's hospitalisation last year in the aftermath of events that took place on the campaign trail for Mr. Ahmadinejad, one passed the time by training various species of avain wildlife to re-enact the Battle Of Leyte Gulf, kamikaze runs being a task which cormorants proved surprisingly adept and, it must be said, willing. All that time spent being molested or shot at by junior infants on the Liffey would admittedly sap their appreciation for life. The practical applications of such an endeavour are manifest and obvious. Should Japanese foreign policy awaken from its fission-induced slumber, what better to combat their encroachment than migratory birds equipped with Molotovs and Tesla Coils (work in progress). Granted, one encountered considerable difficulty configuring the guidance systems of the birds after one had strapped the ordinance to their torsos but if all else fails there is a flawless contingency strategy: stuff a sperm whale with TNT and beat it into heading for Tokyo Harbour.
One digresses, apologies.
It was during these sea trials that several specimes escaped captivity and fucked off leaving yours truly decidedly non-plussed as to how to relocate them. The satisfaction of now having rediscovered a wayward test subject however was tempered by the manner in which it was "rediscovered". The rediscovery now meant that one's vessel could steer in only one direction - bypassing the ferry by some forty feet. In spite of this setback, one resolved not to lower one's composure for a second. The sight of one's vessel - Anti-Homosexuality Device active, magpie in the crow's nest, deep-fried cormorant protruding from the engine, yours truly standing proud and erect on the bow - speeding across the path of the ferry as hordes of slack-jawed degenerates on board took time out from romanticising their own kin to observe one's valiant but failed interception was surely a sight for the ages. An image to rank alongside raising the flag at Iwo Jima or the Execution of KWK only with more war criminals.
With little left to do but hope that landfall took place in that narrow segment of the Cumbrian coastline that does not boast either a sewage treatment facility, a nuclear power installation or an amateur marksman on the rounds, one ended up taking out one's frustrations on Jones. Bad enough that he misses a perfectly obvious incoming projectile, worse still that his Scrabble skills leave a considerable amount to be desired, hoarding as he did all the "X" tiles when one resolved to rupture the tedium by starting an impromptu game. One has sympathy indeed for the Apollo 13 astronauts who endured a similar predicament. But even they, it must be stated, never had to deal with antagonistic avian life. Unless there is something extremely serious that NASA are keeping from public knowledge. Which if it exists is probably better for all concerned.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 Serbian film-making seems to have taken a very interesting right-turn recently. If this is the standard that can be expected from Serbia, what's going to happen in A Bosnian Film? Three-thousand prostitutes get sent on a forced march naked through a nail factory before being shot in the back by their own children and buried in a mass grave outside an abbatoir that doubles for Sarajevo's finest hotel?
#2 Possibility that ETA declared ceasefire just so they could be back in the news remains likely. Little known fact that they set off a bomb in the Costa Del Sol recently but nobody noticed or gave a toss. Sort of like when a band's 10th album goes in at number three then drops out a week later.
#3 Spider disposal techniques in the United Kingdom leave a great deal to be desired.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Romulan
While masturbating, one was disturbed by the sudden realisation that there are in all probability at least fifteen different species of alien life in the Milky Way Galaxy and that they are all potentially illegal immigrants. Eternal vigilance would be required for the purposes of monitoring the Great English Channel in the Sky to guard against such unwanted incursions. The correspondence one dispatched to Charley Haughey in the hope that such a ferrivorous individual as himself would be able to rectify this urgent matter went sadly unanswered for some reason which meant that construction of one's own personal observatory would be essential if such a mammoth and esteemed undertaking was to be executed successfully.
Initial plans to procure the Hubble Space Telescope for this purpose by manually removing it from orbit were hindered by unfortunate, inherent design flaws in one's tractor beam (the rope attached to the harpoon wasn't quite long enough to reach lower Earth orbit, it transpired) and also by one's unfortunate tendency to undershoot the target somewhat (an unfortunate side-effect of many years of compulsive self-abuse has been that one's right arm is considerably larger than the other which has a deleterious effect on one's aim). One "tractored" in plenty of stray animals and the odd Jehovah's Witness but precious little in the way of multi-million dollar scientific equipment. One did manage to tractor in an old Soviet spy satellite that was in the advanced stages of orbital decay, however this turned out to be something of a phyrric victory as on its descent it took out the greenhouse where yours truly had been cultivating a new breed of venus flytrap large enough to consume homosexuals.
Undeterred, one resolved to construct the telescope oneself. Having sequestered, preserved and catalogued one's supply of used toilet rolls since 1993 for just such an emergency, one immediately set about the task using sellotape as an adhesive (A casual observation: there were an inordinately large number of rolls dating from 2001 - evidently a vintage year for one's bowels). The final version of the device measured over fifty-five feet in length and gave one the horn just thinking about it. Preliminary tests on its effectiveness were limited. While the protrusion was suitable for disrupting the landing approach of incoming aircraft to the nearby airport, it was nevertheless inadequate for the purposes of intimately observing the migratory habits of extraterrestrial species. Although if their habits are anything like what's going on in Apartment 84 in the building across the way one recommends compulsory chastity belts for all citizens. Large ones built with reinforced titanium chassis. A prototype is in the works.
Saddened by this initial failure to gather reconnaisance on incoming interstellar detritus, the situation was rescued when an informant passed a selection of Classified Intelligence Documents in the form of a DVD into yours truly's possession. Having been reliably informed that the disc contained detailed information on the immigration, migratory and mating customs of extraterrestrial species, one settled down with a packet of crisps and a recently-vanquished rodent for sustenance and slipped the disc into the player. The footage contained therein was truly shocking. It was difficult to discern initially, given the fact that some prescient individual had cleverly hidden the footage by putting twenty minutes of hardcore Dutch pornography (carpal tunnel syndrome be damned) at the start of the disc, but if the remainder of the surveillance was anything to go by apparently there exists a starship populated with various species of life that is, at this very moment, cavorting around the heavens getting up to all manner of wrongdoing. One counted numerous horrendous offences to decency and common sense; a woman working as a ship surgeon, a blind man in the engine room (!), a MUSLIM first officer (the beard's a dead giveaway), another woman apparently allowed to sit on the bridge and menstruate continuously and, disgustingly, a what appears to be an individual with a tortoise attached to his forehead as ordinance officer! Obviously a Frenchman - the immigration flow from that country was evidently worse than previously thought. It would appear that the reef constructed from newspaper and solidified sewage that one placed off the French coast as a bulwark against mass emigration had proved insufficient. One should have known that the French would probably eat through the sewage - a move in keeping with their culinary customs.
Most disturbing of all the various priceless pieces of intelligence captured on this tape, however, was the discussion between a bald gentleman and what appeared to be an albino eunuch to assassinate the head of government of the planet Romulus. Romulus. Where men are stoutly impervious to the rapacious impulses of homosexuality. Romulus. Where experimentation on live subjects is considered a pass-time worthy of respect and not twenty-five years in a cell with no functioning toilet and just Sloppy Joe for company. Romulus. Where machine-gunning cattle from one's own personal helicopter illicits a "Good morning" from the local constabulary and not a woefully one-sided dogfight with F-16s.
Obviously, this assault had to be prevented at all costs. After procuring an adequate supply of funds from an exemplary Irish financial institution (They never do ask questions, do they?) with which to purchase weapons one consulted the DART timetable to determine the next available train to Romulus. Unfortunately, due to the Irish Public Transport system's gross underfunding (the cost of keeping at least one smack addict on their buses and trains evidently eating into the budget) the trains do not run far enough to efficiently service Romulan space. So one chose the nearest, most convenient location - Raheny.
Walked off the DART into a housing estate and took up position in a tree, awaiting the arrival of any potential extraterrestrial assassins. Initial impressions of Raheny reminded one to a certain extent of one's time on a Klingon prison planet. Similar proliferation of shambling, mindless degenerates mucking about in their own filth while being offed randomly by sniper fire. After twelve fruitless hours of observation, enlightened only by the intermittent fornication of pigeons in the branches above one's perch, one was prepared to concede defeat and resume work on ghostwriting The Saturdays biography (A choice revelation uncovered during one's research is that at least one member the group was formerly a child soldier in the Revolutionary United Front) when a vehicle pulled up outside the house adjacent to yours truly's position and a bald fellow emerged. Doubtlessly the figurehead of the group captured on the surveillance footage, one immediately opened fire with an M-1 bazooka.
It was here that the dynamics of one's plan began to unravel due to the unexpectedly fierce recoil on a weapon that had, admittedly, been obtained from Limerick. Propelled out of the tree at unforgiving force, one was fortunate to have one's fall broken by landing on the carcass of a pitbull that had already been killed after being savaged in a confrontation with a local toddler. Curious fact: Ever since the banning of cock fighting the practice has been more that satisfactorily substituted in Dublin by toddler fighting. There is even the added bonus in that the children are born rabid thus curtailing the need for investment in training and stock feeding.
Recovering one's senses, one noticed that the immigrant quarry had somehow concealed itself underneath a pile of smoking debris and charred metal and that the car was now mysteriously nowhere to be found. Evidently one of these shape-shifting aliens from the surveillance footage, this one was not particularly skillful when it came to concealing itself, giving away its position by emitting a series of low moans. Fool. Moving in for the kill with a hastily-assembled debris removal kit (shovel - always keep one handy) one was about to pry the bloodied girder protruding from the centre of the debris pile loose when a sudden darkening of the sky took place. Looking up, the cause of this darkening became depressingly apparent: The immigrant's car had made an equally mysterious re-appearance.
Several hours later, having gnawed successfully through one's thigh to escape the burning wreckage, one managed to crawl inconspicuously and dignifiedly back to one's abode. Note to self: Construction of telescopes in future not advised without reinforcement of spinal column and bone structure. And additional left leg.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 French Maternity appears to have taken a rather extreme approach to ameliorating the drought of "dead baby" jokes recently. Wonder if the French courts have a sense of humour? Wait a minute, of course they do. These guys know how to take the piss.
#2 One must exercise caution in future when placing and order to "take out" some nachos. Having the number of the Mexican embassy on speed-dial is not always an advantage
Initial plans to procure the Hubble Space Telescope for this purpose by manually removing it from orbit were hindered by unfortunate, inherent design flaws in one's tractor beam (the rope attached to the harpoon wasn't quite long enough to reach lower Earth orbit, it transpired) and also by one's unfortunate tendency to undershoot the target somewhat (an unfortunate side-effect of many years of compulsive self-abuse has been that one's right arm is considerably larger than the other which has a deleterious effect on one's aim). One "tractored" in plenty of stray animals and the odd Jehovah's Witness but precious little in the way of multi-million dollar scientific equipment. One did manage to tractor in an old Soviet spy satellite that was in the advanced stages of orbital decay, however this turned out to be something of a phyrric victory as on its descent it took out the greenhouse where yours truly had been cultivating a new breed of venus flytrap large enough to consume homosexuals.
Undeterred, one resolved to construct the telescope oneself. Having sequestered, preserved and catalogued one's supply of used toilet rolls since 1993 for just such an emergency, one immediately set about the task using sellotape as an adhesive (A casual observation: there were an inordinately large number of rolls dating from 2001 - evidently a vintage year for one's bowels). The final version of the device measured over fifty-five feet in length and gave one the horn just thinking about it. Preliminary tests on its effectiveness were limited. While the protrusion was suitable for disrupting the landing approach of incoming aircraft to the nearby airport, it was nevertheless inadequate for the purposes of intimately observing the migratory habits of extraterrestrial species. Although if their habits are anything like what's going on in Apartment 84 in the building across the way one recommends compulsory chastity belts for all citizens. Large ones built with reinforced titanium chassis. A prototype is in the works.
Saddened by this initial failure to gather reconnaisance on incoming interstellar detritus, the situation was rescued when an informant passed a selection of Classified Intelligence Documents in the form of a DVD into yours truly's possession. Having been reliably informed that the disc contained detailed information on the immigration, migratory and mating customs of extraterrestrial species, one settled down with a packet of crisps and a recently-vanquished rodent for sustenance and slipped the disc into the player. The footage contained therein was truly shocking. It was difficult to discern initially, given the fact that some prescient individual had cleverly hidden the footage by putting twenty minutes of hardcore Dutch pornography (carpal tunnel syndrome be damned) at the start of the disc, but if the remainder of the surveillance was anything to go by apparently there exists a starship populated with various species of life that is, at this very moment, cavorting around the heavens getting up to all manner of wrongdoing. One counted numerous horrendous offences to decency and common sense; a woman working as a ship surgeon, a blind man in the engine room (!), a MUSLIM first officer (the beard's a dead giveaway), another woman apparently allowed to sit on the bridge and menstruate continuously and, disgustingly, a what appears to be an individual with a tortoise attached to his forehead as ordinance officer! Obviously a Frenchman - the immigration flow from that country was evidently worse than previously thought. It would appear that the reef constructed from newspaper and solidified sewage that one placed off the French coast as a bulwark against mass emigration had proved insufficient. One should have known that the French would probably eat through the sewage - a move in keeping with their culinary customs.
Most disturbing of all the various priceless pieces of intelligence captured on this tape, however, was the discussion between a bald gentleman and what appeared to be an albino eunuch to assassinate the head of government of the planet Romulus. Romulus. Where men are stoutly impervious to the rapacious impulses of homosexuality. Romulus. Where experimentation on live subjects is considered a pass-time worthy of respect and not twenty-five years in a cell with no functioning toilet and just Sloppy Joe for company. Romulus. Where machine-gunning cattle from one's own personal helicopter illicits a "Good morning" from the local constabulary and not a woefully one-sided dogfight with F-16s.
Obviously, this assault had to be prevented at all costs. After procuring an adequate supply of funds from an exemplary Irish financial institution (They never do ask questions, do they?) with which to purchase weapons one consulted the DART timetable to determine the next available train to Romulus. Unfortunately, due to the Irish Public Transport system's gross underfunding (the cost of keeping at least one smack addict on their buses and trains evidently eating into the budget) the trains do not run far enough to efficiently service Romulan space. So one chose the nearest, most convenient location - Raheny.
Walked off the DART into a housing estate and took up position in a tree, awaiting the arrival of any potential extraterrestrial assassins. Initial impressions of Raheny reminded one to a certain extent of one's time on a Klingon prison planet. Similar proliferation of shambling, mindless degenerates mucking about in their own filth while being offed randomly by sniper fire. After twelve fruitless hours of observation, enlightened only by the intermittent fornication of pigeons in the branches above one's perch, one was prepared to concede defeat and resume work on ghostwriting The Saturdays biography (A choice revelation uncovered during one's research is that at least one member the group was formerly a child soldier in the Revolutionary United Front) when a vehicle pulled up outside the house adjacent to yours truly's position and a bald fellow emerged. Doubtlessly the figurehead of the group captured on the surveillance footage, one immediately opened fire with an M-1 bazooka.
It was here that the dynamics of one's plan began to unravel due to the unexpectedly fierce recoil on a weapon that had, admittedly, been obtained from Limerick. Propelled out of the tree at unforgiving force, one was fortunate to have one's fall broken by landing on the carcass of a pitbull that had already been killed after being savaged in a confrontation with a local toddler. Curious fact: Ever since the banning of cock fighting the practice has been more that satisfactorily substituted in Dublin by toddler fighting. There is even the added bonus in that the children are born rabid thus curtailing the need for investment in training and stock feeding.
Recovering one's senses, one noticed that the immigrant quarry had somehow concealed itself underneath a pile of smoking debris and charred metal and that the car was now mysteriously nowhere to be found. Evidently one of these shape-shifting aliens from the surveillance footage, this one was not particularly skillful when it came to concealing itself, giving away its position by emitting a series of low moans. Fool. Moving in for the kill with a hastily-assembled debris removal kit (shovel - always keep one handy) one was about to pry the bloodied girder protruding from the centre of the debris pile loose when a sudden darkening of the sky took place. Looking up, the cause of this darkening became depressingly apparent: The immigrant's car had made an equally mysterious re-appearance.
Several hours later, having gnawed successfully through one's thigh to escape the burning wreckage, one managed to crawl inconspicuously and dignifiedly back to one's abode. Note to self: Construction of telescopes in future not advised without reinforcement of spinal column and bone structure. And additional left leg.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 French Maternity appears to have taken a rather extreme approach to ameliorating the drought of "dead baby" jokes recently. Wonder if the French courts have a sense of humour? Wait a minute, of course they do. These guys know how to take the piss.
#2 One must exercise caution in future when placing and order to "take out" some nachos. Having the number of the Mexican embassy on speed-dial is not always an advantage
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Hole
Awoke in the middle of the night unhappy in the realisation that there must be at least one crucifixion taking place somewhere on the planet at the moment - probably in Donaghmede - and that one was not present to witness it. Unfortunate that it should be Donaghmede as that particular part of Dublin was now difficult to access due to the electrified fence surrounding it that one had installed after a previous visit.
Decided to go for a walk to calm the nerves. After chewing through the bed restraints and taking care not to disturb the member of The Saturdays that one had installed as a guard dog (after some choice modifications, naturellement), one slipped out of the building un-noticed.
Found a hole. As they go, it wasn't a particularly impressive hole. Impressive holes being the kind left when, say, a member of The Jonas Brothers, who has been stipped naked and collared to a lamp post, has been informed that unless he digs a hole twenty feet deep in the next fifteen minutes using just his bare hands he will be set upon by starving dogs. Or the kind left when a unexploded Luftwaffe bomb that has somehow found its way into a Progressive Democrats reunion party is detonated by a minister for health being thrown on top of it. This wasn't like that. But it was okay. Some scorch marks on the crater, decorative, that sort of thing. 5/10.
Began thinking about how best to take advantage of this newly-acquired asset. One had for a while been fantasising about the possibility cross-breeding e-coli bacteria and Silvio Berlusconi with the aim of cultivating a new strain of bacteria that would actually be large enough to use public transport and govern Baltinglass in a manner befitting the town's inhabitants but one dismissed this idea due to the citizens' enormously ungrateful nature. What kind of a town turns down the opportunity to purchase 590 pints of nerve gas? What are they going to use to assault the away crowd at the next GAA encounter with Blessington? Their spit? Its corrosive abilities are beyond debate, certainly, but surely a certain degree of class is called for here.
On reflection, one realised that the hole was not quite big enough to function as a petri dish (leaving aside the fact that using an eyedropper to administer an entire human being into a petri dish presents all sorts of logistical problems the kind of which, frankly, you wouldn't believe) so decided instead to use the hole as a hiding place for deposed dictators. Hastily kitted it out with the essentials; a hole in the wall large enough to accommodate a moderately-sized penis (have to take Milosevic into consideration), a couple of hinges and a wooden hatch for egress, plus, the coup de grace, a rudimentary automatic anus cleansing system (patent pending) constructed using a toothbrush and a jackhammer. The triggering system is ingenious. One simply applies pressure to a footswitch which increases the tension on a string tied to the trigger of the jackhammer. Tested this on a subject last week. Unfortunately the test was carried out in less than ideal conditions. For a start the footswitch, in reality an accellerator pedal, was still partially attached to its point of origin; a Ford Focus stripped of everything above the undercarriage, which meant that the test was performed in motion at high speed. What was doubly unfortunate was that the car's engine was also powering the jackhammer giving it a thrust capacity of 120 horsepower. As the speed of the test vehicle increased and the number of cars on the motorway swerving to get out of its way increased, one eventually lost sight of the test subject as it sped over the horizon at an impressive velocity and one had to rely on radio communications for verification of the test's success. However this was not a total loss. Between the test subject's high-pitched screams, it indicated that this means of cleansing was preferable to the previous system - wire brushing and Dettol.
Posted the ad on Gumtree, Ebay, Buy&Sell
For Rent: One Crawlspace
Ideal for political refugees or fugitive inmates. Must have be mentioned on Wikipedia entry for "Ethnic cleansing"
088-171-1992. Call after midnight only. A.
Received a call soon afterwards from a fellow purporting to be a former dictator of a Latin American country (couldn't remember the name - didn't really care) who was interested in renting the hole for a short period of time. To verify his credentials asked him what's the best use for a football stadium. The correct answer, as anyone knows, is "for executing socialists and adulterers". He answered correctly. Credentials thus established, decided to show him the property. Unfortunately, upon seeing him for the first time, a previously-unforseen difficulty reared its head; one had not taken the potential expansive girth of third world dictators into account when modifying the hole. It would have to be expanded.
Filled the area with some semtex (the Real IRA now perform an on-line delivery service - at last they have joined the 21st Century), lit the fuse and took cover. The resultant blast took out a police helicopter that had thoughtlessly strayed within striking distance. While the semtex performed admirably an unfortunate side-effect manifested itself. The hole was now far too big. Would have to be filled in to reach an appropriate size. To better aid one's task, decided to request that the client stand in the centre of the hole to better guage the dimensions required. Surprisingly the fellow was now for some reason on all fours scuttling slowly around searching for something that turned out to be his left leg which had somehow, mysteriously, detached itself from his knee and imbedded itself in a lamp-post. An unconstructive and, it has to be said, blantantly unprofessional activity to undertake while in the middle of securing a real estate deal. Motioned him in the direction of the hole which, given that he was now also blind for some reason, was depressingly easy. As he scuttered about the floor of the hole wailing in some intensely irritating foreign cadence, one decided to make use of the opportunity to resume one's stress test experiments on human skin - by poking it repeatedly. Obtained the Poking Device (curtain rail) from the garage and commenced poking operations. Research had proceeded two unfruitful minutes when the experiment was sadly cut short by the sudden and thoroughly unexpected reappearance of the Anus Cleansing Device test subject, vehicle and all, which sped up on one from behind and knocked one at painfully-high speeds into the hole before racing off, apparently oblivious to what had happened. Tracked its speed now at in excess of 100mph which must have meant some serious amount of power being fed into the jackhammer.
Sat on the floor of the hole, contemplating recent events, client scuttling blindly, moaning nearby. Fortune had at least seen fit to grace one with the Poking Device that had been knocked into the hole along with its owner. Happily this meant that, while one contemplated a means of escape from this predicament, one could at least occupy the time with continued poking experiments on the client/test subject. Recommenced poking operations at the rate of one poke every two seconds. Will time tell? Or will life find a way? One must keep poking to find out.
Thoughts for the day
#1 If you stare at a rock for long enough, it will never move.
#2 Have been attempting to ignore Wales in the hope that it will cease to exist if one forgets about it for long enough. Checked the atlas and it was still there. Further work required.
#3 Attempting to build Cloud City a waste of time until artificial gravity is invented. One won't be making that mistake again...
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Mechanised Christ
Mechanised Christ
Recent breakthroughs in the creation and laboratorial cultivation of synthetic life have resulted in the opportunity to realise one of yours truly's most cherished and consuming ambitions: the creation of a mechanised version of Christ. The possible applications for such a construct are endless. Could be used, with varying degrees of success, as -
- a mediator in religious conflicts across the planet
- a means of Stalinising the Vatican by deposing the incumbent ruler and purging the rank and file of the bourgeoisie (resultant population: 2 - Mechanised Christ plus the individual who cleans the stained glass window in St. Peter's Bascilica)
- a potentially lucrative "Moving Statues" phenomenon
Original plan was to insert stands of recombinant articifical DNA into Cliff Richard however this was prevented from coming to fruition as the fool had the temerity to ascend into Heaven just as one has surmounted the electronic fences of the holding area where he is traditionally maintained by his benefactors. It does admittedly seem strange to incarcerate an adult human in a 5x5 metal cage with a cardboard box for a toilet but one supposes it's all for the best. Apparently, the fellow is a homosexual so one can never be too carfeul. Mr. Portillo surely knows what he is doing.
Venter Corporation were sadly unforthcoming with the specifics of their discovery. Allied to the fact that paucity of funds means that one's genetics laboratory doubles for one's cistern this meant that a certain degree of scaling back on the original paradigm was necessary. So one completed the project by grafting the figurehead of a recently recovered Spanish galleon, substituting its head for a likeness of Christ, on to a Segway. The breasts were particularly impressive.
With the prototype now in operation one immediately utilised the device for the endeavour for which it was undoubtedly best suited: ram-raiding garage shops. The plan involved positioning the apparatus at the far end of the forecourt just out of sight of the garage attendant, mounting the device inconspicuously, revving the engine to maximum before setting off at top speed and using the head as a battering ram to undermine the structural integrity of the wall. (See Fig. 1 below)
Plan was flawless but for a small number of unforseen factors -
1) The comparatively slow maximum of speed of a Segway which, it transpires, renders generating sufficient momentum to blast open a concrete wall or shatter double-paned glass difficult. The result is ultimately that one does not thrust ones way into a shop through a haze of asbestos and concrete dust surrounded by screaming hordes of terrified customers so much as merely meekly caress the outer wall, giving one the chance to admire the quite lovely Edwardian brickwork and, after a few "thuds", annoy the attendant to the extent that he has to look up from his pornography magazine to see what that strange, insistent knocking sound is.
2) The fact that, given these petrol stations were in Dolphin's Barn, many of the customers and staff were, dispiritingly, equipped with small arms ranging from Beretta pistols to Uzi sub-machine guns. Which made making off with the cash and Maltesers tricky.
3) The figurehead of the device weighed considerably more than the rest of it, leading to a rather dangerous imbalance which could only be compensated for by attaching the carcass of a cow that had foolishly wandered into the path of one's shotgun fire yesterday to the rear of the Segway as a counterweight, further inhibiting the already disappoinging maximum speed.
Initial attempts to requisition valuables typically found in garage shops (cash, petrol, condoms, Mars bars) thus proving ineffective, decided to regroup and reconsider strategy. It was at this juncture however that the most salient problem phallically reared its head. While one was considering whether or not the addition of a pellet gun to the cleavage of the figurehead on the device would prove a tactically worthwhile augmentation, the device started of its own accord and took off down the motorway at an impressive speed. All the more impressive when one considers that the cow was still attached to the rear and was now bouncing all over the road like a cat after being dropped repeatedly on an electrified rail. For no other reason than to observe the results of what could potentially be a lucrative experiment, one donned one's cape and duly gave chase.
Tracking down one's quarry initally proved difficult due to its headstart and due to the fact that the makeshift radar that one had concocted did little more than bleep intermittently (and cause one individual's pacemaker to fail - further research required). However the sudden appearance of screams and machine gun fire alerted one to the development that Mecha Christ had taken a sharp left off the motorway and into a pre-school. Fortunately, this particular school was in the process of being assaulted by Basque Separatists (who were taking heavy casualties) so the appearance of Mecha Christ went relatively un-noticed.
Two hours later one's pursuit had yet to yield any satisfactory results. Mecha Christ had now made unscheduled and thoroughly unwelcome appearances in a retirement home, a synagogue (that was funny, actually), a fireworks factory, a Samaritans call centre and a courtroom with its path of destruction now taking it out of the city and into the wastelands infested with subhuman mutants actively perusing their own excrement for portions of sustenance (collectively known as Kildare) beyond. The distance to the target was now too great. One was beginning to regret one's decision to periodically break off pursuit every thirty-five minutes to masturbate.
Studying the historical documentation on how this crisis was resolved last time, one pieced together a rudimentary nailgun using a Cornflakes packet and an elastic band and procured a crucifix from the nearest church. Needed to be sure of the effectiveness of any potential solution so decided to test it first. Volunteers proved difficult to secure as many for some reason were not open to the possibility of having a six inch nail fired through the palm of their hand (although an Indonesian fellow showed some interest before being deported). With volunteers in short supply, one turned to the most obvious solution and decided to use salmon as test subjects for crucifiction. Who proved thoroughly unsuitable. As soon as you grab hold of one it begins squirming, you need to strike its head repeatedly off a nearby statue in order to subdue it, then quickly fire the nail in through the tail before it regains consciousness and attempts to subdue its captor with conversation. One really should have used beetles for such an experiment only their tendency to disintegrate once a six-inch nail is fired into their thorax (established in a previous experiment) is unfortunate.
There was no alternative - one would have to test the solution on oneself. Which proved tricky. Seventeen consecutive attempts (with breaks for tea and masturbation between them) yielded only two definite conclusions: one's hands and feet hurt badly and, try as one might, there is simply no way to hammer in the final nail by oneself. Decided at any rate that this would have to do.
One staked out a spot of motorway, erected the cross and made with the nailgunning. Three hours later one was just about ready to give up hope when a blur of dust on the horizon betrayed the appearance of one's renegade creation. One pushed oneself up on one's feet - proud, erect and aroused - and braced for the impact which would, if the sight of the crucifix alone was not enough to terrify Mecha Christ to death, no doubt detonate the fifteen pounds of semtext one had thoughtfully deposited in the left breast. As it grew closer, imagine one's despair at the realisation that the approaching object was not in fact Mecha Christ but rather a flying wheelbarrow propelled by what appeared to be a Katyusha rocket launcher. Now, who on Earth would consider using a wheelbarrow as a weapon and do something stupid like firing it, one pondered seconds before impact.
Stumbled back home several hours later having sewed back on one's favourite appendage. One wasn't too worried about the missing arms and legs - they've grown back before; they'll grow back again. All told, today's experiments could only be considered a qualified success. Tomorrow one plans to develop a tracking system that will hopefully pinpoint Mecha Christ's movements over the coming weeks. If for no other reason than the fact that it should be amusing to see what it gets up to when it reaches Maynooth Seminary or what happens when it goes down a flight of stairs. The information will also prove useful for intelligence purposes when one constructs a satisfactory countermeasure. Read on a way home a note that said "Christ has risen. Christ will come again."
Not after he encounters Mecha Mohammed, he won't.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Video
Reviewing one's extensive and astonishingly comprehensive collection of Lindsay Lohan surveillance cassettes last week (The story of how yours truly managed to install a camera in her toilet is indeed one for the grandchildren) prompted the question as to why one has never attempted to make feature presentation before. The necessary skills are evidently in abundance if the footage already captured is anything to go by. Witness how, at time index 18:25:03 of tape #61, the subject appears to reach for the toilet roll only to pause and intensely stare at several cracks in the adjacent wall before darting her head from side to side as if under the impression that what she was doing was being watched, recorded and played back incessantly in a building many miles away, in a darkened room illuminated by a single red light, insulated from external surveillance due to tinfoil covered walls and with a six day-old bowl of Lidl cornflakes nestled between copies of Five Go Mad In Brixton and the Weekly Standard providing atmosphere. Watch how she wipes. Wipes. Wipes. All in utter terror. The moment is positively Spielbergian.
Inspired by the sudden realisation that one is a cinematic genius on par with Renoir, Hitchcock and, indeed, Lucas, one immediately began compiling ideas for a plot. Basic ground rules were first to be established -
After attempts at a first draft failed due to the incessant interruptions arising as a consequence of keeping the individual sequestered in the adjacent room sedated (Sedative: Sledgehammer - Ran out of morphine after one accidentally amputated one's foot last week. Managed to re-attach it but the gangrene is proving tiresome) decided to film in homage to Fellini by going all Cinema Verité and simply followed random individuals with a camera for a few days. This being Dublin one happened across twelve muggings, at least three instances of mothers selling their children for smack, a burning Ford Fiesta, a tripwire at the top of a flight of stairs (forgot about that one - never gets old) and no less than five separate cases of voluntary incest. School discipline has waned somewhat since 1987.
Soundtrack proved a problem. Experiments with homemade instruments did not turn out as successfully as planned so had to go with the backup plan: Stuck a microphone outside an abbatoir for five hours and interspered the sounds liberally with recordings of Julia Roberts' ample and impressive flatulence (a very gracious and willing volunteer for surveillance - a certain Ms. Lohan could stand to learn a thing or two!).
Posted the results on YouTube and mailed a copy to Joel Silver. Thought nothing more of it until an email was received a couple of days afterwards while watching compilation footage of losing racehorses being shot. Apparently, a group of thoroughly nice young men from the Middle East had seen the work and insisted upon a collaboration being as they were in need of a director. The weather forecast for Khandahar Province was optimistic so set out without delay. After a vigorous and considerate body cavity search, one left the airport chapel and boarded the aircraft which was, as expected, shot down by a well-aimed surface-to-air missile a short distance from Bagram Airbase. Thoughtfully, one had remembered to steal the emergency parachute from the person in the seat in front and was fortunate to land gracefully on a Afghan schoolchild. Normally this would be cause for concern but fortunately she was already dead as a result of the curious local custom of throwing acid in schoolgirl's faces. Made a note and moved on.
One was struck by the abominably poor quality of the roads in this part of Afghanistan. Perhaps it would have been an idea to cut back on the amount of roadside bombs for a start. One is as fond of an improvised explosive hidden on a motorway as the next person but there's a time and a place and outside a sex shop is not one of them. Does nothing for the tourist trade.
A couple of observations about the state of the ongoing military activity in the region:
One - American missile targeting systems are now so sophisticated and accurate that from a distance of three hundred miles they can direct their missiles to the exact centre of a large red cross.
Two - they could very well win the war in a matter of days if only they would devote a few minutes to reprioritising their targets. Unless it's being held in Dundalk, a wedding party is unlikely to prove as significant a strategic target as an ammunition dump. Even if it is funny watching the bride trying to fire an RPG7 for the first time at an unmanned drone.
Three - the Afghans could win the war in a matter of minutes if they threaten to burn the poppy fields. The population of Carrick-on-Suir alone would be driven to such insurrectionary frenzy that it would start cannibalising the residents of Kilkenny to the extent that the Irish government would threaten to suicide bomb the United States unless the war was called off. Suprised they've not thought of that sooner.
Met delightful young chap not far from the Pakistani border who escorted yours truly to the set. Heart sank. What illumination there was was provided by corpses that had come into unfortunately close contact with white phosphorous. This would prove to be a test. However it was at this point that the machinations of studio interference became most gruellingly apparent. It transpired that one did not have a choice of filming location. One was told that the camera was to remain static and face towards the wall of a room within the basement of a local structure. With no set decorator in evidence, one proceeded to spruce up the wall with a few choice quotes from one's favourite lyricists - Roger Waters, Sting and Mutya Buena. However, this would prove again to be the source of dashed artistic dreams. The wall, it was insisted, was not to be bare but would instead bear a flag of one's host's design. A garish, green thing that, if the indecipherable white streaks slashing across the middle of it were anything to go by, had evidently been pissed on by an albino yak. Why can't these cretins just write in plain, understandable English? What on Earth were they thinking?
Nevertheless, professionalism must triumph so one swallowed one's pride and coralled the cast and crew together to establish the basic structure of the piece. Any good director knows that storyboarding is essential to a convincing visual aesthetic so to establish confidence and calm any nerves one decided to show the cast the storyboards of the most crucial scene in the script - a lightsabre duel where the Prophet Mohammed vanquishes Christ in the city of Sodom. The lovingly illustrated bare thighs of both combatants were a particular source of pride.
This did not go down well. After spending three days in captivity in a room 2x5 wide with nothing but a bipolar rat for company (went by the name of George. Lovely chap when he was on the manic upswing. Ate him before he could enter the depressive phase. Only seemed fair) and after the stitches from one's eyes were removed the cast informed one of a previously unknown caveat. It was difficult to discern from their feral, unintelligible jabbering but apparently there are some problems that some members of their religion have with any attempt to visually depict the Prophet and that indeed any image of said individual is considered forbidden. Which makes no sense whatsoever. What about when he needs to have his photo taken before getting onto a plane or when he's being racially profiled? What's he going to do then? Offer them a virgin and hope the pilot's not a Jew? Ridiculous!
Quickly set back to work. Handed out copies of the screenplay to the assembled cast. Many of them took objection to the fornication scenes on page 12 but one or two were positively overjoyed with what happens on page 14, provided that a vacuum cleaner, two litres of bleach and horse that doesn't have rabies could all be found. Crushingly, one's vision was again compromised as what one assumes was the male lead insisted that one's magnificent, self-penned screenplay was not to be used. Instead, after insisting that one start filming, he stood in the frame reading lines from a piece of paper while his comerades, who for some obscure reason had now concealed their faces in black towels, lined up behind him. Evidently this was some one-act play they had devised themselves. Perhaps with a view to the Best Short Academy Award. The nerve of it all.
It was at that point that a door opened and one or two burly companions of theirs brought in some obscure indivudal wearing a black hood over his face. Rather impolite chap too. Incapable of making anything but indistinct muffling noises whenever pressed on an issue. Evidently a resident of Youghal, accustomed to communicating only in low, guttural grunts and who nudges one's hand when wishing to attract attention. Imagine one's shock when one learned that this individual, this non-entity from the anus of Ireland, was to be the lead. This proved to be the final straw as one announced to one's collaborators that production was shutting down. There then resulted much more jabbering in their impenetrable, deeply irritating bark that passes for language, which one finally, after much effort, understood to mean that they were not happy at this turn of events. One had anticipated difficulties of this sort but was not prepared for conducting negotiations at the business end of an AK-47 Kalashnikov. The situation was only rescued when one produced a video cassette from one's personal collection which featured an image of the excreta on the aforementioned Ms. Lohan's used toilet cleanser that, when viewed from a certain angle, appeared to depict the Prophet in profile. Sufficiently enraged by this turn of events, the cast and crew took off in their vehicles, charging towards the border. Hadn't the heart to tell them that one had paid off the Halo Trust on an earlier visit and that the roads were now bristling with landmines.
One soon departed the vicinity although was kind enough to point the, rather confused, lead actor in the direction of the nearest human settlement. Why he insisted on staggering off with his hood still on his head and why he refused to chew his way of out his binds is a question that may never be answered.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 Lucrative business opportunities exist for a vigilante police force that counts Ken Dodd, a football mascot and Jackie Healy-Rae among its members.
#2 Why would Greece and Turkey want to fight over somewhere like Cyprus? It seems like the kind of place a country would stick one's inbreds so nobody would notice what the general population like to do as a pastime.
Inspired by the sudden realisation that one is a cinematic genius on par with Renoir, Hitchcock and, indeed, Lucas, one immediately began compiling ideas for a plot. Basic ground rules were first to be established -
- Artistic purity must prevail. This will be a work unsullied by the vulgar commercial concerns of mainstream cinema
- Must feature an autonomous rock
After attempts at a first draft failed due to the incessant interruptions arising as a consequence of keeping the individual sequestered in the adjacent room sedated (Sedative: Sledgehammer - Ran out of morphine after one accidentally amputated one's foot last week. Managed to re-attach it but the gangrene is proving tiresome) decided to film in homage to Fellini by going all Cinema Verité and simply followed random individuals with a camera for a few days. This being Dublin one happened across twelve muggings, at least three instances of mothers selling their children for smack, a burning Ford Fiesta, a tripwire at the top of a flight of stairs (forgot about that one - never gets old) and no less than five separate cases of voluntary incest. School discipline has waned somewhat since 1987.
Soundtrack proved a problem. Experiments with homemade instruments did not turn out as successfully as planned so had to go with the backup plan: Stuck a microphone outside an abbatoir for five hours and interspered the sounds liberally with recordings of Julia Roberts' ample and impressive flatulence (a very gracious and willing volunteer for surveillance - a certain Ms. Lohan could stand to learn a thing or two!).
Posted the results on YouTube and mailed a copy to Joel Silver. Thought nothing more of it until an email was received a couple of days afterwards while watching compilation footage of losing racehorses being shot. Apparently, a group of thoroughly nice young men from the Middle East had seen the work and insisted upon a collaboration being as they were in need of a director. The weather forecast for Khandahar Province was optimistic so set out without delay. After a vigorous and considerate body cavity search, one left the airport chapel and boarded the aircraft which was, as expected, shot down by a well-aimed surface-to-air missile a short distance from Bagram Airbase. Thoughtfully, one had remembered to steal the emergency parachute from the person in the seat in front and was fortunate to land gracefully on a Afghan schoolchild. Normally this would be cause for concern but fortunately she was already dead as a result of the curious local custom of throwing acid in schoolgirl's faces. Made a note and moved on.
One was struck by the abominably poor quality of the roads in this part of Afghanistan. Perhaps it would have been an idea to cut back on the amount of roadside bombs for a start. One is as fond of an improvised explosive hidden on a motorway as the next person but there's a time and a place and outside a sex shop is not one of them. Does nothing for the tourist trade.
A couple of observations about the state of the ongoing military activity in the region:
One - American missile targeting systems are now so sophisticated and accurate that from a distance of three hundred miles they can direct their missiles to the exact centre of a large red cross.
Two - they could very well win the war in a matter of days if only they would devote a few minutes to reprioritising their targets. Unless it's being held in Dundalk, a wedding party is unlikely to prove as significant a strategic target as an ammunition dump. Even if it is funny watching the bride trying to fire an RPG7 for the first time at an unmanned drone.
Three - the Afghans could win the war in a matter of minutes if they threaten to burn the poppy fields. The population of Carrick-on-Suir alone would be driven to such insurrectionary frenzy that it would start cannibalising the residents of Kilkenny to the extent that the Irish government would threaten to suicide bomb the United States unless the war was called off. Suprised they've not thought of that sooner.
Met delightful young chap not far from the Pakistani border who escorted yours truly to the set. Heart sank. What illumination there was was provided by corpses that had come into unfortunately close contact with white phosphorous. This would prove to be a test. However it was at this point that the machinations of studio interference became most gruellingly apparent. It transpired that one did not have a choice of filming location. One was told that the camera was to remain static and face towards the wall of a room within the basement of a local structure. With no set decorator in evidence, one proceeded to spruce up the wall with a few choice quotes from one's favourite lyricists - Roger Waters, Sting and Mutya Buena. However, this would prove again to be the source of dashed artistic dreams. The wall, it was insisted, was not to be bare but would instead bear a flag of one's host's design. A garish, green thing that, if the indecipherable white streaks slashing across the middle of it were anything to go by, had evidently been pissed on by an albino yak. Why can't these cretins just write in plain, understandable English? What on Earth were they thinking?
Nevertheless, professionalism must triumph so one swallowed one's pride and coralled the cast and crew together to establish the basic structure of the piece. Any good director knows that storyboarding is essential to a convincing visual aesthetic so to establish confidence and calm any nerves one decided to show the cast the storyboards of the most crucial scene in the script - a lightsabre duel where the Prophet Mohammed vanquishes Christ in the city of Sodom. The lovingly illustrated bare thighs of both combatants were a particular source of pride.
This did not go down well. After spending three days in captivity in a room 2x5 wide with nothing but a bipolar rat for company (went by the name of George. Lovely chap when he was on the manic upswing. Ate him before he could enter the depressive phase. Only seemed fair) and after the stitches from one's eyes were removed the cast informed one of a previously unknown caveat. It was difficult to discern from their feral, unintelligible jabbering but apparently there are some problems that some members of their religion have with any attempt to visually depict the Prophet and that indeed any image of said individual is considered forbidden. Which makes no sense whatsoever. What about when he needs to have his photo taken before getting onto a plane or when he's being racially profiled? What's he going to do then? Offer them a virgin and hope the pilot's not a Jew? Ridiculous!
Quickly set back to work. Handed out copies of the screenplay to the assembled cast. Many of them took objection to the fornication scenes on page 12 but one or two were positively overjoyed with what happens on page 14, provided that a vacuum cleaner, two litres of bleach and horse that doesn't have rabies could all be found. Crushingly, one's vision was again compromised as what one assumes was the male lead insisted that one's magnificent, self-penned screenplay was not to be used. Instead, after insisting that one start filming, he stood in the frame reading lines from a piece of paper while his comerades, who for some obscure reason had now concealed their faces in black towels, lined up behind him. Evidently this was some one-act play they had devised themselves. Perhaps with a view to the Best Short Academy Award. The nerve of it all.
It was at that point that a door opened and one or two burly companions of theirs brought in some obscure indivudal wearing a black hood over his face. Rather impolite chap too. Incapable of making anything but indistinct muffling noises whenever pressed on an issue. Evidently a resident of Youghal, accustomed to communicating only in low, guttural grunts and who nudges one's hand when wishing to attract attention. Imagine one's shock when one learned that this individual, this non-entity from the anus of Ireland, was to be the lead. This proved to be the final straw as one announced to one's collaborators that production was shutting down. There then resulted much more jabbering in their impenetrable, deeply irritating bark that passes for language, which one finally, after much effort, understood to mean that they were not happy at this turn of events. One had anticipated difficulties of this sort but was not prepared for conducting negotiations at the business end of an AK-47 Kalashnikov. The situation was only rescued when one produced a video cassette from one's personal collection which featured an image of the excreta on the aforementioned Ms. Lohan's used toilet cleanser that, when viewed from a certain angle, appeared to depict the Prophet in profile. Sufficiently enraged by this turn of events, the cast and crew took off in their vehicles, charging towards the border. Hadn't the heart to tell them that one had paid off the Halo Trust on an earlier visit and that the roads were now bristling with landmines.
One soon departed the vicinity although was kind enough to point the, rather confused, lead actor in the direction of the nearest human settlement. Why he insisted on staggering off with his hood still on his head and why he refused to chew his way of out his binds is a question that may never be answered.
Thoughts for the day:
#1 Lucrative business opportunities exist for a vigilante police force that counts Ken Dodd, a football mascot and Jackie Healy-Rae among its members.
#2 Why would Greece and Turkey want to fight over somewhere like Cyprus? It seems like the kind of place a country would stick one's inbreds so nobody would notice what the general population like to do as a pastime.
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