Up Sticks

In the West Wing episode called Shibboleth, the word shibboleth is introduced by the president, explained by the president, and spoken at the president by a man who's been dragged from a river of screaming cheese into the big office, so they can check whether he's the type of man who'd know about and be able to pronounce the word shibboleth, and therefore be worthy of receiving help, by hearing him almost not say it, but then, after a kind of bollock-churningly inevitable hesitation, say it. Rumour has it this episode was written by a man being hassled into agony on deadline day by the chuckling ghost of his English teacher. And your trust in the until-then much-better-than-good-enough quality of the writing is replaced by a worry, with fifteen and a half more seasons to go, that the whole thing might end in a gutter of songs and hugs and star-spangled handshakes. But it improves.

First I'd Heard

There's a new cash machine in the neighbourhood and it doesn't charge one ninety nine. It doesn't charge anything at all. It made the news, obviously, and in the queue we lamented all the one ninety nines we've slaughtered in the name of cider binges and new crisp flavours and emergency unnecessaries. Who did we think we were? Who did they think we were? Who did anyone think anyone was? A feeling of relief slithered round the postcode and the mayor stood by the machine for an hour at dusk to wink at people and pat them between the shoulder blades and say petitions work, petitions fucking work, and we all smiled and punched him on the shoulder and wept.

The Monster Traverse

I'm emailing farmers. For September. I speak Google. I will perform tasks and my reward will be slow Frenchification plus knowledge of self-sufficiency. These are the reasons I gave the agency when they asked why do you want to do this, why, come on, why, really. I missed out "not wanting to go back to a country now ruled by chubby blue scum", because it's partially my fault that that scum has risen (sorry), because I didn't immediately register a proxy when the polling card arrived, because I was busy doing fuck all, then when I was away and trying to phone-register they always had a problem with the computer, or it was the wrong hour or day, and now we've got five years.
Across the street is a carousel of withered white horses with no one on them, and that carousel tune [Who gets the royalties?] is playing. It really symbolises something. Besides the death of the things-spinning-round industry. What happens to carousel attendance during a recession? [It goes round and round?] (A lot of brackets are happening today, to stop the words blowing away in the wind)...(...if words could blow away in the wind, which ones would you find in the gutter?) [Well maybe there'd just be a jumble of letters becoming mush or being swept into piles and burned] (This is an old idea) [Is it though?] (Yes) [Yeah I agree] (It's probably in The Phantom Tollbooth anyway) [I could imagine so. That's a good book] (I agree) [Good] (Great) [Right] (Well then) [On with the story] (There isn't one) [Something about politics and carousels?] (It was waffle) [I'm sure I saw a thread and the start of an analogy] (Really?) [Well they were far away...it was hard to tell] (Pigeons are spitfires from the right distance and angle) [Bollocks] (You know what I mean) [Likewise] (Touché) [Is that French?] (Think so) [A new story then] (Alright. Last night I climbed up a rock and there was an amazing view and nobody died. The end) [That it?] (Yeah. What more do you want?) [Romance] (I licked the rock on the way up) [And mild peril] (My knee bled) [Moral dilemmas] (I had biscuits but didn't offer them round, knowing that there wouldn't be enough for everyone) [That's not a dilemma] (I try) [I can see] (The end) [Good] (Thanks for nothing) [Have you got any others?] (They're in bits) [What's the last line you wrote?] (I am peeved) [Nobody says that] (Well it amused me) [Well it's shit] (That's mean) [That's me]

Clusterbobbins 2010

28 days left in the race between doddering old ghoul and young blue menace. A reset button is begging to be pressed. I'll be away on the big day. I'm going to sell my vote and put the money on the greens getting at least one seat.
The papers are full of what might happen, what might happen if what could happen happens, what happens if what is happening continues to happen, and what happened in the past when what might've happened did happen, though a lot of people said it wouldn't, while fearing that it would. There isn't a lot of news.
Apparently the voting cards will have just two boxes: one for wrist deep and one for up to the elbow. The man on the last train home told me so. I called him a cynic. He said sinner mate, sinner. Fair enough. Yes, he said, and another thing you young shiny bollock: I used to have liquid light for brains, but in order not to dazzle people I had a dimmer switch installed, and now the knob's popped off and to buy another one I only need an extra 20p, have you got 20p?