Dear readers,

If there are still readers, that is. It is fair to say I have neglected this blog quite awfully over the last year. That said, I have made a conscious effort to publish at least one entry per week, probably on a Monday from now on. Thank you to all those who have expressed or still express an interest in what I write. It means a lot. With the amount of traffic the blog seems to get I am hoping many of you are more than just one offs. I should say that posts from now on will have more of a news aspect to them, but I will strive to stay as bitter and ignorant as I have been. As far as a target audience, I have no idea if I have a majority from the UK or the US, so I shall attempt to produce material that is relevant to all. In the meanwhile, I am sure I shall update my new found twitter account much more regularly so follow me on there is you like to experience the stalker touch.
Thank you for wasting your pointless time.

The beginning of the end for the cult of scientology?

It began to gain some serious weight when Tom Cruise jumped onto the novelty religion bandwagon. Scientology would not have the publicity and popularity it currently boasts if Cruise had chosen crystal healing to ease the guilt celebrity status and disgusting amounts of money seem to bring. Scientology gave him a chance to throw his money at a place where he can pretend it does him good, but where it actually disappears into the abyss of the bizarre celebrity religious expense account. And as it gains support and regular income from a long list of celebrities, so it gains recognition and the support of a wider section of the general public. Or so it hopes.
Today it was announced that Paul Haggis, the writer of Oscar-winning dramas Crash and Million Dollar Baby, has turned his back on Scientology following their support of controversial legislation that bans gay marriage in California. It is no weird thing to see fickle celebrities running to and from religions and sects, but the peculiar thing about his leaving is the way he employed language as he publicly shunned what has become the most popular sci fi concept of all time.
His statement said he ‘resigned’ from Scientology, seen by many as a cult. Now, I have not had an active interest or involvement in any religion beyond that of attending the odd Sunday session at the local church, but I know that usually it isn’t something that requires a resignation when you become sick of the boring old bloke in the dress. Scientology may employ less dresses and more glam, but does it really require a resignation? Surely religion isn’t so much of a chore that it can be used to add the tedium of real work to the lives of those who haven’t had it for a while? Maybe it’s the super lie-detecting act of ‘auditing’ applied that makes it something to bear? Or, even better, the introductory act of a ‘Purification Rundown’, consisting of light exercise, saunas and the injections of speculatively high levels of niacin.
Could this be the celebrity condemnation that starts a wave of quitters from this extremist celebrity health spa? With rumours that John Travolta is considering leaving after the death of his son earlier this year, the ‘resignation’ of Haggis could stir the Scientology camp into a state of panic, at least it should do. One by one its celebrity endorsers are discovering the dirty side of Scientology, which once threatened to become almost credible for the level of support it had. Now it is finally being seen for the politically-driven, bigoted cult that it is, and at a time when it could’ve gone either way.
Paul Haggis, may you be the first of the many disillusioned to pull back the veil and take in the cruel air of reality.

The appearance of the British National Party on Question Time was an act of suicide for Nick Griffin

It is no surprise that BNP leader Nick Griffin receiving an invitation to appear on Question Time has caused so much controversy and hate to be thrust at the BBC. Here we have the leader of the UK's leading fascist party being given truly invaluable airtime in which to preach his message and gain a new type of follower: the non extremist nationalist. Unfortunately for the man, he managed to make so much of an arse out of himself that this seemingly facile task turned full circle. Now it seems Mr Griffin is fighting to hold onto his own party. The word is that the party don't like the way their leader reinforced the widely held beliefs that they're no more than a bunch of paki-hating, nigger-lynching anti-semites.
And all this is the truth, but the truth wasn't the point of their appearance. He was meant to blame a disassociated white middle class for the country's recession, joblessness and immigrations in order to clinch the dumb fuck working class vote. This was a serious misjudging of Question Time's key demographic. It is watched by students and that 'disassociated' white middle class who were the target of this publicity stunt. If he had been able to open his mouth for one second without putting his foot into it, he would have further fucked himself by condemning the only people who have any interest in a current affairs debate-based television programme. Something tells me that the BNP need better researchers, maybe someone who isn't so absorbed in their own 'positive racist action' to recognise audience shares for their public appearance call for a different tactic.
Now Nick Griffin managed to shoot himself in both feet so he couldn't run from his own cranial cumshot as soon as it came time to confront the bombardment of his party's fascist policy. First shot was the ever popular, "my dad's better than your dad" approach aimed towards Jack Straw, the Minister of Defence, a man with a little more of a head on his shoulder. If Griffin hadn't shot himself, I'm sure Straw could have released his own culling blow to the back of Griffin's fat fucking neck. The second shot, this one to the right foot, came with the line "I can't explain why I said the holocaust was fabricated right now". If you can't explain why you said something as controversial as sticking your dick in a ten-foot shark tank filled with a hungry, cramped Great White then you need lobotomising. In fact, you deserve the impending slaughter that will come your way.
The shot of backed up spunk to the temple of this ball of questionable shit was without doubt shot at the moment the line, " Nowadays, the Klu Klux Klan are an almost entirely non-violent organisation" left his rotten little lips. Now, when sitting next to an African American playwright who is well educated in black history this one line is enough to stop you breathing permanently. Bonnie Greer could have easily rung this piggy's neck, but didn't for some reason. I can only assume she saw just how good a job he was doing himself.
So with the potential sacking of the man who has caused much anger throughout the United Kingdom, I have some posthumous words of advice for the next man who fancies this highly sniped job.
1. Pay your researchers with more than 'white pride'. You may be able to appear in National television with an idea of who you are trying to appeal to
2. Pretend you are really looking out for the greater good, not just the preservation of a pure skin tone.
3. Keep your extremist policy to yourself until you have the majority vote. This worked for old Adolf, so take a leaf out of the king of fascism's book and do it youself.
and finally, the most important part of your positive self image promotion:

Don't employ a gang of ex- National Front skinheads as your security team. Not only does this make you look like you're trawling the streets looking for trouble every time you get snapped on the streets, but it makes people really doubt your intelligence and motives. For an organisation that tries to convince people it has nothing to do with the pro-racism skinhead movement of the 80s, you appear to employ a hell of a lot of 'em.

fuck off

If you're reading this, I dislike you and what you stand for.
That may be taking things a little far, but you must realise by now that your opinion doesn't matter to anyone, apart from yourself and whatever flock you have following suit. Knowing most people who read this sort of crap you are a fat bastard with no sensible outlook on life. You're the kind of person who trolls around looking for a purpose. You will not find one here, I can assure you of that.
You have to learn to hate, and to hate everything. Nothing is your friend. There is nothing in this world that can or will help you. Everything wants you to suffer in your shitty little hole of a life, and there is no escape. You have failed in your quest for relevance, but you have succeeded as part of a species that should be wiped clean off the face of the planet.
You will not like me, or anything I have to say. You will not become my friend and influence what I write. If you want to leave a slur or two, I welcome them. Be as evil and twisted as you possibly can, and make me hurt. I dare you to try. Not because you won't hurt me, but because you haven't got it in you. None of you have. You're all reading this thinking to yourselves 'what a dickhead'. You have no idea, but you're on the right lines. If you do manage to write something, don't dwell on it; if you do that, I have won and you know I will anyway, so there really isn't any point in you bothering is there? You are a pathetic excuse for a life.
You may think I am aiming this at a particular person, but believe me I have more contempt for humanity as a vast despicable whole than I do for any of the unforgivably deformed individuals that belong.

the future is robots

It arrived with a thump on a sunny afternoon in July. Harris was so taken aback by the delivery driver’s vicious gaze that he signed for the box just to get the man off of his doorstep.
For the three hours that followed he sat gazing at the box, wondering what could be inside. He hadn’t ordered anything, and unless it was meant for next door this conundrum would keep him baffled for an undisclosed length of time.
Finally, when he decided that the box would not make the first move, he constructed his plan of action. What he would do is check the label. It was a genius plan with only one minor drawback; there was no label. How on earth had the delivery driver known that this box had been for him?
At this point his paranoia made an impromptu appearance. It often did this, just to make sure that Harris wasn’t getting too ahead of himself; god forbid he developed some undeserved sense of confidence. His mind was full of ‘what if’s. What if he had signed for somebody else’s parcel? What if it was some sort of explosives? What if it contained some top class tea? Harris liked tea. Whatever he had planned, it could all wait for a nice cup of tea.
When his mind had finally finished exploring the questions his paranoia had raised, and all of the irrelevant tangents that had ensued, he returned his thoughts to the parcel. He so hoped it was a stray shipment of choice tea, the kind he imagined Stephen Fry sitting down to in a morning.
He opened the box. There was no tea.
Instead, Harris was faced by a shiny silver shape with winking lights plastered all over its fascia. He couldn’t work out what it was, let alone what it was supposed to do. Then he saw something that made his mind up for him; the ‘ON’ button. He mulled over the idea of pressing it over a cup of second-class tea, before deciding it was probably the best course of action. If he never knew what it was for, he would never be able to decide whether he liked it or not.
He was typically British, was Harris. He never made assumptions regarding things he might dislike. Instead he underwent the thing in question to confirm in his mind that it was the act itself that he disliked and not just the thought of it. In this way, he put himself through the most dreadful activities just to confirm the level at which he disliked them.
He stuck out one of his short thin fingers and prodded at the button. The lights started flashing more than they had before, and a humming sound started exuding from the shape. It started slowly, tickling his ear drums like the drone of a thousand baritones. It was quite a pleasant sound, Harris thought, but it seemed to be growing louder. It turned from a hum to a scream; a whirring scream not completely unlike a boiling kettle whistling, but there was not the reward of a nice hot cup of tea afterwards.
It screamed and screamed, until Harris couldn’t hear himself think over the sound. He started to regret pressing the button, the button that had been the cause of this incessant screaming. He thought the scream would never end, and it would haunt him forever.
As quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Harris thought he had gone deaf from the assault of the scream. As if to replace the scream, the thing started throbbing. He couldn’t comprehend the throb while it wasn’t making a sound, the idea just didn’t work for him. It appeared to glow without actually glowing, and Harris could have sworn he saw it rising from the box with no help from external forces.
It kept rising, until it was floating at chest height. Harris could see the object more clearly now; it was the shape of an office block and looked as if it weighed twice as heavy. He could see more flashing lights on the rest of the office block’s flat almost featureless faces. Then something happened. The office block started developing grooves from halfway down one of the faces. These grooves kept developing, until eventually they were somewhat reminiscent of crouching legs. Only, they couldn’t be crouching because it was suspended. It suddenly struck Harris that this office block was floating; actually floating, hanging in the air in the same way office blocks weren’t supposed to.
He had a way of pondering at the most inappropriate moments, and this was one of them. If he’d have paid attention he may have seen something truly amazing. Unfortunately, he missed the robot’s birth. Maybe birth is the wrong word, as nothing that has ever come off of the production line at the Crab Nebula branch of the Quinton Constella Robotics Company has ever been technically born; they are generally built.
It’s legs had descended from what now resembled a body. Arms had jutted out at right angles from within. A head soon followed suit, with what appeared to be a face; a real humanoid face. May Dee 475 had begun operation.
“Hello human. I am May Dee 475 and I am here to be of service to you”
The voice dragged Harris back to reality from the grips of his ponderings. He stared at the friendly humanoid face, it was poring with warmth from all of its little lights that flashed and blipped.
“Urm, hello. Why are you here?”
“To be of service to you. You are Stephen Fry? I have been sent by the Twinings sub department of the Quinton Constella Robotics Company to aid you in any way I can”
“Oh I see. Well… How about a cup of tea?”

Alan Smith commands my pen

I woke up in the middle of the night, again. This had become quite a common occurrence in the last few months; ever since I had met Nigel. I remember the first time I saw him. He was sitting at the piano at a fundraiser I was attending. Being a public figure this is something I have to do quite often, and they’re usually very dull; but not with Nigel. He took me to one side, said something in French, and we proceeded out of the door, ignoring everyone on our way. When we got outside, we climbed into his old Morris Minor and he took out a spliff. I had only smoked once before, at university, but there was something so reassuring about Nigel I felt it would be stupid not to. He was a most peculiar man. I told me he lived with his parents, but worked as a freelance reporter for a confectionary magazine. I didn’t even realise there were confectionary magazines. He told me of his upbringing in Salford, and of the subsequent move to Kensington his parents had made as soon as he had left for university. He had attended Reading University and had read Sociology with Political Sciences, but that ultimately working as a freelance confectionary reporter was his goal in life. As far as I could gather, his father had been a closet homosexual and had worked as a mechanic, which I thought must have been very difficult. His mother had been a chef in her early twenties, but had retired when he was born and, apart from a brief spell where she taught at a public school, hadn’t really worked since.
I told him of my insanely dull life. Of my typically ‘born-in-the-sixties’ hippy parents and the consequent pains of camping with people called Merlin, Galahad and Star. I told him more than even my closest friends knew. He was weird enough to have no ulterior motive, which was my main reason for liking him; and yet we couldn’t be more different. He was so exciting, and seemed to exude a certain confidence that just blew me away. I really liked him. I think I loved him.
It was a purely plutonic, you must understand. It was a purely innocent sort of love that we shared; we would talk for hours on end about everything and anything, and when there was nothing left to talk about we would go outside and lie under the stars, admiring their beauty. It was not uncommon for use to fall asleep together under a blanket right there in the garden.
I woke up with a start after one such night with a soft drizzle falling on my face. Nigel was nowhere to be found so I went into the house. We always stayed at mine what with him only having a small flat in Hackney. The kitchen was a terrible mess, though he had made me a cup of tea and some crumpets. Under the pot of jam was a note; it read, ‘John, might see you soon, though I am quite busy. Hope to stay in touch, Nigel’. The words confused me as I read them. He was quite busy? He had always made time for me, ever since our first chance encounter at the fundraiser I had always been his priority. I had loved him.
I shrugged off the note, assuming I had just misunderstood whatever was meant by it. I took a big sip from the mug of tea and picked up the smaller of the two crumpets as I advanced through the halls and into the lounge, where we had always taken breakfast. As I entered the room my heart sank. Where once there had been my priceless collection of seventeenth century vases there was now a void; a space that screamed of treachery and deceit. As I scanned the room I noticed most of my prized possessions were now gone, including my grandfather’s war medals and countless other pieces that only he knew were valuable. Where one particularly important jade ornament had stood there was another note. This time it read, ‘Never trust the weird ones, John. I love you’.

The queynte's guide to reflection

When I decide it’s time for a change, I do the same as any misshaped fuck up does; I stock up on Kahlua, milk and whiskey and lock myself away from the world. This inclusive method of reflection can get quite messy, so if you’re considering reading any of this rubbish make sure you are ready for the horrors I will leave to surprise you.
Keep yourself within the boundaries of a house. However, neglect to use as many rooms as possible and don’t go outside. The garden is a no go zone. Fresh air will just make you see sense or sober you up, and under no circumstance would you want that. This is serious business, and it is understandable if you cannot handle it; you have to have a strong stomach and no sense of smell to undergo this aptly named cleansing.
Turn the heating up, now. You need to sweat out all the shit that pumps through your veins. This is starting to sound like self help for smack heads, but heroin is nowhere near as dangerous as the shit you’ve been filling yourself with. Other people’s opinions, society’s demands, your conscience’s guilty yelling. They all add up and dissolve any content you had, leaving the crust of blood and skin. Don’t give up if you can’t stand the heat. Hang on. It is meant to be unbearable, without it you will never get it out of your system and reflection will be pointless.
After the first week, you should start to feel like a recluse. This is the normal way the negligible parts get you to break from your reflective cycle. Repeat in your head, fuck off I don’t need the bullshit. You are ready.
Consume the first bottle of whiskey, preferably bourbon. Let it intoxicate you to the point of helplessness. Don’t fight it, friend. Now is the start of the process. Two days of sleep deprivation, whiskey intoxication and continuous masturbation will be perfect. Please yourself, and be thankful of the pleasure. Self indulgence is almost a sin in most religions, and the reason is life isn’t meant to be enjoyed, you are meant to trudge on. Let this be your saviour from the terrible suffering living can cause if you do it correctly and without ‘sin’.
By this point the whiskey is gone which is a good thing. You were probably sick of it by now, I know I was. Now, have one last bout of masturbation and get some sleep. Try not to be conscious of time or even light and dark while the process goes on; artificial light will do everything you need light for, and timeless sleep is always favourable. When you awake, milk and Kahlua through a straw for breakfast. This is your beverage until you vomit. Drink as much as you can as quickly as you can.
And now the reflection will be upon you and you won’t even have realised anything is any different to how it was when you still understood the concept of outside, or natural light, or of sobriety. You will find yourself talking to yourself, and double checking everything you say to yourself. The trick now is to realise you are acting like a nut. This could take days, even weeks. If it takes any longer than a week just remember to keep your bloodstream full of alcohol and abstain from the outside world.
When you finally realise, sleep again. Then, immediately after, check the time. Whatever it reads may shock the system. It is time to reintroduce yourself to the outside world. You have been cleansed. You may not fit, but you will be empty of all the rubbish that drags the average human creature suffers with. You will find yourself in a different mind.


Be proud.