Monday, January 30, 2012

Your Stars For February 2012

Jacuzzi Spakkert is an internationally renowned clairvoyant and mystic.  He has written scores of bestselling self-help books including The Zodiac of Love, How The Stars Can Get You What You Want and The Coming Age Is Yours.  His latest book, DESTROY THEM DESTROY THEM ALL hits bookstores in May 2012.  Jacuzzi lives in a self-built temple in Virginia with his wife, Maureen, their two children, Izaak and DEATHTOTHEBASTARDCRAWLINGHORDES, and four thousand devoted followers/mercenaries.  The Spakkerts famously sponsor a neglected donkey called Tony.

“No-one self-affirms like Spakkert.”  New York Psychic Gazette 1997

“He’ll make you feel good about yourself, one hundred per cent.” 
Astrology Today 2002

“Fortune telling for doers and go-getters.” 
Stargazer Bi-Decadely 2005

“He shot my grandparents and owes me ten thousand bucks.” 
Ralph “Neptune” Triannis, former editor of the New York Psychic Gazette 2010


Are you a man/woman or a mouse?  A fluffy, gambolling baby lamb of a loser mentality motherfucker — or a fast bowling, hard hitting, GET GET GET machine of ram-powered mouton action?  February stretches out before you, Aries, like a meadow of opportunity in which you can romp and butt and sound your barbaric baaaaaaaarrrhhhh across the rooftops of the world.  So GO KICK ASS!  KICK!  MAIM!  KILL!


Sick of people calling you a bore?  Who’s good for nothing but smelling their own farts and polishing off other people’s unwanted dinners?  It’s time to remember you have horns, and a history of dead gay Spaniard show-offs spurting blood at your feet.  SEE RED, SEE RED — and GO GO RED.  Toss all to left and right as you charge them down — then go splash out on a trillion take-out dinners.  BORE RIGHT THROUGH THEM TILL YOUR HORNS JUT OUTTA THEIR GODDAMN ASSHOLES.


It’s time to get even with the people who talk you down.  This month’s Venus-Uranus conjunction in Aries has no major implications for you whatsoever — but you can still say it does, over and over and over, in that chatty, gassy, gossippy way you’re so good at.  Pin ‘em to the wall, the useless fuckers.  Talk till their ears bleed.  VENUS!  URANUS!  VENUS!  URANUS!  Yeah — you SHOW THE BASTARDS.


People think you’re a softie, a weed, a loser — but they forget those big ole pincers of yours.  Pincers perfect for popping out eyeballs and gripping on ball bags as you bark your demands, settle your scores and HELL JUST DO IT COS IT FEELS SOOOOOO GOOOOOOD.  You better watch out, you pansy crab dissing sons of bitches, cos I’m coming now I’m coming on big and strong for you all through February, through Valentine’s Day, through the whole goddamn shebang with a SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP.  Say it!  Do it!  Be it!  SNAP ‘EM TILL IT HURTS LIKE CRAZY.


When it comes to showing everyone who’s boss, you have the lot.  Claws, teeth, ferocity, pride — and that whole Tarzan/jungle fear factor.  But sometimes you need more.  So why not go crazy in  February shopping for a kick ass TANK?  Something like a King Panzer from WWII — hell, that’s what Ebay is for.  Then get your ass in the fucker and blow a few people up, big time.  Trample all in your path.  Were those New Year Resolutions all for nothing, Leo?  Were they?  Were they?


It’s time to stop being L’il Miss Prissy Knickers.  Especially if you’re a guy.  Ramp up the Vamp and lure all your worst enemies into your lair of sex and debauchery.  They’re way stupider than you, and with Mars romping through your sign with its big ole dick out, you can chain ‘em up and leave ‘em to die in your dungeon of torture and terror.  THEY DESERVE IT!  THEY’RE SCUM!  Get provocative, pro-active — get PRO.  You’re a hooker, a lure, a hussy.  MURDER THEM WITH YOUR SEX.


Fuck all that peace-loving bookwormy shit.  Deep down, Libra, you’re a KILLER!  Hey, the speed you read at, you could digest the internet in SECONDS.  So visit those SWORD SITES, places you can buy GRENADES AND GUNS, then rob banks with your intellect and buy shit loads of all that stuff.  You gotta do it, Libra, cos they think you’re an airhead, a loser, tucked up all day in books but you gotta show ‘em and what better way then you DESTROY THEM WITH GUNS.


You’re poison, and you know it — a seething sex-thrusted engine of venom just waiting to sting the hell outta the ants standing in your way.  ANTS!  That’s what they are.  All of ‘em.  So you wade into that ole insect swarm and STING STING STING till you get to the Queen.  Then sting her so bad she ain’t never gonna walk again, never gonna lay eggs again, never gonna ant on down and bring on down the whole of mankind again.  Sting her in the head, over and over and over.  That’s what February holds in the starts for you, Scorpio.  DON’T DISAPPOINT ME.


You’re armed to the teeth I can see them poking outta your big ole horse body those arrows, those zillion spears and crossbow bolts. That bow of yours is a Barnett Predator18035, primed to fire high velocity bolts through the throats of all who stand in your way so you pick your target and you FIRE FIRE FIRE youre a firs sign so you fire those bolts in their faces then you storm like a horse into the future with the wisdom of a hosre because youre bifg and they’re small all of them all of them like ANTS you stomp your hooves you think of JUPITER YOUR RULER BIG AND BELIEVING AND PROUD the fuckers.


They’re all ants and you must destroy them.  In February, Saturn is your ruler just asd he always is, a vast uncompromising squeezer of the inconasequential, magnitude roaring from his ringed glory so you square up to those miserable goddamn ants and you say HEY I@M CAPRICORN and I fuck on your insecty bullshit from on high.  They cant get you they’re only SMALL and their numbers are ntohting compared to your POWER the POWER of AGES IMMORTAL.  You say to them I@M NOT FUCKING TAKING ANY MORE OF THIS CRAP YOU MOTHERFUCKERS and then you destroy them one by one and you don’t care besasue Capricorn your sign is blessed with the gift of long life like a goat and you just take your big ole time and FUCK THEM FUCK THEM FUCK THEM one by one legs antennae heads eggs KILL THEM NOW WHILE YOU HAVE THE CHANCE.


theyre gonna get you crawl all opver you and lay their eggs in your brain your children’s brains and hatch more infinite creatures all over your sorry ass if you don’t act now this February to stop the bastards and their relen tless pursuit of world dominance so you gotta get out there Aries and but the fuck outta their minuscule swarm with that ole water pot of yours, drowen them Aquartiuswith your boiling oil yeah go get a load of bouling oil like they did in the medieval cast;les and pour the fucking lot over their miserable heads as they try to take yopur kingdom the kingdom that is YOURS AND YOU HAVE THIS RIGHT THIS POWER aquarius to drown them it will boil till their wretched chitinous shioelds of bodies sizzle in the heat of your wrath NOW NOW NOW destroy the ants destroy them


and pisces yes pisces youre a romantic but the time for romance is dead now because hate is in the world and you gotta think new stuff gotta toughen up some or they’ll make you one of them they’ll turn your mind into an ant and all you’ll do is crawl and burrow and go nameless and never have anything to xcall your own so bite scratch punch kich ANYTHING ANYTHING ANYTHING becasue in February the stars are lining up for your rewal good Mars Jupiter Neptune all the big ones saying PISCES YOU GOTTA TURN THIS AROUND GOTTA SAVE YOUR LIFE GOTTA SAVE MANKIND FRONM THE ANTS THE GODDAMN ANTS OR THE PLANET WILL BE INFESTEDC AND OUR HISTORY YOUR HISTORY THE HISTORY OF YOUR CHILDREN WILL COUNT FOR NOTHING SO HOLE UP RAID A STORE FOR FOOD KEEP IN TOUCH THERE WILL BE MESSAGES I WILL GUIDE YOU LISTEN OUIT STAY WITH IT KILL THEM DON’T LET THEM CRAWL ON YOU THATS THE START OF IT THE BURROW IN YOUR SKIN PORES AND YOUR EARS AND YOUR EYES AND THEY EAT YOU FROM THE INSIDE YOU GET A WETSUIT AND LAY ANT STUFF ALL AROUND BUT DON’T CONTAMINATE FOOD FOOD WILL COME SOON I PROMISE JUST KEEP KILLING THEM KILLINHNG THEM TILL I COME TO GET YOU

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Their Election, Nobody's Pond

Click to enlarge (the picture, not the egos).

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Soaking Up Books, Soap And Internet

The internet is busy at the moment with talk of SOPA and PIPA.

At first I thought this referred to a sordid sex tape featuring a much loved BBC natural history presenter and the future Queen of England’s baby sister.

But, no.

In case you are unaware of the issues, legislation is afoot to protect copyrighted material from piracy.  On the face of it this sounds like a good thing and I, for one, have no wish to aid ruthless individuals prepared to kidnap innocent civilians in exchange for cash (even if their presence on the briny might have helped out a little with the Costa Concordia while that twat of a ship’s captain watched it sink).  What’s at issue is the problems any such legislation will bring in its wake, and there are genuine fears that the present openness of the internet will be severely compromised.

That’s why large numbers of websites were blacked out yesterday — to protest at the catastrophic error of judgment the US would make if it committed itself to SOPANAM.

I support the protest initiative but worry how history will view it.  After all, if your web site is blacked out for a day, who will know any different the following day?  Your protest will be as the non-existent subjective thoughts of a functionalist’s zombie clone of yourself.

So that’s why I’ve chosen to blog with reference to the topic rather than throw a shroud over my concern.  And, yes, it should have happened yesterday, but I was rubbing shoulders with the clergy and despite their insistence that we’re all going to live forever they’re absolute fuckers for being fobbed off and told to wait until tomorrow.

So here is the post you should have had — a post you might in the future be denied for reasons spurious and convoluted.

It’s about reading in the bath — specifically what kind of technology should follow in the wake of the waterproof handheld device and whether this kind of wizardry belongs in the bathroom anyway.

The problem with handhelds (and I omit from my list here the dictating genius cat — we’re talking tablets and the like) is that while they’re a great substitute for books in most respects other than odour and that zippy thing you can do with the pages, I’d never use one for reading in the bath.  This is not to say I’m impossibly clumsy and possessed of a bathtime book reading history full to bursting with dropped Wars And Peaces, but if I’m going to start being clumsy in the future, I’d rather it be with a modest paperback than some product of Steve Jobs’ cerebellum twice the price of a swanky washing machine.

I’m guessing many of you are in a similar position — lying in the bath with a book, wondering  how to mix and match your libraries so you have a collection of books for ease of storage and being on the go and another collection of books for soaking up the Radox with, all allied to a schedule which allows you to flit from bath to world back to bath again, and from chapter to chapter to chapter, without the need for two versions of whatever it is you’re reading.

Surely the answer lies in the bathroom equivalent of the wall-mounted HD TV — an overhead  cinematic screen you can access from a rubber-bound console by the duck and loofer rack?  With such technology it would be possible to luxuriate with any and all of your books without the need for duplicates and with no fear of submerging your Jane Eyres by accident.

Does this sound like a good thing?

Personally, I think not.

The one great advantage of an actual book is that it only does one thing, and when you slither between the bubbles, reading is the only deal in town (unless you’re a serial masturbator).  A screen capable of displaying ebooks in the bathroom, though fine as an idea, will probably never be invented (and if it has been, won’t last long).  Likely, any such device will come bundled with internet access so we can check our email between paragraphs and scrub our bottoms to the jaunty rhythms of endless Bathtime Fitness Regime Gurus.  While reading may be an option here, it won’t be the only show in town — especially if you lack a blind or frosted glass and your bath is directly in front of a window.  Soaking in the tub is where you go to get away from all that nonsense, surely?  Those stimuli that prompt you to do things, find things out and buy stuff?

Call me a precog, but I reckon the bathroom will be the saviour of the printed book.

As for the internet — even with or without SOPA, it definitely has its place, and in the domain of soap, may that place forever remain NOWHERE.

News of Sock Monkey and Vacuum Cleaner Fiction to follow shortly...

Sunday, January 15, 2012


I’m undecided as to where to go with this blog right now.

Do I play it like a pontificating avatar from on high and lavish the world with sporadic and lengthy orations between battling the forces of evil and performing street magic with my halo?

Or do I opt for the shorter post, returning time and time again with easily digestible snippets like a deranged drunk graces the walls of buildings with urine?

Maybe there’s scope for a double act here with the avatar playing the straight man to the drunk’s ridiculous proclamations.  Or maybe it’s the drunk who’s straight, struggling to come to terms with the outpourings of a heaven gone mad, urine or no.

It’s a tough decision.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Moleculery du Soleil

A cluster of molecules that will form an arc of sunlight over my garden some time around June 8th has been amassing this afternoon for a rehearsal.

Its arrival has opened up a temporal worm hole just behind my shed through which half a dozen  humongously-scrotumed intergalactic warriors have been peering since lunchtime, but in spite of the evident danger I’m in, I’m good with the overall summery glow about the place.

By the weekend, it’s back to lashings of rain (or so we’re told) and temperatures to shame the combined Dickensian freeze-fest of all the recently screened Scrooges and Wooges, and my To Do list has been upgraded accordingly with a multiple underpant plan.

I’m reminded that for the past two years, our bright new Januarys of Hope have come bundled with snow and ice and penis-invaginating frosts, so what a great relief it is to have a smattering  of the brightness to come smatter itself over barren bough and hoppity boppity sparrow.

Checking out now in order to sunbathe, after which I may go on a rampage round my local Tesco in a revealing woolly bikini...

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Jain Hair

When things got particularly hot last summer, I popped into my local Jain Hair outlet to have my scalp cropped.

If you’ve been to Jain Hair before, you’ll know how quick they are at shifting the punters.  As their strapline says: In & out in 30 seconds or we chant on your birthday and sponsor a maltreated pony.

So I’m expecting a quick zip under the Tibetan Remington when the saffron-robed manager informs me that his staff are downing tools for a twenty minute meditation.  Apparently, Bono’s lawnmower has conked out and they figure he needs a little zen-style goodwill transcendentalising his way.

“But I’ll be late for work,” I say.

“He who rushes,” the manager begins, “is as a thrush among the rushes of a swamp when the North Wind blows.”

“No chance of one of the acolytes fitting me in, then?” 

“Acolytes?  We’re all equals round here, mate.”  He bows low till his head swings between his ankles and hands me a photocopied pamphlet about the miracle of life.  “Have a nice day — and don’t murder anyone.”

The philosophy of the Jain Buddhists is a simple one: life is precious and none of God’s creatures should ever be harmed.  If the Jain had been in charge of Auschwitz, maybe a few more people would have made it through till 1945.  I pondered this (and more) as I sat in my greenhouse among my cactus collection, breezing through the pamphlet, and when time came to move everything prickly indoors at the end of September I was minded once again to reflect on the sanctity of life.


Because the fattest of my cacti, it appeared, was now host to a colony of tiny fruit flies — tiny fruit flies that the beast in me wished to swat from existence.  There’s no fruit on cacti, of course, but since it would be wrong to describe the flies as either gnats, bluebottles or craneflyesque monstrosities of wing and antenna and sting, ‘fruit flies’ it has to be — hordes of them, buzzing about like the coat buttons of leprechauns magicked into the air by O Reilleys of telekinetic vim, urging me to swat swat swat.  Oddly, my hand was stilled as if a spectral tug-o-war team of hairdressing monks had lashed a panda fur rope about my wrist and yanked in unison.  Once again, I heard the Jain Hair manager’s words, as clearly as if he were standing in front of me looking totally plucked.

“Have a nice day — and don’t murder anyone...”

Three months on, and the flies now inhabit my landing window.  When I wake each morning, half a dozen fresh new insects ber-zoop about prickle and glass with the gadabout glee of Disney’s finest full stops from the script of Snow White tossed high like Roger McGough apostrophes.  At first I allowed them to proliferate, but when Son of Whirl complained about the light being blotted out by “that cloud of darkness swirling at the top of the stairs with the menace of an Apocolypse-style abomination” I realised it was time either to defy the wishes of my favourite Buddhist hair stylists or Blue Peter a special attachment for the vacuum cleaner to suck them to a more shed-based kind of safety.

And that’s when I saw it in the 27½p shop: the Special Battery-Powered Plastic Sucky Tubey Thing For Vacuuming Spiders And Wobbies.

Technical conundrums prevent me from bringing you the conjoined buzzing harmony of the transported flies and the Tubey Thing’s “Can Do, 150%” AAA batteries, but if you imagine the contents of a sex shop plugged in to the generator used by Queen during the Live Aid gig at Wembley, maybe your ears will sing with the right kind of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzuuuuurrrrrbbbbbb.

How many lives have you saved since the end of the Summer?

And would vacuum cleaner fiction be of interest in the absence of a bonkbuster or thriller?

Friday, January 6, 2012

Nosing Around Oxford

Monday was a strangely Oxfordian affair.

After a visit to said historic university town, Famille Whirl sat down to watch the latest Inspector Morse spin-off, Endeavour, and a pair of pyjama bottoms emerged from the washing machine baggier and saggier than a turbo-charged slimmer’s flesh.

Oxford is a peculiar place, having generated over the centuries a kind of self-perpetuating momentum for itself.  It has an abundance of history, reflected in the glass of every college window, but also a thriving sense of presence, in part thanks to the hordes of tourists lapping the place up with their pixel-grabbing photographic paraphernalia.  It’s one of the few places I can think of where stripping to the waist would fail to get you noticed unless you were a rampaging horde of apocalypse-hungry zombies, such is the volume of visual interest in abundance.  The fact that it boasts a branch of Carluccios is the icing on the taking of the piss.

We flounced around the streets for a while like gay and jolly 20s debutantes before seeing a few of the must see attractions.  First stop was Christchurch College, simply because we had the map upside down and couldn’t pronounce Ashmolean.  Or museum.

The college offers a guideless guided tour thanks to a series of strategically placed railings and strips of bunting that usher you from one place to the next like you were being goosed by a kindly spirit.  There are courtyards and cloisters, water slides and bouncy castles, and (of course) college buildings by the shedload.  Skirting between the tables of the college refectory, it’s hard not to be impressed by the portraits suspended from the walls — all those great men and women from student intakes past, resplendent in their wigs and ludicrous finery trying their hardest to look like Evil Editor.  Actually, the paintings are almost exclusively of blokes, but that’s Oxford for you.  We later discovered parts of the first Harry Potter film were shot here, along with the final scenes of Titillate My Don XIII and a documentary about the wacky antics of Slik before Midge Ure became a household name.  No doubt Morse and Lewis were here too at some stage.  And Prince Philip, bless the old bastard.

Round the corner from the refectory is the college chapel, a modest homunculus of Cotswold style stone with those Christmassy coloured windows you often see in churches that escaped the Blitz, the Vikings and the sales rep from Everest.  Tucked away between the nooks and crannies are the tombs of courtiers and cavaliers (plus the occasional bishop of note whose ritual buggery at the hands of the mob is lovingly detailed on the accompanying 4-tablet stone placard).  I was particularly taken by a casket next to the condom machine.  Like many you see in English churches, it resembled an Egyptian sarcophagus, with a carving of the person entombed within resting as a lid over the box.  In this case, the stony armour suggested a knight or soldier, or maybe a peasant in New Year fancy dress caught up in some melee or another.  Particularly Egyptianesque was the sphinx-like absence of nose, chipped away over the years by rascally choristers with their equally rascally Oxford University tweezers.  Had the sphinx been erected in England, its nose would have been replaced the moment the alien spacecraft collided with it.  I’m guessing that’s what happened to the figure on the casket in question.  Indeed, here’s a particularly touristy photo of me pointing up the lovingly crafted replacement nostril holder.

According to the placard on the casket, something of this guy’s facial featurectomy must have been foretold in the runes.

Nowers! What kind of a name is that?

All of which traipsing round the streets of Oxford and deductive reasoning leads me to Endeavour.  It’s not often that I enjoy spin-offs, particularly when they’re spin-offs of spin-offs like Joey’s Shirt and Bubble’s Cousin Meets Horse #4 From Mister Ed, but Lewis seemed to work and so does this.  Apart from the silly cameo scene in the hospital with John Thaw’s daughter, it more than held its own against the Morse legend and I hope ITV commission a full series.  Sadly, there’s very little anyone can do to save my wibbly pyjama bottoms...