One Song

Look into the silver air, beyond us all – one song.

Listen to the distant sky, silent music for the eyes. Here – on earth – the air is a nebula of vibrations, an infinite orchestra, one symphony of sonance. We swim in a tintinnabulationary ocean. Hiss, whisper, sigh, rattle and hum. The is no silence; silence is the end.

We are one song.


“Hell is empty and all the Devils are here”

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The War of the Words is upon us.

William Shakespeare – the most brilliant playwright and poet of the English language. His plays are performed and studied in schools all over the world, his language is magnificent, his plays immortal. But hark! What sulphurous stench from yonder window breaks? It is the Globe Theatre, and the Woke brigade is the darkest hole of hell that threatens to extinguish the light of Shakespeare’s dazzling Sun.

We watch the scene unfold:

Upon the Southbank of the Thames, in fair old London Town, the splintering sound of cackling voices rude, the very air turns black in shame. A plot begins to stir within, the game’s afoot, a spell is cast, fair is foul and foul is fair, “Shakespeare must fall!” the witches shriek…

How now, dear reader; gather close and let not the ears of hell list to our whispered words…the immortal Bard has been besmirched and demonised as a white supremacist, a 16th century Nazi, yet! How falls the vainglorious scribbler, the despicable degenerate, how ignoble shall be his end, from the lofty heights of Olympus he is dragged to be shat upon and immolated in the fires of ignorance, stupidity and hate by the black-hearted legions of self-righteous cunts and cocksuckers. So what’s afoot?

The thespian zealots within the magnificent edifice that is the Globe Theatre and a plague of third-rate academics from far, far away, have decided that the plays of William Shakespeare are actually not plays at all, but are instead manifestos of racism. I kid you not.

A certain Aldo Billingslea – sometime bit-part actor of third-rate movies and full-time teacher of ‘American theatre from the black perspective‘ says: “His work is ‘problematic’ for linking whiteness to beauty” How so? because Lysander, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, says: “Who would not trade a raven for a dove?”, which, in the befuddled and twisted mind of Aldo means “the playwrite is giving ‘value’ to the birds ‘because of their colour.” Obviously Mr B doesn’t study literature or art or mythology otherwise he would know that ravens are symbolic of ill-omens, in other words, bad news – I refer you to Edgar Allan Poe – whilst Doves are symbolic of good news, hence the biblical story of Noah sending out a dove to find land and it returns with a branch in its beak. But that doesn’t fit the oppressed black person narrative, no. So instead we get a deluded interpretation, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Or perhaps the Bible and Poe’s epic poem are racist diatribes too.

According to another world famous Shakespeare scholar (not), Amanda MacGregor, a Minnesota-based librarian: “Shakespeare’s works are full of problematic, outdated ideas, with plenty of misogyny, racism, homophobia, classism, anti-Semitism and misogynoir (a clunking synthetic word invented by an idiot)”. She also demands that Shakespeare be dropped from the curriculum because: “I have come to the conclusion that it is time to set Shakespeare aside and downplay creating room for a modern, diverse and inclusive voice”, or to put it another way, Shakespeare is much too difficult for her limited intellectual capacity so let’s put him down as a racist.

Another clever bastard, who shall be named Jeffrey Austin, a no-account secondary school teacher from Ann Arbor, declaimed: “There’s nothing you can get from Shakespeare that you couldn’t get from exploring the work of other writers. When all cultures have transcendental writers who are not included in our curriculum or classroom libraries, it is worth objecting to the idea that Shakespeare is somehow independent as a lonely genius.” So ALL cultures have writers – and not just writers but transcendental ones – as good as, or better than, Shakespeare? Fuck me, some cultures haven’t even developed a written language, never mind a fucking play. There is a very good reason why some books are not included in the curriculum or libraries. They’re shit. Clearly, this man has studied Shakespeare’s oeuvre in depth and is a genius. Or just another intellectually bereft, band waggon jumping mountebank. If anyone from Ann Arbor is reading this, keep your kids well away from Jeffery Austin.

Meanwhile, over in Michigan, the highly esteemed and virtually unknown Dr Vanessa Corredera, another American expert (irony), stated unequivocally: “Every Shakespeare play is a ‘race play’ as ‘whiteness’ is part of all of the plays”. Her opinion is based upon her belief that: “In context with other plays and even the Sonnets, this language is all over the place, this language of dark and light… there are these racialising elements.” Fuck me sideways. That Shakespeare, what a rotter, eh? And there was I, thinking that old Bill was scratching out the most wonderful words ever to grace the English language onto parchment, sharpened quill guided by a poetic love of language, a genius with inky fingers, when all along he was just a mouthpiece for the Nazi party and a the KKK, wearing a pointy white hat festooned, no doubt, with tinkling swastikas. Forsooth! Good job the zealots are keeping us all safe in our beds.

But the stupidity isn’t all coming from the direction of the Land of the Free. Back in dear old Blighty, Professor Farah Karim-Cooper, co-director of education at Shakespeare’s Globe, said: “We have started anti-racist seminars to discuss ‘decolonising’ Shakespeare’s esteemed plays.” So the plays are both esteemed and racist at the same time? Methinks the esteemed professor speaks with forked tongue! Furthermore, she is obviously a bit light in the history department, otherwise she would have understood that there were no British Colonies in Africa and no British Empire until the 18th century. So plays written by our beloved Bard can have no colonial connections or references whatsoever. But don’t let truth get in the way of your esteemed, fascist polemic. Like so many of the professional witch finders she will brook no debate about her miserable opinion, saying: “To suggest that we are saying Shakespeare was racist is just food for a superficial culture war that frankly we are not interested in participating in.” No, of course not dear. What you mean is that anyone who disagrees with you is a racist. The enemy. The worn out old tactics of cancel culture, the Labour party and the Gestapo.

And so, here we are, almost a quarter of the way through the 21st century and the ignorant minority try to drag us all down to their small-minded, medieval domain. They howl and squeal about their imaginary victimhood, creating a cult that sees things that are not there to be seen, whilst invading everywhere and burying everything beautiful under mountains of shit, both actual and metaphorical. Are these yapping fascist turds going to be allowed to impose the Triumph of their Will on the rest of us? I can hear the crunch of marching jackboots and the guttural bellowing of slogans echoing in the floodlit stadiums already. Are you ready Leni? Action!

In the rarefied kingdom of ill-educated, self-righteous, hateful, half-baked cunts, these people take the biscuit. They are bereft of intellect, they are without heart, they are the emptiest vessels making the loudest sounds. Where there is beauty, they see only shit. They create nothing but shit. They are snivelling third-rate actors and they play the Dane oh, so well.

“I have of late – but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of excercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air; look you, this brave o’er hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a God! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights me not, nor woman neither.”

In other words, everything is shit.

And now we must take our leave of this depressing entertainment, this circle of shit, this realm of dark agendas…

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”

I urge and emplore you to read Shakespeare, love Shakespeare, perform Shakespeare and defend Shakespeare and send the black-hearted devils back to hell before we are all buried beneath their mountains of shit.

You and I

Into the Mystic

Under the dark of a sky full of rain we walk into the mystic, you and I.

There is nothing above and nothing below, there is only the here, where we are.

You and I.

Watching the light disappear, watching the lonely souls walking, we are here, you and I.

The sea and the sky meet out on the ledge where the sun will fall and the light will die, we watch it all, you and I.

Look at the light that you can only just see, laugh at the sky and sing with the sea, just a kiss from the rain, just a kiss, just a kiss…

All the ships, all the birds, all the souls of the sea, songs that float above the wind and tumultuous waves, to the eternal turning of time, we leave, you and I.

One daren’t even laugh anymore…

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine but a broken spirit drieth the bones. Proverbs 17 – 22.

Laugh? I thought I’d never start. What’s so funny, you may quite legitimately enquire. There are some who would actively lobby for the prohibition of laughter, especially those who seek to impose their ideology upon the world. The new Gestapo.

The brain police are watching your every move, monitoring every word you say, every intolerant thought that worms its way into your head. You need to be educated. You need to have your wayward independent viewpoint expunged, You need to be indoctrinated into the true way, the only way. You need to be enlightened, my friend. Do not laugh. This is no laughing matter. This is war.

There’s a brand new talk but it’s not very clear, they speak it in their echo chambers but we don’t speak it here. Cancel Culture, it seems, is the new firing squad. Hapless celebrities and other vacuous nonentities who utter the wrong collection of words can suddenly find themselves tarred and feathered by social media. Fuck me, what a laugh! Apparently there is now also something known as the “Disinvite” – is that a real word? “I am disinviting you from my twitter/fuckbook/instagram/groupthink/goonsquad because you don’t agree with everything I agree with”. Every day another grunt from the intolerant minority. George Orwell would piss himself laughing.

There is no room for debate. These fuckers don’t want to debate, they want to impose, they want fascism by any other name. But the new fascists don’t have power, they will never have power by means of the electorate, the plebiscite is not their way of working. No. They are infiltrating their hatred of the individual whilst idiot politicians stand by and watch, bestowing tacit approval because it suits their short-term thinking. Politicians and their creepy advisors think elections are swung by fickle minorities, so they are given the ear while the majority are simply ignored because their vote is already counted. Or so the Bolshevik Labour party believed in the last general election, only to discover that the silent majority, who they treated with disdain and contempt, burned down their house. Bye bye Jeremy Corbyn, you pathetic, anti-semitic, sucker of terrorist cocks. The people spoke but they didn’t speak your language. How we laughed at you. I haven’t laughed so much since Aunt Dolly got her tits caught in the mangle.

Having disposed of one threat to society, we now have to face another from the zombie mob who have been instructed to pull it all down, burn it to the ground and build the new Jerusalem. Or the new Salem, for we are all on trial. We stand accused of what? I’ll fucking tell you what – laughing.

Be under no illusion, the ignorant brainwashed cretins pulling down statues and scribbling inane slogans on every wall and window are only the fruit of the fungi. They are the goonsquad and they’re coming to town, beep – beep. The real coordinating body is hiding deep underground, spreading its toxic mycelium out of sight, spreading, infecting and ultimately decomposing the host upon which it feeds until everything collapses and nothing is left but a pile of dead shit. It is a heterotrophic psychopath. And it doesn’t have a sense of humour because laughter frightens it, especially outright mockery directed at it. Laughter provokes rage in the fungal cells. Pull down every statue, deface every surface, censor every word if you like but you won’t stop me laughing at you. Ha Ha Ha! Cunts.

Meanwhile, among the verdant acres of Hampstead, the snivelling liberal Guardian readers who pay lip service to every so-called oppressed minority, demand that those minorities they claim to support be given precedence for everything from jobs to art gallery exhibitions. The publicly funded BBC is awash with these fuckers and their culturally destructive agenda. Their world-view is coffee-coloured and their ideal culture has the consistency and stench of mud. Every time you turn on the TV the concoction of their slimy agenda is shoved up your arse, like Anusol, designed to relieve you from the nasty itching of the imagined intolerance, bigotry and racism they believe everyone is infected with at birth. White privilege. How amusing it is that almost all these people are, in fact, white and privileged. The irony of it all would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic.

You’ve got to laugh.

Waiting For Gordon


A perpetual tragi-comedy in one act

Vladimir and Estragon are hanging around, having a chat…

Vlad-“If only my Mother could see me now”

Est – “Why?”

V-“Because the road to hell is paved with good intentions”

E-“That’s deep”

V-“Not really, it’s just because you’re an ill-educated oaf”

E-“Well, we don’t all have contacts in high places, mate”

V-“Hah! That’s typical of the working classes, never do anything but complain and wait for a handout”

E-“I saw your Mother the other day”

V-“No you didn’t”

E-“I fucking did mate, larger than life and just as ugly”

V-“It’s too much for one man”


V-“There’s nothing to be done”

E-“I think you need a lie down”

V-“One daren’t even laugh any more”

E-“What’s so funny?”

V-“Don’t you find humour in the agony of it all?

E-“What, you mean laughing at our meaningless existence and the miserable realisation that this is all there is?”

V-“No. I was talking about your boots being too small”

E-“You’re not helping”

V-“I’m glad you think so. I wonder where he is?”

E-“What do you expect? Anyway, it’s not the boots, it’s the feet”

V-“I don’t want to know the details. We might be here forever”

E-“That’s existentialism. Nothing lasts forever”

V-“Christ almighty, how much longer?”

E-“How’s your Mother?”

V-“There’s nothing to be done”

E-“I’m glad to hear it. All’s well that ends well”

V-“How about hanging ourselves?”

E-“Not now, wait until dark”

V-“Well, take it or leave it”

E-“It’s gone, we do it wrong, offering nought but violence”

V-“Must be getting late”


V-“Better late than never”

E-“There’s nothing to be done”

V-“Shall we go?”

E-“I saw this bloke the other day, charming sort of fella”

V-“Was it your Mother?”

E-“I don’t think so, I would have remembered that”

V-“What’s the time?”

E-“Later than you think”

V-“Better late than never”

E-“But it’s now or never”

V-“Then never”

E-“Do you realise that nothing has ever happened”

V-“And it has happened more than once”

E-“I can’t understand where it went”


E-“Well, you can’t have everything, where would you put it all?”

V-“I’d put it in the bank, it would be safer than keeping it under the bed”

E-“The bank? The bank, you say? I wouldn’t give the bank the time of day”

V-“They probably have their own clocks”

E-“How can you trust a place that has it’s own clocks, for Christ’s sake! Never put your trust in someone else’s time”

V-“I see what you mean”

E-“What do I mean?”

V-“I’m sure I don’t know. Better safe than sorry”

E-“There you are, now you get it. You give ’em everything and the bastards lock it away in a safe and then you have to pay the fuckers to get it back again”

V-“It’s a good business model”

E-“Why didn’t we think of it?”

V-“Because you’re an ill-educated oaf”

E-“That may be true and many people would agree with you. What’s your excuse?”

V-“My Mother wanted me to learn a trade”

E-“I remember. Your mother was a hard bitch”

V-“Do you remember where we went wrong?”

E-“Probably not, that’s why I’m standing here with you in the middle of nowhere discussing it”

V-“It could be worse”

E-“It’s always worse than it was before. Remember when we had it all?”

V-“We should never have put it in that bank”

E-“They’ve probably spent it all by now, it was so long ago”

V-“No use worrying about it now. At least it wasn’t lost completely, that would have been a terrible waste”

E-“That’s very Christian of you”

V-“It’s the least I can do in the circumstances”

E-“May God forgive you”



Deus Pecuniam Phallae

The ancient City of Londinium, founded before the Romans ever sailed up the Thames. The walled settlement became The City of London and developed into the most economically powerful city on earth, powered by trade and exploration. The old City was so powerful that the Monarch had to ask permission to enter, and still does today. Over the centuries many beautiful buildings were created. The streets were never set out in any kind of planned grid, it was a city that followed no man’s vision, it just followed its own path. When the ancient gothic cathedral of St Paul and a quarter of the city burnt down in 1666 plans were drawn up by Christopher Wren to build wide avenues and boulevards radiating out from his new cathedral, in imitation of Rome. But the city refused his outrageous ideas and so the new cathedral took its place among the narrow streets, lanes and alleys that still stood. The City was never in the habit of changing to suit the ideas of a mere upstart architect.

Until now.

Look at the picture above. The City of London has allowed itself to be raped, buggered, sodomised and fucked by loathsome, parvenue architects. These odious onanists whose erections force themselves upon us, abusing our senses, despoiling our souls and ejaculating their disgusting jism of wealth into our faces, roaring and sneering at our discomfort and pain like a gang of aristocratic pederasts. Everywhere the glitter of tumescent glass cocks, like arrogant and priapic satyrs – you can almost hear them braying like the hellfire club, slobbering paraphilliacs egging each other on into ever-more depraved acts of concupiscence, defiling the ragged-arsed servants and sating their Dionysian thirst for perversion with the chamber maids. It is horror, it is horror…

St Paul’s Cathedral was, until 1963, the tallest building in London. Standing on the highest point of the city, Ludgate Hill, it towered above the rest of London, a magnificent baroque confection with a dome second only in size to St Peter’s in Rome. Imagine how fucking impressive it must have looked when it was finally completed in 1710…

Upon Ludgate Hill, 1710 – a crowd gathers to stare open-mouthed at the newly unveiled dome of St. Paul’s –

“Fuck me Lizzie, that’s impressive!” “I should say it is, Samuel. Very fucking impressive” “Why, I do believe Sir Christopher must have designed his dome in homage of your delightful bosom, my dear” “Oooh, Samuel Cockington, I do believe you are a rascal! You make me blush, sir!” “And you, my dear lady, make me proud. Come, let us away to the ale house where your cherry red lips may play a merry melody upon my pink oboe and fill your blushing cheeks with my pretty notes” “Oh, Mr Cockington, that’s fucking impressive.”

…but now it is barely noticeable, standing to the left of the Deo pecuniae phallae that despoil the skyline of London, an almost insignificant pimple among the thrusting clusters of finance and power. On the opposing side stands the nasty protuberance known as the Shard. Designed by the risible Italian scarecrow, Renzo Piano. What kind of name is that, for fuck’s sake? Imagine calling your kid Eric Trumpet or Florence Flute or Pink Oboe. I’m sure he loves to tickle his own ivories at every opportunity. This piece of glass just stands there, sharp and pointy, oblivious to its surroundings, blind to its brutality, ignorant of its utter lack of humanity. It has no civic function. It has nothing to offer, except a raspberry in the face of the bewildered public. It is a monument to Piano’s no doubt Trimalchian ego and deserves nothing but scorn, derision and mockery. Not only that, but it’s also on the wrong side of the river. Only on the north bank of the venerable Thames can one be a real Londoner. Those on the southern banks are merely rural Surrey peasants. The other carbuncles that block out the light have been mockingly titled by Londoners, who have always been scathing about those upstarts who think they are greater than the world’s most wonderful city. They are fiercely contemptuous of rotters, cunts and blowhards. The “Walkie-Talkie” in Fenchurch Street, the “Gherkin” in St Mary Axe, the “Cheese Grater” in Leadenhall Street, are a few of the derisive epithets by which these carbuncles are now known. The architects try to play down this mockery, preferring instead to believe that these risible names have been bestowed as a mark of affection by the grateful peasantry. Cunts. The other thing that escapes the wit of the architect is this: almost as soon as their brand new shiny cock is erected, it is out-of-date and old-fashioned. It is a flash in the pan, it comes and is quickly spent, like yesterday’s news it is soon forgotten. Its life span no more than a few decades, like the mayfly it will have an all-too brief moment in the sun and then expire, having done nothing of any use, unlike the mayfly – whose single reason to exist is to copulate before it expires. A totally miserable exercise in futility. But it probably amuses God, who likes a joke – after all he gave most of the oil to the Arabs and cars to the rest of us. Ho Ho.

However, much to the chagrin of the snivelling cunts whose dearest wish is for another great fire, or war, to raze the remaining ancient buildings (anything more than twenty years old) to the ground so they can then fill the space with forests of priapic glass penises, in another 300 years that seemingly insignificant pimple of baroque splendour that is St Paul’s Cathedral will still be there, beautiful and majestic, welcoming millions of visitors who will come to look in awe and admiration at the sheer magnificence of the building, perfect in its proportion, ratio and form, filled with light, embellished with paintings and carvings by master craftsmen, a-topped by that great dome at the City’s summit, bathed in the empyrean light, while the cocks of the money God will have long-since have become flaccid and limp, shrivelled husks that no amount of financial viagra will make rise again and down they will come.

After all, nobody wants a limp dick.

Petit déjeuner a la mer

Breakfast in St Malo

The sea is cold and green, the vast stretch of beach is deserted, save for a few early morning joggers, only the whispering sigh of the contented waves and the ethereal song of the seagulls swirling around the Fort National to break the silence…

Early morning by the sea. I like looking at the sea whilst eating croissants and drinking tea. Fuck that coffee nonsense. Tea is what one has with breakfast. Hence the name: Breakfast Tea. Nobody ever made Breakfast Coffee. And with good reason, tea is civilisation in a cup, delicate of scent, smooth of flavour and refreshing to the palette. Coffee is merely a cupful of bitter darkness, drunk only by the unrefined and those who inhabit the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder.

But I digress.

Looking out from the empty breakfast room at the silent expanse of Le Grande Plage du Sillon (otherwise known as the beach) and the ever-heaving waves of the English Channel (not La Manche as the oft defeated Frenchies would have it – to the victor the spoils and the bragging rights I think!) fills one’s soul with peaceful thoughts and a small smile. Breakfast by the sea. This is how one should begin one’s day before girding one’s tattered loins and venturing out into the fresh breeze and salty air, whilst offering many a hearty bonjour! to the local peasants who wobble by on their creaking bicycles with freshly baked batons, strings of onions and a jaunty beret perched upon their greasy gallic tetes, leaving a trail of stinking Gauloise smoke and garlic fumes in their wake. Ah, vive la belle France!


Writing on water is futile

Water is stone that no one can carve, save the flaming force of fire, the spirit and the light.

A stone dropped into water paints a shadow of a shadow.

Writing on water is futile.

After Knowledge, Before Judgement

The Garden of Shadows

Before judgement, before new light, on the last day came darkness.

It rained before the sun switched on the sky, etching clouds of rags and feathers across the skin of infinity. We stopped and wondered about the meaning of it all.

It might have been a dream.

It might have been a memory.

It might have been a sign understood to be a wonder.

We were unable to speak.

It was Friday.

Cosmic Blues

Ludwig van Beethoven


Can you hear it? That’s the sound of music. Ludwig van Beethoven.

Nine symphonies, each one a profound and magnificent statement of one man’s belief in mankind and nature. Oh, Freude! Oh, Ode to Joy!

But wait…just a whisper, just a Judas kiss: we are betrayed, the legions of Iago bringing falseness and lies disguised. A simple handkerchief, a tissue of lies, the fall of civilisation. The forces of evil are at the gates, demanding an end to the chains of music notation! This enslavement of those who cannot and do not understand. This is nothing less than oppression and supremacy, this baleful scribbling of dots and squiggles. They do not want to study, learning is too hard. “Fuck your white, elitist Euro-centric music, give us a stick and a drum to batter, for we are the new composers and we want the cacophony of the jungle and the sound of an uneducated ruffian shouting about money, rape and murder. This is the music of the group-think generation, brother!”

Imagine a world without Beethoven or Mozart. But it doesn’t have to end this way.

Be a thick bastard, if that’s your pleasure, but don’t rail at the world just because you’re a dummy. You can learn as much as anyone else if you want to. “But that involves effort and reading and shit, effort is too hard, innit? Gimme the gold, show me the money, I ain’t got time for no learnin’ brother, I want it all, and you gotta give it to me.” No. Work hard you fucker, Invest in it and your rewards will be vast and life-long. Or just sit and wait for a handout, a quick wank and a free ticket to everything.

You will never drag me down to the shit you aspire to.

Open your ears to Ludwig van Beethoven, let a tear fall as you listen to the slow movement of the 7th symphony, raise your eyes heavenward to the mighty magnificence of the opening of the 5th piano concerto. Listen to every note he ever wrote, for here is the music of the cosmos. Rejoice!

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!

Be embraced, Millions!
This kiss to all the world!


Oh to be a fluffy cloud drifting ‘cross the sky, meandering in the blue above this dark and troubled land. Moving slowly with the breeze, no particular place to go, drifting, shifting, water vapour condensing in the air, if I was just a fluffy cloud I wouldn’t fucking care.

Doggerel. But it’s calm, don’t you think?

We all need a bit of calm amid the horror and the delirium that stalks the world like a vengeful wife with a grudge.

So have a lie down on a sunny afternoon, just look up at the sky and remember: this is all there is, so enjoy it while you can before the coffee-coloured world of tomorrow sweeps you away in a tsunami of stupidity and ignorance.

Kiss Kiss.


Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I am retribution.

I like the dark, I dance in the night, I listen to Chopin and read Byron, Poe and Dante by lamplight. Sometimes I laugh out loud. But I rage quietly. I wouldn’t want passing strangers thinking I’m weird.

The hands of the clock spin faster and faster (yes, I have a clock with hands because I am educated and I don’t need a clock wot sez 23.15) and here we are again, it’s another day. Fuck me, what happened to the one I was enjoying? “You’re too slow chum, speed up and race towards your final breath, you’ve had your go on the swings and you’re taking up space you old cunt.”


If ever there was an era when youth was wasted on the young, this is it. What a feeble bunch of whining trouser shitters the young are today. “Ooooooh, I’m offended!” they chorus at anything and everything. Good. Be offended and fuck off back to noddy-land you miserable, weedy cunts. I will offend you at every opportunity and watch you drown in the spittle from your cocksucking lips as you declaim your spluttering outrage at no-one in particular. Yes weedy millenials, fuck off and cry and take your coffee-coloured world with you. Cunts.

All The World’s A Stage (part two)

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The nightmare of the Brutalists is anything that isn’t made of concrete, has curves and decorations and exists for beauty. Something like this, perhaps.

Here is the Cathedral of the Resurrection of the Monastery of Новоиерусалимский монастырь – Novoiyerusalimsky Monastery, or New Jerusalem, in the town of Istra, about twenty miles from Moscow. It was almost totally destroyed by the Nazis in 1941 but has now been fully restored at enormous cost and it is an incredible restoration. The work carried out by Russian, British and French craftsmen with rare skills is staggering, the beauty of the completed Cathedral is jaw-dropping. The Monastery was originally built in the 17th century and it was intended to be the Russian version of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, inside there is even a beautiful version of the Edicule.

Had this partly destroyed building been in London it would have been demolished and lost forever. The site would then have been used to build some ugly excrescence made of concrete because that’s progress and architects are the designers of our future and the future is made of concrete, glass and shiny things that are the new utopia.

Or maybe not.

This photograph was taken on a freezing winter day when the temperature was -10c but the light was quite beautiful, in a melancholy way. The camera was an Olympus XA3 with Kentmere 400 film, developed in Ilford Microphen.

All the world’s a stage

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;

Who is writing your play and who is directing you?

Write your own script and perform it on your own stage, don’t just repeat the lines you’ve been fed by people who would pull your strings and make you dance.

This is the National Theatre in London. Designed by Denys Lasdun and constructed from raw concrete – béton brut in French. It is a Brutalist building not only in material – béton brut – but also in appearance and intention. It is brutal on the eye and the soul in that it is designed and built with minimal decorative enrichment because humans are only part of the machine that is modern architecture. It is functional, utilitarian and bereft of humanity, as are the architects who design such inhumane carbuncles.