Cancer, Goldilocks and Superman's Pee of Fire!

Cancer is a motherfucker.

He most often turns up as a tumor. Just walks into your body like he owns the place. Sits in your chair. Sleeps in your bed.

Like Goldilocks if she were a fat smelly parasitic crack whore.

Cancerous tumors are mutations of our own cells. These affected cells start dividing uncontrollably - a cockroach’s bursting egg sack sending its dirty babies out to deliver carnage.

OMG! Goldilocks is a giant cockroach crack whore pumping out cockroach babies!

And cockroaches are fast. They race past your bodies defenses. It’s called asmetastasis. The cockroach spawn find their way into your bloodstream, spread through your whole body.

Cells from malignant tumors can invade many different tissues. They’re not choosy. They can get to your lungs, spleen, bone, everywhere.

Each metastatic cell sets up camp. Goldilocks going global. And forms a new tumor in the new location.

Put simply: If this happens you die.

Your body can’t support the growth of so many tumors. Your organs, working so hard to keep you alive, get a big fat bastard sitting on them. They can’t work anymore. They stop and YOU DIE.

So you think, fuck this shit, and call in Chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy is grizzled angry Superman without the dorky costume who really, really hates Cancer. Seriously, if cancer were on fire he’d pee on it only because grizzled Superman’s pee IS MORE FIRE!!!

Chemotherapy is designed to kill rapidly dividing cells. All those cockroach babies. Grizzled Superman uses his telescopic vision to spot them and then uses his fucking huge fists to pound them into oblivion and then just to be safe he pees his FLAMING PEE all over them.

The problem is some of those rapidly dividing cells aren’t cockroaches. They’re beautiful butterfly babies that only want to kiss and be nice. They’re normal healthy functioning cells. They’re your hair follicles and stomach lining.

That’s why chemo patients lose their hair and feel like puking most of the time.

Grizzled Superman has to kill just enough cells to kill the tumors, but not so many so he kills you.

And then he pees on them. Did I mention that grizzled superman PEES FIRE? He does. I mean, FIERY PEE!!! Awesome!

They need money to make grizzled Superman more awesome and make his FIERY PEE even hotter.

Give generously. Don’t be cheap. Someday Goldilocks might sneak through your window. Sit in your chair. And pump her cockroach crack whore babies through your body.

DONATE HERE:
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MORE INFO HERE:
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Here There Be Monsters!

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a true story!

Well, not really, but Arthur Conan Doyle did base his Sherlock Holmes novel on the Dartmoor legend of the Beast of Bodmin. Doyle stayed a while in Princetown, Devon, on the moors, and heard the legend of the ‘Beast of Bodmin Moor’ from his pal. Bertram Fletcher Robinson.

There have been sixty reported sightings of the Beast - a five-foot long black panther-like creature with yellow eyes - and coupled with the numerous reports of mutilated livestock, the police decided in 1995 to investigate its existence.

Of course, they found nothing. Monsters don’t exist. Ha! It’s all just stories.

But then, not long after the po-po concluded that there was no Beast, a young boy found a leopard’s skull on the banks of the River Fowey in Cornwall.

Oh my Dog! Monsters DO exist! It’s all real.

Then the Natural History Museum discovered that the skull had made it into the country as part of an imported leopardskin rug.

Spoilsports.

But then Benjamin Mee, the owner of Dartmoor Zoo, said that in 1978 he was expecting a delivery of five pumas from the closing-down Plymouth Zoo and only two arrived. The owner of Plymouth Zoo, Mary Chipperfield, apparently had a breakdown of some sort and couldn’t bring herself to give over her favourite pumas to another zoo so she released them into the wild.

This was okay, because it was 1978 and releasing ‘exotic species’ into the wild wasn’t illegal until 1981. Good thing it wasn’t these days - Imagine the twitterstorm after she tweeted it on Twitter, the twit!

Her husband denies the story, and Mary passed away in 2014 so she can’t argue.

Even now police get reports of “a tiger on the loose” or a “beast digesting its dinner in my back garden” in Axminster. A Google search will reveal dozens of photos and videos allegedly of the Beast. In October 2016 giant paw prints, 4 inches wide like those of a lion, were found in Cornwall.

But Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t hear any story about an escaped zoo animal. He died in 1930 - long before Mary Chippenfield claims to have let the cats out. So what Beast was his mate talking about?

YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsncL2sJvFE

the God of Garbage

it was around 8.19am when the God of Garbage revealed himself to me. i was in the greenhouse, having a coffee and a smoke, when the bin in the corner stood up.

he wasn't tall. maybe a head and shoulders shorter than me. he was made up of dirty napkins, crusts of bread, and a Coke can. he was wearing a bin bag. his voice was normal, but i couldn't place the accent.

i said, "Hello." he replied, "Can I pinch one of your fags?" so i rolled up a ciggy for him and he sat down across from me.

he asked, "What are you writing?" i told him it was my journal. "A diary?" he said, "I keep one too." he seemed pleased that we had something in common.

he sucked on his cigarette and ate the butt when he was done. then he reached into the ashtray and started munching on the rest of the debris.

i rolled him another smoke.

"Thanks," he said, "I hate all this fresh air."

he finished that one same as the last. then he waved goodbye and climbed back into the trash.

a summer's day

trousers rolled up like Huck Finn. straw hat shading his face. glass of lemonade and a cigarette. a gentle breeze keeps him cool, as does Van Morrison on the radio.

the cat sleeps in the shade, too soporific to chase the birds in front of his nose.

he regards his toes. they look rotten. his pasty feet have been cooped in socks and shoes for months. but now they're free. soaking sun. shoeless. liberated.

he surveys the garden. flowers in bloom. colourful explosions frozen in the heat.

on a day like this there are no troubles in the world. he feels sunk in contentment. he sighs heavily. releasing any tension from the day's work. he sits up. stretches. arches his back and wriggles his toes.

time has stopped. he writes in his journal. filling a page even though he's written today already. he sips the cold lemonade and considers rolling another smoke.

a butterfly zig-zags past.

he thinks of stolen fragments of a day.

with no one to please but himself.

Broke Lads & Annoying Ads

I ride the bus because I’m way too important to drive myself. Also I get to read a book, listen to music, and have strange conversations with the other proles.

What is it about bus drivers? They have a fairly easy job - no heavy lifting, no boss in their face all day, a place to sit - so why are they always so surly?

Anyway. I’m at the bus stop, in the rain because this is England, and maybe it’s my mood that causes my irritation and not the sad lame stupid poster for Ladbrokes. “When you know,” it proclaims, “You know you know!” or “When you win it’s skill. When you lose it’s bad luck.”

Underneath each pearl is their slogan: This is the Ladbrokes Life!

So going down the betting shop in a tracksuit to spend your dole money is a lifestyle choice? Ah, now I understand.

Maybe hanging around outside Tesco swigging a Special Brew tinny and leering at schoolgirls is too.

And the bloke swaggering down the road with a badly behaved staffie shouting abuse at his pram-pushing teenage missus is a cultural icon 

As British as bangers and baked beans.

“When you win,” the poster tells me, “Get them in.”

This is the Ladbrokes Life!

I’m not sure if the Ladbrokes media boys are trying to be ironic, but I wouldn’t think their customer base would have much insight into such subtleties. In fact, I can only imagine the guy chucking his benefits cash on football results and horses would get a kick out of seeing a version of himself splashed over a bus stop wall.

It’s truth in advertising. Too much of it.

Next we’ll get a “Citybus Legends” campaign - A guy with greasy hair and sweat-stained armpits telling you he doesn’t have change for a tenner; or grinning through yellow teeth as he watches you running for his bus and drives off just before you get there.

Singsong from the Grave

So they found an unreleased song from back when Michael Jackson was black and now it’s all I’m hearing on the radio.

The tune’s alright, I suppose. Kind of average. But finding an old song of MJ’s is like discovering Jesus’s journal. Just think how many updated copies of the Bible they’d sell.

I wonder if the music video will be old clips of MJ or if they also found a tape of undiscovered home movies. We’ll be treated to Jacko turning burgers on the barbeque, unwrapping a pair of socks under the Christmas tree. Maybe there’s one of his pet monkey Bubbles biting his finger. That’s sure to get £250 on You’ve Been Framed.

You just know they’re gonna milk it for every last dollar. Flog that dead horse. Yeeha!

His nephews have even jumped on the gravy train.

In case you don’t remember, he had three nephews - his favourites according to them - who called themselves 3T. They had one song that only got airplay coz Mike sang along with them. And if I remember correctly: It was shit.

But now they’re back! For real. I saw them on Celebrity Juice and everything. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks reached puberty. And then got wrinkly. But didn’t ever change their hairstyles. I haven’t heard their new song yet but I’m betting they’ve got MJ in the background somewhere. Just to be safe.

The thing is, if MJ’s old new song wasn’t good enough to be released in the 80s then what makes anyone think it’s half decent now? He’s probably moonwalking in his grave.

I say let the guy rest in peace.

Don’t make our last memories of him be some mediocre B-side track that he figured no one would want to hear back in the day.

It’s disrespectful.

ENDER'S GAME - Sci-Fi for Homophobes

 

I hate the band Oasis. Their music is alright, but the main reason I can’t stand them is coz that one guy is such an arrogant prick. I’m not sure which Gallagher brother it is (scousers all look the same to me), but he’s so up his own arse it turns me off completely.

It’s a funny principle of mine. If I think the artist is a dickhead I’m instantly appalled by their work.

So I have to ask myself: Should I go and watch the much hyped and highly anticipated movie “Ender’s Game”?

The author of the book it's based on, Orson Scott Card, is a vehemently outspoken homophobe. He’s so anti-gay that as a member of the Board for the National Organisation of Marriage he wrote that he’d rather overthrow the White House than allow gays to be wed.

But the movie looks like it might be alright.

It’s got Harrison Ford in it. And Ben Kingsley with some rad face-tats.

And the amaze-balls Abigail Breslin from Kick Ass.

Lionsgate Films is pushing it hard, trying to keep Card’s infamous name and views out of it, but a myriad of gay and lesbian rights groups are shouting real loud.

Lionsgate say the movie doesn’t push any political agenda and it’s just a good story.

Gay and lesbian groups say it’s putting money in a bigot’s pocket.

What should I do?

Dogtrack Disaster!

In 1936 my wife’s great-grandfather’s dog won the Coronation Cup.

Sounds like an urban legend, right?

But it ain’t.

True story.

My mum-in-law’s even got the news clipping in the attic somewhere.

It was a greyhound called ‘Our Nellie’ and it ran so fast it caught the rabbit. Of course, it wasn’t a real rabbit but rather a fluffy, rabbit-shaped ball… or something.

Once it had caught this thing it couldn’t race again. After Nellie knew it wasn’t a real rabbit he just thought, “Fuck that shit! I’d rather sniff arseholes.”

Sad story.

 

Or ironic.

 

Or a cautionary tale about never doing your best?

 

Hmm, not sure.

PPIss Off!

With a metaphorical machete I hack my way through the jungle of 1’s and 3’s. The vines of poisonous ivy are cleverly disguised as a polite voice saying something like, “If you’re calling about your Super Saver ISA account: press 42 now!”

 

I chop and chop, sweating in the imaginary heat, only to find myself back where I started. I’ve pressed so many buttons that a callous is forming on my index finger, and somehow I’ve gone full circle. I swear the computer voice sounds different. It’s saying the same thing, but I can hear a smirk on those electronic lips.

 

If I could just get through to a real live person my problem could be sorted out in a minute or two. There must be someone sitting at a desk, hand resting on the receiver in anticipation of my call.

 

I’m like a Christian waiting till death in the hope that God will be on the other side. But then the Buddhists are proved right, and I end up at the beginning having to do it all over again.

 

What’s more annoying is now the computers aren’t even waiting for you to call anymore. Now they’re calling you themselves saying, “This is an important message! You might be owed money for PPI.”

 

What is PPI, anyway? I've seen the ads but I don't know.

 

Science fiction writers imagine a future war between man and machine, but it’s started already. Right now it’s a cold war. By the time it hots up we’ll be so used to ignoring them we won’t even notice they’re breaking down the door and stealing our children to use as batteries.

 

Usually it’s a woman’s voice. I’m not sure what it’s selling because I slam down the phone after the first few words. I wonder if the woman who records these messages will ever be able to use the phone again. Surely when she phones up a friend or the local Chinese take-away they hang up a second into her greeting.

 

“You’ve reached ‘The Hungry Dragon’. How can I help?”

 

“Hello. I…”

 

Slam! No chop suey for you!

 

Often it’s a man’s voice. Not a real man, because it sounds way too manly to be an actual man. He’s got one of those old American movie voices. Like a posh, British John Wayne. He always says, “This is an important message…” and I hang up.

 

He might have to tell me that ninja assassins are on their way right now.

 

He might be kindly warning me of an imminent alien mothership with its lasers aimed at my groin.

 

I’ll never know.

 

Soon the companies behind all this will realise their trick has failed. We’ve wised up to it and no one listens anymore. My advice to them is a slight change in tactics – instead of the formal greeting the computer should just have a chat, “Hey how are you? That’s great. I just wanted to tell you that Jesus saves at Santander Bank… and you should too.”

 

When the machines attack, when they bust through the roof with their metal claws and microwave eyes, we'll be lying in bed screaming, “Why?”

 

And they’ll tell us, “We warned you! We even got British John Wayne to call… but you never listened!”

 

 

Old School News

Buying a newspaper these days seems like a waste of money.

 

Whoa, hold on now! Suck back that groan. I’m not about to go on about the media being ‘all lies’ or ‘controlled by evil old white people’. Even if it is, it doesn’t bother me all that much.

 

What I mean is, why spend £2 on a dirty-finger-making paper tablecloth that you’ve then got to lug around until you find a bin large enough to stuff it in? You can get all your news online now, and to be well-informed one just has to visit different sites.

 

That was the plan, anyway.

 

But what I find myself doing more and more these days is spend five minutes on the actual article and then an hour reading all the comments and arguments below it.

 

The comments are rarely interesting or informative. They seldom make me look at the issue from a different perspective. They annoy me. I follow a thread of arguments and trollish digs at a commenter’s intelligence, roll my eyes whenever someone calls someone else “racist”, and generally ignore the voice in my head asking: Why the fuck don’t you just stop reading and move on?

 

But I don’t.

 

I understand the reasons for the ‘comments box’ or whatever they call it. If you bought a paper and read it and wanted to discuss a particular article you would have to walk up to someone and say, “Hey, did you see that thing in the paper?”

 

And what a let-down if they then turn and say, “No.”

 

But the current situation just seems like a lot of people yelling their opinions at each other with their fingers stuck in their ears.

 

With all this access to news I find myself reading less actual news. I have never been as ill-informed about global events as I am right this moment.

 

So tomorrow it all ends!

 

Tomorrow I’ll pick up a Guardian, a Daily Mail, and a Plymouth Herald. Please don’t judge me for my choices, I am an immigrant and don’t know which paper makes me look like which class member.

 

I’ll sit down with a cup of coffee and read them without a bunch of shouty people shouting about it all.

 

And if I’ve got something I really need to say about it I’ll put pen to paper and send in a letter.

Quick! To the Mid-Life Crisis Mobile!

The irony is that the only fear I have about getting older is the thought of going through a mid-life crisis… which is kind of a mid-life crisis in itself.

It shouldn’t worry me, as I’ve not really grown up all that much. I’ve done grown up things like get married, invested on the stock exchange and even set up a pension scheme. But there are parts of me that belong to my thirteen-year-old self. I’m partial to a Batman graphic novel now and again, I bought Ed Sheeran’s album, and at the moment I’m reading ‘Magician’ by Raymond Feist which is kind of a kid’s book.

The type of crisis I’m talking about (and it only seems to happen to men) is the one where you buy a sports car and start wearing your trousers two metres below your arse.

Not that I could afford a sports car.

And I’m probably too frightened that my belt buckle could catch my knob excruciatingly.

The mid-life crisis is a protean beast. Like the Christian Devil it can take myriad forms. Sometimes it is obvious, but more often it is subtle.

The obvious signs are trading in the silver Lexus for a red Mazda convertible, and trading in the greying missus for twenty-two-year-old golden-haired digger.

The subtle signs are, well, a bit more subtle. I know a guy who one day woke up and started wearing a funky hat. I know another guy who bought a skateboard at 32. My wife’s dad went through a stage of attending raves. You remember raves, right? Dance move classics like ‘TheSprinkler’, annoying whistles, glow sticks, future embarrassment.

The crisis creeps in when you least expect it. Just before it sloths up behind you and attaches itself to your brain you might be confident and secure. You might think you’ve got the world and your place in it sussed.

The MLC is a banana peel lying innocently on the pavement until you step into it.

It starts when you’re in the company of guys younger than yourself and you quickly realise they don’t get any of your pop culture references. It’s not so bad if the age gap is under a decade because some stuff you say might be ‘old school’ and kinda cool.

But it really makes you feel like a geriatric when they don’t know who Quentin Tarantino is, have never seen the Matrix, and tell you their dad sometimes listens to AC/DC.

If you’re likely to see them again you might try to bone up on some new stuff. You’ll catch an episode of TOWIE and buy a Jessie J cd. But the MLC sets in even more when you realise reality tv is shite and Jessie J just meaningless noise.

You know that if you tell them this they’ll just roll their eyes and think “okay, grandpa” so you either pretend to like it or try and convince them A-ha is real music and Bill Murray a comic genius.

Both approaches will get you nowhere.

The only way to combat MLC is through awareness. You must know that it is looming. You must be wary of the signs.

You must accept that one day you will die, but before that happens you will be shown just how disposable and irrelevant your life is.

But like Tyler Durden says, “It could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis and throw it out the window of a moving car.”

I suppose there is that.

Bring on the Bronco Burgers

So cheap burger patties are part horsemeat.

It was kind of a non-story. 

Surely we all know that any  kind of processed meat product is just a bunch of animals indiscriminately lined up and shoved into a mincing machine.

I mean, hellooo, have you seen polony? Remove the ‘l’ and an ‘o’ and there you have it.

Polony. Pony. Polony. Pony.

And the thought still doesn't disgust me as much as the thought of a McDonald’s Fillet ‘o Fish.

I’m not sure what I find so repulsive about the Fillet ‘o Fish (I've never tried one) but I suspect it’s the unnatural square shape. It doesn't make sense as I've seen the chicken burgers and I still eat those by the dozen. Yum!

But horse isn’t so bad. The French eat ‘em. It’s not panda or rhino meat. It’s not KFC.

From a humanitarian point of view, I’m sure the horses were treated better than the average factory chicken – even the free range ones – and that they lived to an old age before their corpses were tossed in the patty-grinder.

In my opinion people should be more concerned about how much sugar and salt is in their processed beef than how much of it comes from an animal that isn’t a cow.

To Tesco: Just repackage as 'Bronco Burgers - What Real Cowboys Eat!' and you'll be fine.

THE TEDDY BEAR DEATH SQUAD

At first I wasn’t sure if it was a rescue or kidnapping. Later it would all make sense.

Well, as much sense as it could possibly make.

I’m out back having a smoke by the bins on my own. By myself I don’t have to stop people grabbing my balls.

Because everyone wants to grab Elvis by the balls.

I know Rod Stewart has this problem too.

Okay, maybe not the real Rod Stewart, but certainly the one getting on stage now. Oddly enough, his name is Josh Stuart.

After his set is done he’ll come outside and be mauled by women. They’ll be all over him asking for autographs and wanting to buy him drinks. One or two might even slip their panties into his pocket with a wink and a phone number.

Sounds great, right?

The problem is they’re not the young, nubile women we all got into music for in the first place.

Rod Stewart was popular, what, thirty years ago? So the women who come to Josh’s show and pinch his ass or cup his nuts were eighteen and nineteen about thirty years ago.

He thinks he’s got it bad. He needs to take a look at me. The women trying to get in my pants could be my grandma.

But I didn’t choose Elvis, I remember, Elvis chose me.

It’s not just the old women with sagging tits and crow’s feet that get me down. It’s the hair and that ridiculous voice.

Uh huh huh huh!

 He wasn’t even like that. It’s like so many people created this caricature of the King that now they think the caricature is the real thing.

The bins stink of stale beer and rotting meat. From inside I can hear Josh belting out Maggie May. Next it’ll be Hot Legs and then I Don’t Want To Talk About It and then I’ll be back on.

I flick my cigarette into the darkness. Maybe I’ll mix it up a bit. Start with Jailhouse Rock and try out that new version of Suspicious Minds I’ve been working on.

The voice sounds like honey and broken glass in a blender, “Hello, Mister Robertson.”

It’s coming from across the street, “They say you’re the best Elvis Presley in a hundred mile radius.”

The man who steps into the streetlight is tall and so pale. He’s dressed in a black coat and top hat. His long, skinny legs don’t bend as he walks towards me.

I got to find myself a new gig. Too many weirdoes around here.

“Always nice to meet a fan,” I smile, “I’m back on in fifteen. See you after the show.”

“You’re seeing me now, Mister Robertson.”

It’s his turn to smile, but it’s not a Kodak moment. The corners of his mouth rise up and up until it looks like someone took a knife to his cheeks.

When they reach behind his ears his lips part. They’re not human teeth, more like a cartoon shark’s. Long and thick and scalpel sharp.

“Damn,” is all I can think to say.

My hand is on the doorknob. I know I should run through the kitchen and into the safety of my fans.

But I don’t.

Smiley walks like he’s moving through mud. His eyes are crazy. The pupils vibrating, epileptic. Slowly his arm reaches out to the side.

He takes a violin out of thin air.

With his other hand he pulls the bow from nowhere.

He holds the violin between his head and shoulder, stops in the middle of the road. The smile gets even wider, “Here’s something I wrote especially for you.”

And that’s when the van hits him.

Thud!

Screeching tyres!

The grinding noise of gears being hastily shifted.

Then a whirring sound of the driver reversing.

The van jolts up and down as Smiley takes another hit.

“Uh… hey…” I stutter. My brain frantically tries to process it all, but pops a gasket when the van door slides open and three guys jump out.

Three guys dressed like me.

Three guys dressed like Elvis.

Two of them grab me. I’m too confused to struggle. The third, the one with the machine gun, steps round the back and shouts, “Hey, Pork Chop. All I’ve got is some feet here. Move it forward.”

Gears grate again.

The van moves forward.

Smiley is revealed.

He’s looking rosy. He’s still smiling.

The machine-gun-Elvis spits on him and opens fire. Smiley’s body bounces rapidly with the rounds. The other two pull me inside the van.

The driver is a black dude with serious sideburns. He’s also Elvis. I wonder how safe his driving is with those sunglasses on.

He looks in his rear view at me and says, “You better be worth it,” then looks past me, behind the van, “Oh shit! Shitshitshit!”

He sticks his head out the window and shouts, “Trigger! Move your ass!”

I turn to look out the back window. Smiley is on his feet. He looks like he’s laughing.

Trigger swings into the van, “Go, go, go!”

The van screams away but before we round the corner Smiley has a chance to play one note on his violin. 

Maybe it’s a coincidence, but as he slides the bow across the strings the back window shatters and something slices my earlobe clean off.

Blood seeps from my ear, through my fingers, all over the place.

Picking my lobe off the floor I say, “Sorry about the seats. Must have been some glass.”

They all trade glances and Trigger, the guy with the gun, says, “Right… the glass.”

This is an extract from 'The Absolute Evilness of the Anti-Santa and other stories' by Nathan Casey.

Available for download: 

Amazon.com    

Amazon.co.uk    

Amazon.de    

Amazon.fr    

Amazon.es    

Amazon.it   

Amazon.co.jp

Angels, ghosts, superheroes and the best place to live after the inevitable Apocalypse. You’ll learn why you shouldn’t buy a 3D TV and why the world really, really needs Elvis impersonators.

Plus a support group with a grim revelation – Santa Claus might not exist, but the Anti-Santa does… and she’s coming for you.

Kitty Curry

Standing by the bins at the back of work having a fag break and a ginger kitten scampers across and into the back door of the Chinese take-away. I wander over and call the kitty to me. Partly because I think it’ll scoff some food and partly coz, well, I’m afraid they’ll throw it in a pot and serve it up as chicken.

This may brand me as ridiculous at best and racist at worst, but there you go… A few years ago in Plymouth a take-away was shut down because Health & Safety found a bunch of pigeon traps in its courtyard; so maybe the shards of this story are embedded in my unconscious.

The funny thing is that when I call the cat over the Asian cook, in very broken English, tells me it’s okay, he can come in. I ask if it’s their cat and he says yes. The cat strolls into their office and the cook makes like his hands are holding invisible cutlery and he’s feeding himself, “Dinner! Dinner!” he says.

Okay, I reply, and while I’m finishing my smoke I wonder whose dinner he was referring to.

Why You Should Watch The Paralympics

I have to admit I’m more excited about the Paralympics than I’ve ever been for the regular/normal/ordinary Olympics.

Maybe it’s because of the cool ad campaign for the Para’s –the Public Enemy track banging while the Paralympians look all surly on-screen, Murderball wheelchairs slamming into each other, and the blades that Oscar Pistorius runs on look a bit like alien legs, awesome.

Or maybe it’s because regular, normal and ordinary is a bit boring.

A while back I had a beer with a marathon runner. He had lost his leg in a motorbike accident and what would make most people shrivel up under the bedsheets and bemoan their potential invalidity didn’t stop him from sucking it up and just getting on with his life.

He told me that after running for tons of hours it was his ‘good’ leg that ached and gave him gyp. His lost limb, as you’d expect, didn’t give him any problems at all. He even mentioned that it would be a lot easier if he had two prosthetics instead of only the one.

Kind of casts doubt over the expression: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

According to all the sci-fi flicks we’ll soon be replacing our ears with mobile phones and iPods, exchanging our eyeballs for digital thingies that can upload holiday snaps to Facebook and zoom in like Superman’s, and chopping off our arms so they can be replaced with bionic ones. And when all this ramps up we’ll be jostling for mega-legs that run faster, jump higher and turn footballs into cannonballs.

A couple of years back the Olympic committee didn’t want SA’s Ozzie Pistorius to compete with the norms, saying his blades gave him an unfair advantage. So it only seems logical that in a few decades’ time it’ll be the Paralympians that break all the records.

But the Paralympics is about more than sporting achievement, and in my mind is more important than the regular/normal/ordinary/boring Olympics. The Paralympics has the power to inspire not just the disabled, but every one of us. In fact, it should make the rest of us feel shame for every time we gripe about the weather or our boss or anything for that matter.

The boring Olympics might highlight the physical triumphs of exceptional men and women, but the Paralympics does more – it showcases the triumphs of the spirit, and the strength of the soul.

A Reboot with Soul

So I got up nice and early and made bacon and eggs and coffee to take up to the missus in bed and still didn’t get to see the new Spiderman movie.

It’s not like she doesn’t go in for comic book movies – she loved Iron Man and enjoyed Avengers – but she just doesn’t get all giggly about the impending ‘Dark Knight Rises’ like I do.

At least superhero films these days manage to get decent actors and an actual live scriptwriter. I shudder at the thought of the pre-Nolan ‘Batman & Robin’ with Arnie Schwarzablahblah and she-of-the-weird-feet Uma Thurman.

It was fucking embarrassing when I insisted a group of us went to the cinema to see it. When we all left I was mortified and my girlfriend at the time patted me on the shoulder and said, “It wasn’t that bad” as though she was consoling me for the loss of my dog.

If they’d taken the piss out of me it’d have been okay, but they consoled me, for Christ’s sake. It was THAT bad.

But the good thing about these films is if you fuck up you always get another shot. Hell, the ‘reboot’ was invented by the comics. There are so many versions of Batman it’s hard to keep track so when I heard grumbles about it being “too soon” to reboot Spiderman I waved the notion away.

The Tobey Maguire Spiderman got a bit naff, so instead of wringing their hands about it they just had another go. I hear the acting's better in this one, anyway.

Comic companies are always reinventing these myths. They do them in creative ways like ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths” in the Eighties or “Zero Hour” in the Nineties, or they have cool asides like the fascist Superman in “Elseworlds” and the brilliant “Dark Knight Returns” by Frank Miller. If you think about it, the Batman turds that came after Tim Burton’s two were so different they were practically reboots; it’s just that there wasn’t the concept of ‘reboot’ in Hollywood yet so they called them sequels.

I hear so many new Batman fans sad because Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy is coming to an end. They think there’s not gonna be another Batman movie for ten years.

Personally, I think that if the Bane character in “Dark Knight Rises” does what he does in the “Knightfall” storyline in the comics (i.e: breaking Batman’s back and putting him in a wheelchair), there’s going to be another trilogy with the new Batman/Azrael character and how he goes psycho and Bruce Wayne has to come back and fight him and reclaim the mantle.

How cool would that be?

My wife knows better than to want a lie-in when Batman hits the big screen. Coz then she’d be waking up to an empty house while I’m munching popcorn and staining my trousers with excitement.

Backs to the Wall, the Gay Green Lantern is on the Way!

It has the faint aroma of a gimmick, but only time will tell if DC Comics’ gay superhero coming out story will have any kind of impact on mainstream society.

Yes, that’s right, Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, the guy in the green trousers and puffy red shirt with the purple cape, is coming out of the phone booth. When you take a look at his outfit it kind of makes sense. I mean, superheroes have always been a bit camp, but the OGL… the penny finally dropped.

Big news: The “Mums of America” or whatever the Christian fundamentalist jobsworth group is called were up in arms about it, bingo wings flapping, saying, “…they want to indoctrinate impressionable young minds…”

Dude, I watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show a million times as a teenager, but you don’t see me running around in suspenders and facepaint… well, maybe on special occasions. You either like a bit of cock or you don’t – reading about a superhero who does isn’t going to change anyone’s sexuality.

The question really is: Will he be interesting?

It’s a bit like politically correct rebelliousness. They want the little bit of scandal to garner some press coverage, but when it all dies down what then?

In the Nineties the Hal Jordan Green Lantern killed a bunch of people and tried to destroy the universe and recreate it as a better place. He became the ultimate villain. Will they give the gay GL some kind of dark side?

Here's the rub: Just like the Christian mums scream about a gay superhero, you’re gonna get people calling you a homophobe if you let your Pink Avenger do anything bad. Even though they’ve stirred up a faux-controversy with a superguy who bats for the other team, will they risk the political incorrectness of having him do something unheroic?

I doubt it. They’ll most likely have him come up against a homophobic villain and come pretty close to killing him, but in the end he’ll ‘do the right thing’ and just send him to prison. He’ll be the most goodest, clean-cut superhero ever. He’ll make Superman look like a kiddy-fiddler.

It would be wonderful if they really showed everyone that "hey, gays are people too", and had him, like everyone else, be a good bloke but also be a bit of a dickhead sometimes too. Once we get to that stage then the world really will be a place where no one gives a shit about your sexual preference.

But then there wouldn’t be any controversy then, would there?

Why You Should Buy A Kindle

I had to pause for thought the other day when a columnist wrote that they didn’t want a Kindle because then guests wouldn’t be impressed by their well-stocked bookshelves any longer.

I thought: Surely someone who is well-read can’t be so shallow!

Or maybe, like me, they’re just what is called a ‘late adopter’ of technology. When the e-reader first came out I, like so many, scoffed and blah-blah’ed about the smell of a new book and how proud I was of my bookshelf.

Then, alas, I moved to another continent.

Anyone who has moved house knows that worse than the sweat and swearing of hauling the refrigerator and washing machine up stairs is the ball-ache of carting boxes and boxes of books up the very same stairs. At least the telly gets up in one go, but a library of novels can take a week.

It’s a pain because books are heavy. I’m not talking about the intellectual weight of Tolstoy; I mean that you can’t shove all your books in one big-ass packing case. You’ve got to mix them in with clothes or stick ‘em in in smaller shoeboxes.

So when I moved from South Africa to England I had to part with all my imaginary friends and their exciting adventures. These fictional characters had changed my life, and as I handed them over to charity shops or second-hand stores I performed many tiny eulogies.

Two months later I unwrapped a shiny new Kindle courtesy of my amazing wife!

It is rare that as an adult one opens a gift that slaps a genuine look of wonder on their steadily-wrinkling mug, but that Christmas morning a childlike grin and sunfire eyes blossomed on my grizzled visage.

Since then I’ve become a wannabe poster boy for the Amazon Kindle.

There are so many reasons for this:

Bizarrely, it’s easier to read than a book. It must be the magic of e-ink, but my eyes don’t tire as fast with the Kindle and I can read for longer.

I love browsing in bookshops, and there is no bigger store than the online Amazon store. If you’re looking for your favourite author she’s right there – everything she’s ever written! If you like something Amazon will recommend stuff that’s similar. I’ve also found so many new, brilliant writers that just talking about it makes a big sparkling heart grow where my small black coal-shaped one used to live.

Also, you can only lend something to someone for a fortnight; and even though you can’t access it on your own Kindle when it’s lent, it comes straight back after those two weeks. This means that you never give someone something to read and never see it again.

I won’t bang on about how comfortable it is to hold or how cool you feel reading it on a bus when everyone thinks you’re much smarter than you really are – ooh, he’s reading; must be a doctor or something.

But the best part of a Kindle is this: I’ve often wondered how many books I’ve read in my lifetime. Heavy readers will say they’ve read over a thousand, but when you think about that it’s a book a week for just over nineteen years. Now imagine giving one to your kid when they start to read and in twenty years’ time that kid having a record of every book they’ve ever read.

Not only that, but they’ve still got all those novels stored forever.

Sad, but things like this make my heart dance like the Lilliputian toes of cherubs getting shot at by dirty Wild West gunslingers.

So you can keep your showy-offy bookshelf, fat and groaning with its unread copies of War & Peace and Noam Chomsky. We all know you hide Maeve Binchy in your sock drawer, and secretly read Twilight alone in the bog.

WIN WIN WIN

My wife loves yoghurt – but only in the small single serving pots. The larger buy-in-bulk-and-save tubs make her sick. Even a mention of them forces her to emit that gag sound like she’s about to throw up.

She has a few hang-ups like this. The vomit noise can also be brought about by a picture of Tom Jones; sometimes merely his voice on the radio.

I have my own quirks. For instance, if I buy a book, magazine or newspaper I don’t like anyone else to read it before me. Also: When dining I try to get a bit of everything from my plate onto my fork with each bite, thereby ending with a neat sample of the entire meal for my last taste – if I finish the meat before the veg, and am left with a bit of chicken sans the accompanying slice of carrot, a small wave of sorrow flows through me.

Granted, if someone reads my copy of Empire or I have a few chips left over after my burger I don’t want to hurl, but sometimes psychological pain is worse than physical.

My mum has a friend who is a compulsive competition enterer. The prize is unimportant, and whether one can win a holiday in Spain or a year’s supply of anal bleach she will enter it regardless.

Of course she wins a lot of stuff she will never use – like power tools and the complete works of Fifty Cent – but you can’t argue that if you’re gonna succumb to a bit of OCD then that’s one to go for.

Back in the day competitions were all about sending in a postcard with your name and address on. These days it’s on your mobile or online.

My advice: go for online.

Driving around one day long ago I kept hearing a radio competition centred on the new Whitney Houston album. They were incessantly playing her new ‘hit’ about how she looked or felt like a Million Dollar Bill and I couldn’t help thinking that the only million dollar bill I knew of was the Zimbabwean one, worth about one Rand or eighty pence, and that was how I usually felt after a big night out drinking tequila and pepper-spray. After a while I got so irritated I entered the damn competition by texting the relative number.

I didn’t win a cd, but what I did receive was non-stop messages from the competition sponsor. And being that Whitney’s primary target market was middle-aged female divorcees meant that the people behind it sold things like pills for menopause and books such as Eat Pray Love.

So in future I’d obviously go for the online option with a fake email address. If I’m lucky I’ll win a Tom Jones dvd or a lifetime supply of big tubs of yoghurt.

DEATH

Life is such a cliché.

Staring out the window at the rain, the bus trundles along and I’m wondering what a praying mantis is praying for (more bugs to eat, probably), when the driver hammers the breaks and stops an ant’s ballhair away from someone’s grandma.

She only realises this when the glass wall of the windscreen is towering over her. She hobbles across the road and when we pull away I see her leaning against a telephone pole, panting from the shock of it all.

Of course, my first thought was: Holy shit! But then I remembered the old chestnut: You never know, you could cross the road and get hit by a bus tomorrow.

Then I started thinking about the stats for such a death. For all the talk of getting hit by a bus, how many people actually do? Maybe a more clichéd end would be ‘heart attack from overwork’ or ‘died in his sleep from old age’.

Maybe they should say: Appreciate your life, because tomorrow you could cultivate a heroin addiction and end up lying in a shopping mall toilet with a needle sticking out your arm.

This is probably more likely than getting hit by a bus.

It seems like there are only two ways people want to die. One is quietly in their sleep, the other is in a rip-roaring blaze of glory – blown up rescuing a kitten or something.

It seems that death is a cliché too.

I can see the appeal of the ‘quietly in my sleep’ death. It’s painless, I suppose, but I think this way would cause much more aggravation than, say, being held hostage in a Speed-style elevator situation.

Imagine the conversations downstairs on the day of your demise: “Bloody hell, Nathan’s having a bit of a lie-in… we were supposed to take the grandkids to the Frisbee-a-thon!”

And then after you’ve been discovered as a soulless, empty husk: “Oh no, his coffee’s gone cold… and he’s shit the bed!”

I think the ‘blaze of glory’ thing implies death at a young age; you don’t really imagine senior citizens machine-gunning aliens and staying behind to self-destruct the mothership while everyone else legs it.

It’s not the kind of conversation anyone really wants when they’re hosting a dinner party, but it should be. Then you’d realise that no one chooses the middle ground and says, “I’d like to cross the road one day and get hit by a bus.”

…

In ‘The Tibetan Art of Living and Dying’ it says that “you cannot live [properly] until you have learnt how to die”. It encourages people to not steer away from thoughts of death, but to realise that one day you will die and live your life accordingly.

For every big decision I have to make, after trying to imagine what my dad would say about it, I try to think about how I’d feel about this choice when I’m smelly and crusty and about to croak.

Another book that I haven’t read but I’ve read about, written by a nurse who interviewed a lot of seniors on their deathbeds, apparently says that most people say they wished they’d worked less and spent more time at home with the family.

It seems so simple it’s almost an anti-climax – not: “I wish I’d spent more time at the pub” or “in front of my X-Box”, but “at home with the brats and missus”.

So instead of thinking about if your death will be painless and silent or noisy and action-packed, just think about one day not being around and leaving the world with the ripples of your existence.

Then your life spent trying to conform or striving to be a non-conformist (the same thing, really) wouldn’t be such a cliché.