To the people of the world who pray, take a seat, here comes some news.

Your immortal being, your supreme power, your life shepherd, is just another everyday Joe like you. He/she/it has been pulling the wool over your believing eyes. Allah, Buddha, God, Krishna, Tao, Brahma & co, they all commute to work. They all bicker, whinge and admit lentils give way to wind. They all have their own manual on how to operate us, but the truth is someone’s pulling their strings. Yes, they have parents too and true to Larkin, they fuck them up.

Take God’s old man, Gordon Bennett. He’s been around the block, had his problems with the drink. As for women, Mother Earth is in a custody battle with the mighty Bennett this very day. Gordon does his best to bring up his deity, but sometimes best ain’t good enough. Not for God. You see, as an only child he’s been spoilt. The breakdown of Gordon and his planetary wife exacerbated matters. Now, the age he is, he feels let down and is turning to us mortals to guide him through his rites of passage. Angels talk of his doubts over gender and his long held belief that the worm shall inherit the earth with its hermaphroditean rod.

Of course you may dismiss this seismic talk as mere ethereal gossip, or you can consult the sun and other major planets. By all means, stick by who rather than what you know, but don’t say Gordon never told you.


They hibernate.


‘A task will take the time you allow to fill it’ – Parkinson’s Law. ‘Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong in the most comical way possible’ – Kayla’s Law (ie: Sod’s with wit). “There are no answers, only cross-references’ – Wiener’s Law. And my personal favourite: ‘It’s not true so I made it up in my imagination so now it is real’ – Bess’s Law (as coined by my 4 year old daughter last night). If she can. we all can. Here is my punt: ‘What really makes the world go round are smiles, mint imperials and the laws we write ourselves’ – Kirby’s Law 26-2-09, 12:35.


Of the 16 billion feet that stomp the streets of the world at any given time, you can bet there is a pair way too close to you. We walk the way we drive. Rudely, aggressively, impatiently, and up the arse of the arse in front. We barge without sorries and grunt without reason. Is it time to paint pedestrian chevrons? The snap of stilletoes on your heels is enough to bring out the Travis Bickle in anyone. So, before fatalities on foot become a daily to-do, walkers of the world I ask you, ease up, step aside or trot on.


Zambian economist Dambisa Moyo is one smart lady. Her new book, entitled ‘Dead Aid’ explains how $1trillion has been sent to Africa over the past 50 years. She goes on to explain that between 1970  & 1998, when the aid OD’d, poverty in Africa rose from 11% to 66%. Conversely, micro-lending has worked.

In the past 6 months, we/the government has dolled out/promised £500billion to the innumerate boys in the city who play banks for a living, or rather did.

So who has ‘spent’ their handout most wisely? If we do the maths simplistically but invisibly (a la city boy style), allow for a sterling to dollar conversion rate of 1:1 (as it will be next month), factor in time, equate unemployment rise to poverty rise, then it seems that Africa is more able. 50 times as able as the city.

Money is like heroin. The more you get, the more you want, the more you skew its sense of worth.

PLEASE NOTE: The money for this article was donated to a new yacht for Goldman Sachs.


1. Read 7 pages of a book on a plane or train, but not behind the wheel of an automobile.

2. On the 8th page, stare out of the window for 1 minute as far as the land and clouds shall gallop.

3. Use your newly stretched vision to spot a small mammal for supper.


She belly-danced her way through the X-ray pillars at departures with her arms aloft and her hips alive. It made the scanners smile for the first time that day. Tomorrow, it would make her £700,000 in contraband pharmaceuticals.


Good morning wife-in-a-billion. Hope you liked your 1954 pamphlet and Bird tunes. Wonder if your heart is happy due to the baby tickling you, or because of the strange sensation of reading my writing that has been all hush. Until this day. A day of nonsense, yet substance. Love and all its brutalities, some indeterminately deep, some Pringle-esque. Your daughter would now like to say a few words. Mummy is nicer. That concludes the marks from Brilliant House. We love you. Midnight 14-2-09


and we’d all rather not be in the movie.


This morning, hungover, head stooped in a fry-up at Maria’s, along strolls Lord Lucan, again. We nod, then shake hands. He asks my name. Pete I say. At which point, from his pocket he pulls 2 printed pages of this blog given to him by a lovely woman off towards Buckinghamshire someplace. Is this you, are you Peter Kirby, he asked. It is me, I reply. We smile, he breaks everso gently into his kookaburra laugh which I assure him is a compliment. Like a fancier whose prize pigeon has returned, I too felt I could fly.

Next Page →