BREAKING NEWS: The transfer window in football’s Premier League has fallen out of its frame due a lack of cognitive putty. Chairmen of clubs are continuing to conduct business with slashed wrists. St John’s Ambulance are present at every ground but chose to turn their attention, somewhat appropriately, to Silent Witness on BBC1.


Nature looks at the war we’re waging upon it.

And laughs.

We think it’s got the hump because we’ve raped the planet of its fossil fuels, an act akin to trees uprooting every grave of every human ever buried and torching them just to fend off the frost.

But we’re wrong, as we always are.

Nature has the upper hand – I heard this while watering mine today.

Plants plan to die first.

They are developing super-diseases to fast-track their extinction.

Of course, we’ll manufacture plastic trees and fake our species through another century or so until the elements leave us for a more considerate dominant species on a more considerate planet.

It’ll all end up with the last plant on earth, over-protected to kingdom come like the pumping heart of a cryogenic god.

Oh, to bleed sap.


We are sad.

Sadder than ever.

Longing for the opposite, longing for happiness.

We’re not all anhedonics, although Woody Allen claims he is.

It’s self-imposed, this sadness.

It’s a choice.

It stems from a cancerous form of behaviour.

The controlling cell that cannot stop dividing within us.

The one that has to be talking to multiples, tracking variables and holding hands with tangibles.

But this connectedness is self-strangulation.

A communication and information ivy.

If we sever it at its base, it will wither and die within weeks and suffocate us with an avalanche of sadlessness, which may over time lead to isolated states of happiness.

How will we know we have done this?


We will become lost by chance, by luck or even better, on purpose.

Eat the map.

Shit the map.

Blunder into the wilderness, it’s everywhere.

DISCUSSMENT (# 74,908)

An argument where both parties agree.


The Atacama desert in Northern Chile has to make do with a single millimetre of rain a year.

Until now.

Brazil, Mevagissey and Queensland are just pawns in the great meteorological equation.

In March 2013 there will be a flood in the driest place on earth.

A year and a day later, India’s Cherrapunji will suffer a drought and lose its tag of wettest place on earth.

This sounds cataclysmic. It’s everything but. This is the beginning of climate stability. Extremes will fade away as we slip into a global mediocrity so mundane, we will start to pray and kill for storms.


Same mum?

UNREADING (# 74,909)

Unreading is an art form.

It is not illiteracy. It is a disabling of logic and reason.

It massages the brain until it ejaculates barely detectable spasms of stupidity so tiny that a mosquito might muster a smile were it able to read in the first instance.

If there are any mosquitoes listening to this by way of fellow insects reading it out aloud, then please tell us:

is unreading better than sex?


They shaved him.

They groomed him.

They normalised him.

Yet his nine children radicalised him and living rough made him different.

The media is the darkest drug of all.


It wasn’t just another flood. He knew that. He told others too, but they chose not to listeneth. He paddled for streets upon streets. He found dry land. He foresaw a change in the climate, and not the one everyone else was seeing. He traced it back to New Orleans. He said the poor shall inherit the earth that is left. He said the rich will drown, from the heavens and the seas. He said thou will sink beneath the cracks in the crust. He said thou knows who thou is, does not thou?

It took time but he was right.

The poor lived the longest and reversed the wealth and health of the idiot species.


We are in a state of flux.

A transition born out of an economic mid-life crisis the world over.

Companies are governing and governments are selling.

In the middle sits a society of wounded customers who vote for poliducts and buy procies.

Whether the roles are fully transposed remains to be seen, and to a certain extent their fate is in your hands, my hands, our hands, but not their hands.

Their hands are tied in a Stuck In The Middle Of You* moment from Reservoir Dogs.

Long may they be bound and gagged.

* This observation is dedicated to Gerry Rafferty who died today.

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