Sunday, 28 September 2014

On religion

A while back, probably twenty years or a bit less, a pamphlet popped through the door.
It was by the Christadelphians.
One of the articles in this colourful and somehow sort of old fashioned newsletter had this headline:

THE MIDDLE EAST CRISIS – SOLVED

Obviously the Christadelphians didn’t get the chance to implement their plans yet, I guess.
This morning I had an idea to help a bit:

GET RID OF ALL THE OIL THAT IS THERE

Obviously then the West and East and whoever else would have to find other reasons to bomb kids and stuff.
I am pretty sure they would find plenty.


A while back, maybe a week or so, I heard a knock-knock-knocking at my door.
A woman, dressed in white and black,
Plus her friend, who was very smiley, both started saying how they thought they’d seen me before:

IT WAS NOT TRUE – OBVIOUSLY

They told me they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I didn’t tell them he’d just popped out so they’d missed him by minutes.
This is why:

THEY HAD A SMALL CHILD WITH THEM

Around six or seven years old, I guess, so I just smiled back and gently told them to leave a leaflet instead.
But really that is child abuse isn’t it.


A while back, say, three years or so, I was walking with my wife in New York City.
It is in fact a hell of a town.
A young woman dressed in Christian Aid clothes thrust a clipboard in my guts in the street and said, ‘You look like you want to help kids out of poverty,’ and I told her:

SORRY, I DO NOT SPEAK ENGLISH

Obviously that is a really cuntish thing to say and I felt a bit bad later about it, but then I realised she started it.
My wife tells people that story and punches me and shakes her head. But as we walked away the young woman said:

HEY! YOU DO SPEAK ENGLISH!

And of course, she was right. Later I had a hot dog from a man selling them in the street and the onions as ever smelled much better than they tasted.
It was quite nice, though.


A while back, maybe thirty years or so, I had a conversation with an adult who was running a church youth club I went to.
He was a really nice bloke with blond hair.
I said I was confused really about why he worshipped this god bloke and he said something like:

TO ME, GOD IS LIKE BRYAN ROBSON

At the time I still thought I might be a midfielder when I grew up and I suppose I sort of still do really.
But I said:

BRYAN ROBSON DOESN’T TELL ME I’M GOING TO HELL IF I SUPPORT A DIFFERENT TEAM

Which I thought was pretty good for a ten-year old. The bloke admitted it was a bad analogy and then we carried on passing the ball to each other.
Now I think I was just being a little shit to get a rise.



A while back, me and my wife were walking down the street in Bangor and we passed some young men; handsome young men at that.
They were Mormons.
They were wearing black shiny shoes sharp black trousers starch white shirts and shiny eyes. And I said:

WHY CAN’T THEY RELY ON ALCOHOL AND PRESCRIPTION DRUGS LIKE THE REST OF US

Once they’d gone past and were out of earshot, obviously. But of course a part of me was jealous.
Because, ultimately, what is life but this:

FINDING YOUR OWN ANSWERS

What I think I object to is that people who think they have found their own answer want it to be your answer too.
And it never is, so leave me the fuck out of it.


Kids are lucky and doomed. When you’re four or five or six the world revolves around you. Toys are not just allowed but they are vital.
You play and paint at school.
Every little achievement, every word learned, every friend made and every toilet trip is praised. Because:

EVERYONE LOVES A CUTE KID

Later, when Santa is dead, the actual world of lies and cheats and governments and sneaks and crabs-in-buckets is revealed.
And that disappointment, that disillusionment, that crushing let-down is the root of all religion, or drugs, or whatever. I think, basically:

WE ALL WANT TO STAY FIVE YEARS OLD FOREVER

Which is when our dads and mums or whoever know everything and are gods and are everything and this is before we realise people who write newspapers or make TV or war or fight in streets are the same blagging fuckheads that we are.
That's what I've learned so far.


It might take a while to work out any more, if there is any more. Until then:


SMILE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE





On politics and art

Politics is the study of control.
Art is the study of life.
Politics loves systems.
Art appropriates them.

Politicians speak out loud.
Artists whisper in corners.
Politicians whisper amongst themselves.
Art shouts in new colours.

Politicians tell us we’ve never had it so good.
Art asks us to define ‘we’, ‘never’, ‘had,’ ‘it,’ ‘so,’ and ‘good.’
Politicians send us to war.
Art is a war against itself.

Politics is all about money.
Artists burn the paper it’s printed on.
No politician ever showed the world their unmade bed.
Artists write their own headlines.

Politics creates schisms.
Art revels in revealing them.
Politics is the art of opposition.
Opposition is the politics of art.

Politics sees no beauty.
Art dismisses the concept as unreliable.
Politics commisions pictures of ministers.
Art gives the politicians what they think they want.

Political manifestos are masturbatory pamphlets with stuck-together pages.
Art is ingenious, incessant intercourse between nations, strangers, ages.
Political speeches climax with sweat and applause.
Art can be two minutes of squelching noises.

If Damien Hurst makes a tree out of diamonds in a forest, and no Saatchis are there to buy it, is it art?
If a prime minister averts a slide into poverty by self-denial, is it politics?
If a Chinese artist is denied a visa, is that a political or artistic situation?
If a government wages war on its poor, is that in fact a Futurist statement?

Politics is about who writes the next chapter of history.
Art looks forward to ripping the words up and making a collage.
Politics moves in its own circles.
Art has a million pathways to a million truths.

Politics is statistics.
Art resists this.
Politics kills.
Art lives.


Thursday, 18 September 2014

Viva Les Davies

(G)
Bangor City gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
Got a whole lot of striker that's ready to score,
So get those stakes up higher
(Em)
There's a thousand centre forwards waitin out there
But they ain’t gonna get near City’s flair
He’s just the devil with goals to spare
C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies
G
How I wish that there were more
Than ninety minutes in a game
Cause even if there were forty more
I wouldn't sleep a minute away
Em
Oh, there's Siony Edwards jinking out there on the left wing
Johno and Miley mopping up everything
And wearing number nine is the mighty king
C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies

Em
Viva Les Davies with your crosses flashin
And your long-range blasters crashin
G
Other clubs’ hopes down the drain
Em
Viva Les Davies turnin footy to magic
Making centre-halves panic
A
If you tackle him once
                                D/7
Youll never be the same again

G

He’s gonna keep on the run
He’s gonna strike coaches dumb
At Nantporth like Farrar Road
Who needs that midget Messi
Or preening Ronaldo when we got Big Leslie up front
Em
He’s gonna give it evrything he got
Nev knows, baby, the ground burns hot
A million hopes and dreams in every Les Davies shot
C - - G                     C - - G
Viva Les Davies, Viva Les Davies
C – D7 -- G

Viva, Viva, Les Davies