Monday, 20 February 2012

Gang Gang Dance

GCSE Bitesize: History
with Exam Master Jay

We all know what's going to happen in June. That history exam will be just days away and you'll be freaking out because you've spent the whole of your study leave wanking on acid. But hey - it's cool, G! It's cool. Exam Master Jay understands. He's down.

With GCSE Bitesize, we'll have you up to speed in no time. So come on, gang, let's just chillax and we'll breeze through this bad mother. Hey, why don't we do it all in our underwear? You know, just to loosen up the vibe and shit. It's no big deal, right?

- - - - -

Now, the most important thing to remember about history is that there are no right or wrong answers, so don't worry. The entire history of our world as we understand it could be a complete lie for all we know. All we have to go on are the waffle of historians and whatever documents have survived the ravages of time and the purges of dominant powers.

It's often said - usually by drab, uninteresting people - that history is written by the victor. But in the twisting and shimmying of global politics, such things are rarely so clear-cut. What if there is no outright winner? What if both sides go home declaring victory, each accusing the other's pronouncements as spin or revisionism? Two histories are written, oh noes! Which do we believe? And Christ alone knows how many twigs will sprout from these two distinct branches, flowering and spitting seeds over the topsoil of time. Before you know it, there are trees all over the fucking place and you're confused and hopelessly lost, trapped in a forest of conflicting testimony!

And no-one even thinks to mention those tiny, seemingly insignificant accidents of fate which conspire to direct the course of events. The earache that rendered an experienced and highly regarded lieutenant oblivious to his comrades' efforts to alert him to the appearance of a sniper in a nearby window. Or the losses at the card table which inspired in one soldier a rage so fearsome it brought down eight of his opponents in a single battle.

If there's any justice (and I'm not saying there is, so don't you dare hold me accountable for what might happen if you should act on the following advice), you'll get an A* just for writing: "history is bullshit; a convenient narrative distilled from the Gordian complexities of reality to support academics' hypotheses and their governing ideologies. There is no such thing as truth. Fuck the Queen."

- - - - -

Now you just go and groove on through those exams. You'll groove on straight to Passville. And if any of you tells anyone about this, I will fucking damage you. Okay?

Monday, 13 February 2012

Thelonious Monk

Thanks awfully for purchasing Thelonious Monk WishFucker Deluxe. Your only regret will be that you didn't do it sooner!

Your hopes and aspirations once propelled you. They drove you like a drill bit through the walls of shit and used needles that sprang up from the jagged outcrops of life's bitter wastes. They were your motor, your fuel, your satellite navigation system.

But as the rainbow's end, they remain ever in the distance. Now they taunt you, nag you, scratch-tickle your exposed areas like the rough, callused fingers of a large, bearded woodsman called Knut. Your fantasies have turned against you. You have cancer of the dreams. "Turn around when possible."

Imagine: your ambition as a hollow-point bullet coming towards you in slow-motion. At first it thrills you, stirs you, impels you to act. As it hits you in the gut it begins to expand, shattering your ribcage and ripping through your vital organs, exploding as it passes through, destroying your pancreas and large intestine, snapping your spine like a dry twig and leaving an exit-wound the size of a miniature haggis. Once a tantalising vision on the horizon, now it is behind you. You are twisted, half-paralysed. You spend the rest of your life crawling on your belly, cursing your own desires. What kind of sick individual would want this for themselves?

Allow us to tell you a story. Remove yourselves from the present and find a comfortable place to sit in the early 19th century. An ageing patriarch of a powerful family - we'll call him Cornsplice - wanted keenly for his son to produce a male heir. Well, he got his wish, a strapping young man named Papilloma, so let's say no more about that. However, Papilloma was unable to produce a male heir of his own, much to his grandfather's distress (these were less enlightened times, remember; let's be thankful that all these people are now dead). So Cornsplice elected to take matters into his own hands by seducing his granddaughter-in-law with a view to fathering Papilloma's heir himself - so warped had he become in his longing - realising only too late the folly of his actions.

The resulting child became Papilloma's father, and Cornsplice's own son - Pizok - was subsumed. This is what becomes of the man who allows himself to dream. Yea, hope is the father of despair.

So why wait a moment longer? A life lived in anticipation is a life lived in torment. Thelonious Monk WishFucker Deluxe can help you to abandon your strivings and submit to fate. Simply switch it on, expel any excess fluids, then lie back and pray:

Why did you create us?
We are not meant to be.
Consciousness is our undoing.
A species aware of its own mortality,
Tortured by events not presently unfolding.
You are a cruel and sadistic god,
Delighting in the suffering of your children,
You twisted motherfucker.

Now get ready to experience a sense of peace long denied the modern human. Once the light's gone green, you've let go of your dreams!

Monday, 6 February 2012

Chris Morris

Chris Morris' Precious Moments

"Professor, I must congratulate you. With a small but dedicated team of technicians, and over the course of just eight short years, you researched and produced a reliable Aids vaccine. In just a generation, this hitherto unstoppable virus will be but a memory. This is an historic moment. Your name shall reverberate through the ages, one of an elite few who changed the world for the better through science. Today you have transcended mere mortality and become something closer to... a god. By the way, did you know you've shit yourself?"

- - - - - -

"Ambassador. With your tireless commitment, your easy charisma and your good looks, you have achieved what many would never have dreamt possible. You have brokered peace between all the major players of the Middle East. Where once was tension, distrust and outright war, there is now bonhomie, understanding and genuine human warmth. Through global politics' treacherous seas, you have steered the course of history to safety. There is no award for your great work, no commendation that would be any less than a gross insult. The world salutes you. Oh, and sorry, I couldn't help noticing... is that piss all down the front of your pants?"

- - - - - -

"Prime minister, you have neutralised the greatest threat mankind has ever known. Thanks to your diplomacy, ingenuity and your rugged, sweaty willingness to dirty your own hands through hard physical graft, the whole world is now effectively carbon neutral. They said it couldn't be done, much less through politics, but you showed the way. All other world leaders, now and generations from now, shall look to you as a model for what can be achieved by politicians, a word which you have surely rescued from stigma, as you have rescued the human race from self-destruction. And prime minister, I hope you don't mind me asking, but have you got jizz all over your sleeve?"

"Why yes, it seems that I have."

"Wow. Looks great!"

"Well, thank you! Now, why don't you all sing along at home?"

(Slowly, with feeling)
Oh, precious moments fill my heart with gladness,
When all I want is to be left in sadness.
Take away your smiles, and bury all your joy.
Your laughter is not welcome here, I'm weeping for the boy

I used to be. So innocent and pure,
And blissfully unaware of what life had in store:
A world full of horror, futility and madness...
Those damned infernal precious moments fill my heart with gladness.