(The first couple may actually be from the end of the year before.)
OK so we combat Greta with Freedom Girl, an equal and opposite prodigy, maybe a bit younger and cuter and with longer pig-tails. And they can fight it out in a competitive tantrum, three events, shouting, foot-stamping and breath-holding, and whoever wins rules the world. We can find someone who was on Epstein's island, she'll be very good at holding her breath, and she'll already be on familiar terms with half the politicians she'll have to meet, lot of favours to call in, she'll just wink at them or start to reminisce and they'll give in to everything.
Meanwhile Bill Gates is about to dump dust into the atmosphere in order to dim the sun's light. What? He's bloody what? Is that allowed? Can that be permitted? Is no-one upset or angry? Does no-one care? If this was real life James Bond would shoot him.
Few people realise that when being knighted you expose your willy to the Queen to express loyalty. An extravagant specimen that swings like a pendulum brings a roguish twinkle to her eye, and she will screw in a jeweller's eyeglass to peruse the more dainty. If you are a cavalier, so to speak, rather than a roundhead, she may perform an ad hoc circumcision with the sword. Fewer people realise the Queen is Jewish. When I was dubbed I became aroused; merrily she tossed her crown over it and cried, 'Hoop-la! I win a goldfish!' I didn't give her one, however.
I want to pitch a film, I want to pitch a film
Pitch nothing, there's got to be an auction, this is gold
Listen, listen, three words:
Gender-swapped Jesus and his twelve girl apostles
Real women who talk about tampons
Apart from Judas who is a man
And then, gender-swapped Dam Busters
But they refuse to do it because they might kill fish, and they get lost anyway
No, the bombs are giant tampons, aimed at the patriarchy
BLACK CHURCHILL VERSUS CHINESE HITLER
with a cameo by Tranny Stalin
AND ROOSEVELT IS IN A WHEELCHAIR
Wait, that's been done. OK then:
PAKISTANI THALIDOMIDE LESBIAN ROOSEVELT
She kicks everyone's arse with ninja moves
Black woman Churchill holds A VIBRATOR INSTEAD OF A CIGAR
Everything is solved when she gives Chinese Hitler tips on her moustache problem and they lez off
WOMAN SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE WITH WOMAN MARLOWE. BOTH MUSLIM
JOSEPH WON'T LET HER BUY TAMPONS
SO SHE TURNS HIM INTO A WOMAN
HE LIKES IT
SHE PARTS THE RED SEA TO LET IMMIGRANTS IN
AND PILATE IS A BREXITEER
The Dr Who thing is like a cross between an updated Python or Perelman parody
of an old-time over-the-top Hollywood producer and that Onion 'Razor will have
five blades' bit:
'WE'LL KNOCK 'EM DEAD! HE'S GOING TO BE *FIVE* FREAKING LITTLE GIRLS ONE AFTER THE OTHER! FIVE! COUNT 'EM! LITTLE GIRLS OF ALL NATIONS! WHADDAYA THINK OF THAT?'
(And by the way it looks like little kids, especially little girls, are going to be the next victim-heroes, doesn't it? It keeps being pushed. There was that one in the thing I won't name to avoid spoilers, who killed the big monster while the grown man ran off wetting himself, and then another thing and another thing, and I think that must have been decided at Bilderberg to be the next big thing, full rights for them, rights to vote, rights to leave their parents if they annoy them and be scooped up in the arms of the state, right to join the army probably, and of course the right to express their sexuality with attractive older politicians and media people.
'WHY CAN'T BOND BE A LITTLE GIRL? WHY CAN'T HE BE FIVE SIAMESE-TWIN LITTLE GIRLS OF ALL COLOURS? INCLUDING A FAT ONE AND ONE WITH DOWN'S AND AN ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT ONE. AND A COUGHING CHINESE CORONAVIRUS ONE JUST TO FIGHT THE POWER. THEY ALL HUG HER AND KISS HER AND MAKE HER FEEL WELCOME. THE VILLAIN IS A 70-YEAR-OLD PRESIDENT WHO WANTS TO SHUT THE BORDERS SO SHE COUGHS IN HIS FACE TO SHOW THAT EVERYONE CAN CONTRIBUTE
WAIT WAIT WAIT NO, SCREW BOND
I HAVE IT, THE BIG ONE, THIS IS THE PROJECT, ARE YOU READY, GET THIS:
500 MILLION DOLLAR HENRY DARGER FILM
A HENRY FREAKING DARGER FILM
HENRY DARGER CINEMATIC FREAKING UNIVERSE FRANCHISE
LITTLE GIRLS WITH DICKS BEING CHASED ACROSS THE COSMOS
IT'S WHAT THE PEOPLE WANT
IT'S WHAT EVERYONE'S CRYING OUT FOR
WE'LL MAKE A TRILLION
BUT WAIT FOR IT
THE LITTLE GIRLS ARE ALL COLOURS OF THE SPECTRUM
GREAT SCENE WHERE THEY KNOT THEIR DICKS TOGETHER AS A SYMBOL OF UNITY
AND IT'S LIKE A BEAUTIFUL RAINBOW MADE OUT OF KNOTTED DICKS
THE VILLAIN IS THE LITTLE-GIRL-DICK-CATCHER-MAN
AN UPTIGHT BIGOT WHO CUTS THE DICKS OFF LITTLE GIRLS SO THEY CONFORM TO EXPECTATIONS
AND HE BUILDS FENCES EVERYWHERE TO FENCE PEOPLE IN
HE WON'T LET THEM THROUGH ONE BECAUSE THEY HAVE THE PLAGUE, AND MULTI-COLOURED DICKS
I FORGOT TO SAY THE DICKS ARE RANDOM COLOURS, LIKE A CHINESE LITTLE GIRL WILL HAVE A BLACK DICK AND VICE VERSA BECAUSE WHY NOT? BUT ALL THE DICKS ARE THE SAME SIZE TO AVOID STEREOTYPES
THE VILLAIN LOOKS LIKE TRUMP AND SOUNDS LIKE FARAGE
BUT THERE'S A RUSSIAN WHO LOOKS LIKE PUTIN BEHIND HIM WHO PAYS HIM A BOUNTY OF A DOLLAR A GIRL-DICK, OR TWO FOR THE WHITE ONES BECAUSE HE'S A RACIST
GREAT SCENE WHERE THEY HAGGLE OVER PAYMENT BECAUSE HE GIVES HIM A WHITE DICK THAT CAME OFF AN INDIAN LITTLE GIRL
AND MUSLIM AND SHE'S UNDERGONE GIRL-DICK FEMALE CIRCUMCISION
AND IN HIS SPARE TIME HE BEATS UP PEDOPHILES BECAUSE HE'S SHORT ON LOVE AND UNDERSTANDING
MAYBE HE HAS OIL-WELLS TOO
WE'LL HAVE A CAMEO BY GRETA, MAYBE SHE'S THE VIVIAN GIRLS' COUSIN FROM SWEDEN
SHE DON'T HAVE TO BE NAKED
SHE CAN DANGLE HER PIG-TAILS TO HIDE HER MODESTY SO WE DON'T KNOW IF SHE HAS A GIRL-DICK OR NO GIRL-DICK OR A REALLY LONG GIRL-DICK OR MAYBE TWO
IS THAT GREAT OR IS THAT GREAT?
FUN FOR ALL THE FAMILY
I WANT IT PG-13 TOPS
THEY'LL BE QUEUEING ROUND THE BLOCK
THEY'LL BUILD STATUES TO ME FOR THIS ONE
THEY'LL HAVE TO BURY ME WITH THE FANCY POETS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY OR START A SPECIAL UNDERAGE-NAKED- LITTLE-GIRLS-WITH-MULTICOLOURED-DICKS-AUTEUR SECTION IN PERE-LE-CHAISE
'We have more to fear from bigotry than this disease' - a World Health Organisation official,
and a thousand imitators.
Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his grandma's life for his religion. And a lot of other people's.
Oh. Once again I find the world has imitated or surpassed one of my jokes:
Florence had a Hug A Chinaman Day after the virus kicked off
Never forget, if you didn't know it already, that to the people in charge virtue-signalling is more important than your life.
What a fucking bore the thing is though. I don't mean staying in the house, I do that anyway, I mean everyone going on about it. It's like death by celebrity. I think it works by boring everyone to death. The coronavirus should marry Greta or one of those reality show stars and become a power couple of boredom. When we were kids, if any of us coughed, my dad would go, 'If you're going to die, die quietly.' Quite right too.
Oh. Now it turns out Greta is an expert on it. Perfect.
Am I the only one to find the Applaud The NHS ritual deeply creepy and metaphysically wrong? Once was cute, even touching in a contrived and corny way. But when I realised it was going to be a weekly thing... No. No. No. Horrible. Leave aside the echoes of Big Brother. People are no longer allowed to go to church to worship God. But they take part in a weekly ceremony giving thanks to a man-made institution? That's the golden calf!
Besides which, if you want to thank the NHS, give them more money rather a pat on the back. I don't even mean give more money to the abstract institution to be hoovered up by managers, I mean give a pay rise to the actual individual doctors and nurses who are currently overworked and risking their lives. Give them bloody danger money, not a Well Done.
I'd be up for a ritual of everyone standing on their doorstep to blow raspberries at the police, though.
I want to pitch another film, I want to pitch another film
A nicer one this time, I promise
Like all those films where you can't make a noise or the monsters get you, or you can't look at the monsters or they get you, only this time you have to hold your farts in
The aliens have no sight or hearing but they can smell one part of fart per billion of air,
even the noisy ones that are odorless to humans, if you let rip they pounce
You can distract them for a moment by throwing stink-bombs or rotten eggs but it still won't save you
Only those with perfect arse control can survive, there are only about a couple of dozen humans left alive when the film opens, half of them the Royal Family
Wait wait and there's a tribe of Amazons, aged 1950s babes who went to finishing school or the Rank Charm School, they don't fart either. They have resorted to genteel cannibalism and maraud around in E-Type Jags, but they spend so long getting out of them in a decorous way so you can't see their knickers that you can usually flee when they arrive
Our heroes are an ordinary family who survive from day to day by virtue of an iron discipline over their hindquarters. They're tense and bloated but they're alive
They're trying to make it to Fart Valley, a legendary haven where the aliens can't go and you're free to blow off to your heart's content
But here's the twist: they have such perfect sphincter-control because they used to be professional farters, they were a cabaret act, they were the Von Trapps of farting
They reminisce about it sadly, the time they blew out Beethoven's Ninth for the Prime Minister of Belgium, Dad's unparalleled triumph when he pulled off Flight of the Bumblebee at the White House
They even laugh nostalgically about the time he sharted in front of the Pope
They forlornly play with fart cushions but it isn't the same
They're artists, you dig, this is a family, and most of us have known one, who not only love to fart but live to fart
OK so they finally find the way to the promised land, Fart Valley, they bribe a 1950s Amazon with the last surviving Norman Hartnell dress or something and she gives them a map
And they almost make it, there's one last bridge to cross and then they're safe, but as soon as they set foot on it the son stumbles and falls and lets rip
And then, Jesus God, the aliens will come, and they all start farting in panic
I forgot to mention that for weeks the only food they've been able to find is beans and so on and things that are slightly off and it's been taxing even them to hold the wind in, they're like balloons now
And the father gives the mother a look and says, 'Go. I'll hold them off.'
And he sacrifices himself so his family can get away, as they run he turns to confront the aliens with head held high and deliberately farts out a farewell performance that draws them all
I don't know what it should be, something triumphant, Ride of the Valkyries or something, or something long and intricate, Inna Gadda da Vida maybe, or something poignant and apposite, Let My People Go or We Shall Overcome or Blowing in the Wind
But whatever it is it's something he's never pulled off before, too difficult, we'll set that up earlier, this was the thing he tried to blow at the Vatican but he shit in the Pope's face
But now he redeems himself, he does it
And it's bloody magnificent
The most beautiful and moving thing you've ever heard farted
I think it should probably be 'Amazing Grace'
Even the monsters are spellbound somehow, their proboscises twitch, maybe it smells incredible too, more and more of them gather but they wait for him to finish before eating him
And his family, safe and free, look back tearfully as he's devoured
They hold hands and solemnly fart out The Last Trump for him
It echoes from mountain to mountain in tribute, lingering in the air
...And meanwhile we're living in a very surreal film called Don't Touch... Suddenly almost missing all those uninvited hugs and unwanted cheek-kisses... There'll be a backlash afterwards, I reckon, everyone even more touchy-feely than ever in sheer joie de vivre... Even boxers and bouncers walking down the street hand in hand, sober accountants licking each other's nostrils just because they can... in place of handshakes people leaping on each other's necks and rubbing their genitals in their faces... entire cities will screw indiscriminately in the streets, from Land's End to John O'Groats the whole country will be knotted together in one vast squirming orgy from which only I will be left out...
New more relaxed social-distancing rules -
- Meet up to TEN friends or family members each situated not less than SIX feet apart
- Go out for exercise up to TWICE in any 24-hour period
- Gather in mobs of NO MORE THAN 5000 people
- Burn down a maximum of FIVE shops per day
Also, still can't go to church, but everyone kneel down to revere a man who stuck a gun in a pregnant woman's belly, nothing at all creepy there
'The decedent was heavily fentanylised and in a state of covidisation.'
'He had burglarised the home of a pregnanted woman and thrusticated a gun against her stomachal area.'
(Sorry America, thanks for World War 2 and all that, but you very nearly deserve all this for your crimes against language.)
I want to pitch a film, I want to pitch a film
BLACK GANGSTER JESUS
GREAT SCENE WHERE HE STICKS A GUN IN THE STOMACH OF A PREGNANT BITCH TO SHOW HER LOVE
PUT HIS HEAD ON THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL NOWWW
(Everything's demonic, isn't it? I wish I'd been nicer to God now. Get guns, keep very close to a very holy person, kill them and pretend to be them when God comes.)
God Almighty, aren't the covid dreams bad enough, do I have to wake up to this? Unbroken gibberish monologues all night, the bits Joyce threw away. Sendak monsters dragging me round with barbed wire nooses. I've got to find a pebble that could save the world, no not a pebble I realise it's more like a mouse, but it's too late now Prometheus is being nailed to the ground and graphically flayed before my eyes and his nerve endings stretched out across telegraph poles to become the living nerves of the screaming world. Every time you sin you're flinging nails in the faces of the beyond people, they show me how they scream too, my eternal shame, my unending grief. Scenes of desecration, old dreams perverted, a forest become a World War One battlefield, I find the Bookshop of all Books and it's now a horrible SM dungeon. Then Max Bygraves introduces a rising star, it's just this eight foot scowling budgerigar who shoots members of the audience with an automatic and everyone laughs and loves it. The lockdown has a new mascot, Colin the Covid Catoblepas. Colin the Covid Catoblepas says Stay Safe Stay Home. I'm watching you! His head coming through my window to get me...
Thank Christ that's all done with, awake now, sweet sweet reality. Look out the window...oh.
Could I go and live in Italy and suddenly start telling them their forebears oppressed my forebears and start pulling down all the bloody statues in Rome?
The people trying to pull the statues down should all be deported to an alternate world where the people in the statues never lived.
Sign a petition to ask the Prime Minister to protect the statue of Churchill. Petition? Petition? I have to petition the sod to do what he should be doing automatically?
If Boris isn't up to this he should step down in favour of Priti, and she should change her name to Kali, and add four mechanical arms holding scimitars, chainsaws, flamethrowers and so on and rampage through the streets killing without quarter.
Where is the catoblepas? Where is the catoblepas? What's the catoblepas doing? Last week it was poking its head at people in the middle of forests and up mountainsides. Too late, the catoblepas has taken the knee. The catoblepas will come to get you if you believe in the existence of women or the continuation of civil society or that the gangster saint died of a drug-induced heart attack.
The phenomenon of famous or semi-famous liberal-darling social media addicts who normally feel compelled to comment on any daily news, add their tuppence on the least little storm in a teacup, suddenly posting nothing but, say, kitten pictures, nature notes, hints of works in progress, announcements that they have rearranged their bookshelves or sorted out their socks; studying their fingernails while outside the world burns, because deep down they don't really approve of riots, mass hysteria, the erasure of history, poster tests or the cancellation of JK Rowling but hey why rock the boat? The Germans probably have a word for it. (I have looked it up. It is Huhnscheisseshtumm.) It is funny, sad, pitiable, in some cases genuinely tragic; should not be judged too harshly by those of us with nothing to lose; is at least a step up from active collaboration with barbarism. I would be the last person to condemn anyone for living in a world of their own. But if this was a fairy-tale they would hereafter be cursed, or moved by a simple sense of shame, to hold their tongues on all topics for the rest of their lives, not having spoken now.
The power! The power! Never been a better time to be a sociopath. I've just realised I could make anyone I've ever known unemployable by remembering unguarded remarks they made in happier times.
(In reality, I just erased someone's name from a journal in case I predecease and get them into trouble.)
Peter Hitchens has had a genius idea:
"I suggest that we are allowed to register as 'relaxed'.
We will sign declarations that we will not sue anyone or claim on
anyone's insurance if we catch Covid-19. We regard it as a minor risk of life,
to be coped with.
"Employers...ask staff if they too are prepared to declare themselves 'relaxed'.
"Where this happens, all the footling palaver of visors, muzzles ... and 'social distancing' will be abandoned... Trains can have special 'relaxed' carriages where refreshments are served and baleful, doom-laden announcements are turned off... Everyone else can carry on, shrouded in gowns like the staff of a mortuary."
Brilliant, brilliant. But it needs extending into all walks of life, virus or not. Register as Relaxed, agree not to sue, and you're spared all Health and Safety nonsense. Sign a form saying you're Relaxed about the health risks and you're allowed to buy cigarettes in attractive undisfigured packets as if you were a grown-up in a free country. Sign up to be Relaxed about free speech, and you're allowed to say what you want without penalty; in return you agree not to complain when others do the same and it offends you. (I seem to remember this was actually tried in many countries for many years and the results were quite good.) Say that you're Relaxed about the fact that life is a finite and fragile thing and that you move through it cheerfully responsible for your own decisions, and the bars of the barbed-wire playpen are finally taken down.
I want a Relaxed mass movement, a Relaxed party, a Relaxed Prime Minister telling everyone to chill the hell out.
*[NB I have cut the initial US election bit as (a) it really isn't my business and (b) I still don't know for sure what happened and suppose it's possible certain irregularities didn't make much difference and that people really did turn out for Biden in greater numbers than for Obama and (if I can trust certain reports) exactly where they needed to but nowhere else.]
I used to hate conspiracy theories but this is the wrong period of history for that.
As I was falling asleep the other night I had this sudden conviction,
'The mink cull is the first step towards killing off cats. Demons hate cats.'
Even if it's not that it's still wrong. The minks who came back to life, that isn't a sign of zombie apocalypse but God expressing his disapproval, belated as ever.
Meanwhile I just listened to half a radio thing about selkies. It had eerie music.
I soon decided the eerie music was misplaced and that no amount of it would work.
Selkies are the most rubbish monsters in any mythology. They are frigging seals.
Seals are not scary. Seals will never be scary. All right then, were-seals. That still isn't scary.
'It's a terrible curse, every full moon he has to balance a beach-ball on his nose.'
The minister denouncing them from the pulpit of the kirk: 'Watch ye for the signs of the devil's servants among us... By this sign may ye know them: they applaud too enthusiastically.'
These sinister figures lolloping out of the shadows and going, 'Arf! Arf! Arf!'
'But they steal the fish!' That isn't enough to make a monster, you tight-fisted Scottish mingebags. It's as if English farmers created a whole mythos around an Apple-Scrumping Beast.
And, lady fantasy writers, they aren't remotely sexy or romantic either. They're seals, for Jesus' sake. Have some dignity. Imagine the cold nose pressing against your breasts, trying to honk them like a rubber horn.
New corona variant will bludgeon you to death with an iron bar if you set foot outside your house, say experts.
What are they doing out there that they don't want us to see? They're doing something,
rearranging things. 'Don't come out, it's a surprise, it's not ready yet. It's a nice surprise.'
Redecorating with 300-foot monoliths made out of screaming skulls.
What if they're just staging the world's biggest heist? I mean literally, not some Great Reset massive transfer of wealth but an actual string of bank blags? I keep hearing lorries go past. What if it's world leaders in balaclavas or stocking masks personally emptying every single bank with sawn-off shooters?
Poor America. Not even my problem, but, the tension. The uncertainty. Does anyone anywhere really know anything or is everyone mad or desperately hoping? March 2021. President Biden welcomes the new Chinese overlords into Floyd City, formerly known as Washington, makes a speech plagiarizing Vidkun Quisling, gets confused halfway through and orders won ton soup and egg foo yung, soils himself. New lockdown restrictions are announced and the Chinese chairman is made the 100th member of the Supreme Court. White men across America are ordered to report to the nearest police station to be deprived of their privilege, ie their skins and dicks. George Soros is on the currency and all kids will now have sex-change operations at birth. Trump was given a show-trial, publicly tortured for a week and put before a televised firing-squad. His corpse is now hanging from an arm of the Statue of Liberty, now the Statue of Equality, and birds are pecking his eyes.
'Trust The Plan,' someone says confidently, even smugly, to a fellow refugee as they evade the searchlights and bloodhounds and try to cross the minefields at the border. '4D-chess.'