Greetings,
I suppose I must be a socialist. I never thought I was. I always imagined a proven lack of awareness of socialist tenents would make someone utterly unqaulified for such an appellation. Yet I hear comedians such as Mark Steele or Mark Thomas speak and it is like brain nectar; refreshing and exactly in tune with my own feelings at the same time. I hear Billy Bragg and I hear a man speaking good sense.
By contrast when this David Cameron comes on the screen I change the channel immediately with a few well chosen Gallic oaths questioning his parentage, humanity and etc. This person is right wing and everything he says just makes the mind feel more leaden and the feeling that you are being told a downright pack of lies. That you know you are being sold falsehoods and you must pay. Vile little man.
Another glance in the glass and well fed by a sharp white, this is such a method to while away the afternoon in a sufferable blur. Then I am a socialist, it is indeed nice to have these things decided sometimes. Meanwhile on the record player I have Zoot Allures upon the platter, not for the usual connotations but because one of my favourite musicians happens to be Frank Zappa. I have begun side B with the excellent aural philosophising of 'Find Her Finer' and its even more excellent warning of how trying to impress a girl with your finer qualities will get you nowhere in love.
I have no finer qualities but I am nowhere in love all the same. I would surmise that you could play the willfully ignorant man mountain card but how do you maintain such a guise for the rest of your relationship? She will find your finer qualities out sooner or later and then you will be dumped I suppose. It would be a very stressful act to maintain but again not wholly without benefit.
However to speak with any authority I must turn to the phrase that my name gave form to:
"Not so lucky, Pierre."
This does begat a whole area with which I can talk with absolute conviction and qualification and therefore must be explained. However it will be next time as the bottle calls, until then, yours,
Pierre
Tuesday 15 September 2015
Monday 14 September 2015
Feigning indifference is different...
Bonsoir
Ah a gaze towards the pallid light eking its way through the gauze upon the windows shows the fallacy of such a greeting but nevertheless if I think in French and write in English I am expected to make some acknowledgement of the former. The tourists love it.
What I will not acknowledge is this rather stewed vintage wallowing in both glass and bottle before me. Clearly from the side of the vineyard where the grape pickers relieve themselves. It has not been opened since 2014. One glass in and I can see why.
Still, a borderline alcoholic must take the chaff with the wheat sometimes. Why not drink when you can think of little else to do? It is the drug to be the crutch for the rest of your life. I was on a consignment of prescription drugs not long ago which were meant to alleviate the mood and bring a feeling of worth back to the desolate canyons of my mind. Not even a sisyphean task, for rolling a rock up and down a mountain is a far more achievable request by comparison.
I cannot say it is self-loathing which commands these feelings; for that emotion is the foolishness of youth and immaturity. No, self-doubt is what I feel more. That concern that you are just not cut out for anything. You lack the skills which may make you a happier person. There is no skill required in buying yet another bottle to blitz away the day, inhibition and memory; the long term experience of any of these things can only increase the sorrow and isolation I find.
The only hurdle with wine is needing money but that is so celebrated and worshipped in this modern world. The atheists have freed us from religion but throw themselves entirely at the feet of money. I find money to be more intangible, baseless and ludicrous to believe in than any of the major religions they tend to sneer at these days.
I remember the cliche of the French being great lovers. I have been entirely passed by that national stereotype if it ever existed. I have become even less interesting with age and apart from drunken musings in the dark hours before dawn have entirely resigned myself to a life without love. Less complicated it is true, but...the loneliness and essential rejection of all I am can be hard to live with and needs constant justification. As a source of stress it can take years off you. Still on the positive side it has given me the motivation needed to finish this bottle of Chateau paint-stripper in one sitting.
I raised my head from the pool of my own vomit long enough to take a phone call from dear Bisson last night. It was also the opportunity needed to find my cigarette, fuming as it still was in my cadaverous fingers of all places. Bisson wanted to tell me of a great dream he'd had and wished it be related here. As he has given me the kindness to relay my thoughts here while he hibernates, I am honoured to do so.
The dream concerns a fellow called Ian Duncan Smith. This dubious creature was sitting in an orange jumpsuit and appearing very badly beaten up, bruised and bleeding, as he sat in the dock in the Hague. He struggled to answer all the charges put before him in any effective way and was found guilty. Bisson said he woke up before he heard the sentence but that was no bad thing as it allowed his imagination to run riot with all the possible and terrible fates that could have befallen this malefactor. It will keep him entertained for weeks he said.
Ah farewell wine, you were unpleasant to drink but made great inroads into my time. The last number of hours are a mere blur. Yet I must stumble out and buy refreshment for the evening and long night ahead. Begin on a sparkling white and let the selections darken just as the night itself does. Until next time friends.
Pierre
Ah a gaze towards the pallid light eking its way through the gauze upon the windows shows the fallacy of such a greeting but nevertheless if I think in French and write in English I am expected to make some acknowledgement of the former. The tourists love it.
What I will not acknowledge is this rather stewed vintage wallowing in both glass and bottle before me. Clearly from the side of the vineyard where the grape pickers relieve themselves. It has not been opened since 2014. One glass in and I can see why.
Still, a borderline alcoholic must take the chaff with the wheat sometimes. Why not drink when you can think of little else to do? It is the drug to be the crutch for the rest of your life. I was on a consignment of prescription drugs not long ago which were meant to alleviate the mood and bring a feeling of worth back to the desolate canyons of my mind. Not even a sisyphean task, for rolling a rock up and down a mountain is a far more achievable request by comparison.
I cannot say it is self-loathing which commands these feelings; for that emotion is the foolishness of youth and immaturity. No, self-doubt is what I feel more. That concern that you are just not cut out for anything. You lack the skills which may make you a happier person. There is no skill required in buying yet another bottle to blitz away the day, inhibition and memory; the long term experience of any of these things can only increase the sorrow and isolation I find.
The only hurdle with wine is needing money but that is so celebrated and worshipped in this modern world. The atheists have freed us from religion but throw themselves entirely at the feet of money. I find money to be more intangible, baseless and ludicrous to believe in than any of the major religions they tend to sneer at these days.
I remember the cliche of the French being great lovers. I have been entirely passed by that national stereotype if it ever existed. I have become even less interesting with age and apart from drunken musings in the dark hours before dawn have entirely resigned myself to a life without love. Less complicated it is true, but...the loneliness and essential rejection of all I am can be hard to live with and needs constant justification. As a source of stress it can take years off you. Still on the positive side it has given me the motivation needed to finish this bottle of Chateau paint-stripper in one sitting.
I raised my head from the pool of my own vomit long enough to take a phone call from dear Bisson last night. It was also the opportunity needed to find my cigarette, fuming as it still was in my cadaverous fingers of all places. Bisson wanted to tell me of a great dream he'd had and wished it be related here. As he has given me the kindness to relay my thoughts here while he hibernates, I am honoured to do so.
The dream concerns a fellow called Ian Duncan Smith. This dubious creature was sitting in an orange jumpsuit and appearing very badly beaten up, bruised and bleeding, as he sat in the dock in the Hague. He struggled to answer all the charges put before him in any effective way and was found guilty. Bisson said he woke up before he heard the sentence but that was no bad thing as it allowed his imagination to run riot with all the possible and terrible fates that could have befallen this malefactor. It will keep him entertained for weeks he said.
Ah farewell wine, you were unpleasant to drink but made great inroads into my time. The last number of hours are a mere blur. Yet I must stumble out and buy refreshment for the evening and long night ahead. Begin on a sparkling white and let the selections darken just as the night itself does. Until next time friends.
Pierre
Friday 31 July 2015
For Those In Peril For The Next Five Years...
Rasp,
I've had it with this rain. I'm taking time off to my villa on the coast del pheasant plucking and I will leave this writing in the hands of my dear friend Pierre Dreyfuss, a French.
On my way to the gate number I was accosted by a traveller asking what, as a British, it was like to be ruled by a masturbating failed pay sergeant, a doped up pervert and a polished turd. Well, when have we not been ruled by such specimens of humanity I replied and I use the word 'specimen' in the purely medical sense.
I reasoned that if you defecate in a swimming pool, then your stool will soon surface. And so it is the case with David Cameron, our Prime Minister: shit always floats to the top.
And it is this vein of modern politics which has finally revealed the purpose of Westminster. You know that's where all the paedophiles are. A purpose built facility to contain all the perverts and child molesters. Pity you keep re-electing them isn't it? Oh well, your call.
Enjoy the world you have created, I'm off for a holiday in mine.
See ya!
Bisson
I've had it with this rain. I'm taking time off to my villa on the coast del pheasant plucking and I will leave this writing in the hands of my dear friend Pierre Dreyfuss, a French.
On my way to the gate number I was accosted by a traveller asking what, as a British, it was like to be ruled by a masturbating failed pay sergeant, a doped up pervert and a polished turd. Well, when have we not been ruled by such specimens of humanity I replied and I use the word 'specimen' in the purely medical sense.
I reasoned that if you defecate in a swimming pool, then your stool will soon surface. And so it is the case with David Cameron, our Prime Minister: shit always floats to the top.
And it is this vein of modern politics which has finally revealed the purpose of Westminster. You know that's where all the paedophiles are. A purpose built facility to contain all the perverts and child molesters. Pity you keep re-electing them isn't it? Oh well, your call.
Enjoy the world you have created, I'm off for a holiday in mine.
See ya!
Bisson
Tuesday 19 May 2015
Hastag; The swastika of the trendy
Ehh...I despair muchly and then I get the news read by Catherine Morrison and all cares float away. They're replaced by rampant cognitive pornography but who's complaining and fuck knows what the news was about. Giggity.
Well the Norn Iron gay cakes row has reached one conclusion. I wasn't gonna say much but I do have questions...
Ok for a kick-off, Bert and Ernie, really? I don't know if they're hetrosexual, homosexual, bi-sexual...I don't think they're anything sexual. One, they're puppets! Two, it's a childrens TV programme for crying out loud, dreamt up the USA in the late 60s. Sexuality or sexual thought doesn't come into it. One of the benefits of being a kid is sex doesn't (or SHOULDN'T) trouble your life in any form until you're a teenager. Then the lonliness, misery, heartbreak and shit hits the fan not before and not necessarily in that order. I had just over ten peaceful years before having to deal with that crap, so stop sexualising everybody's childhood!!
Something else is what the bakers were doing. Well, as we know they accepted the order and a couple of days later cancelled it, either because of late second thoughts or to avoid a shouting match in the shop, whatever your take is on that.
They refused to bake the cake on the basis of their religious conscience, but what is that saying? When they get to Heaven they will be praised on an exemplary life but then the matter of the cake being baked to support gay marriage comes up? Is this really an ultimately human and egotistical move, being that exact and neurotic about your own salvation rather than bake a cake for some fella? Humans have used religion for ego purposes, don't be under any illusions there.
Then are they that devout and enveloped in their faith, taking a more in a more innocent perception here, it really cannot sit right with their conscience for them to accept such an order? If they are then you can only wish the best for them as they have a sense of peace that the rest of us can only dream of.
The answer to all these questions is...I don't know.
Except maybe, just maybe, this concern over cakes is like cartoons. Something to focus on with such microscopic examination to the exclusion and loss of the greater message religion is trying to teach us; How we can be at peace with ourselves and each other. Yep that one is utterly baffling to humans.
In the end...I'll be surprised if this stays posted but I am also glad to get some of these thoughts released or put down. Yeah maybe the latter, I'll get onto Dignitas then.
Bisson
Thursday 14 May 2015
Something's wrong...
I spent a good fifteen years of my life in a basement. Now I'm relegated to a tiny bedroom every night. I've gone very badly wrong somewhere...
Still not as bad as the UK anyway. Oxford dictionaries will provide a new definition of the term "fucked" which will be 'The UK in the years 2015 to 2020'. How? Why? How on Earth could such a state befall Britain, that gangrenous isle, that dried up piece of shit clinging to the pubic hair of planet Earth? Yes that Britain. Well what happened was the people in the south of England, you're going to love this, did a very silly thing. Well I'll tell you what they did. They re-elected the Tory party of "Dave" Cunteron to be the majority government of the country for the next five years. And no that is not a typo. Nor some horrible nightmare we have yet to awaken from. This is happening. We have the Tories ruling our lives for the next five, long years. Form an orderly queue at Beachy Head folks if you can afford to get there, beat the rush.
What, wait? Suicide is preferable to five more years of the Tories?! It's more humane certainly. Tories only have an electorate just to watch them die, very, very slowly. Ian Duncunt Smith will strip everybody of their welfare and pensions to pay off some rich guys who wasted their own money eight years ago and then videotape all those dying of exposure and starvation which he will then wank himself off to, cos, y'know, he's into that. Jeremy Cunt will charge people for being ill, a hundred pounds per cold please. How dare you get ill. Gorgeous George Oscunt will make every moment of your existence a horror show as he's good at that and so on...
Ok you get it! Life's going to be hell from here on in, that point was clearly made with some bludgeoned subtlety and yes it's all the fault of the south of England and yes the politicians are all liars and deviants who enjoy hurting you. You've heard the same freaking out rhetoric already here and elsewhere. Change the record to something new!
Well, I would argue there is still a fresh fear within these tired old rants. This isn't being a bad loser at the result. How could it be? I'm not wired that way plus most of the population didn't bother to vote and no viable alternative would ever be voted for. Milibot was not going to get in on a majority vote and it's way easier to scare those who do bother to vote into voting Tory with enough bullshit headines. The next thing is "Dave" has come out and said Britain is too tolerant and should interfere in people's lives more. Yes, that is what you have elected. The state suddenly re-exists but not in a Marxist sense, ooh no, that was about people not profit and people are useless when it comes to making real money. Prepare for the sound of your bones crushing under the wheels of state if you don't tow the line more.
Still Scotland has the SNP totally ruling the roost. Or move to the Republic of Ireland. They'll still fuck you over but do it in a charming and lyrical way. We're all doomed anyway so may as well have a bit of poetry to the demise...
Hang on, you say, the placement of the word 'cunt' in the names of leading Tories?! That's the best you can come up with?! Well I ain't got much but that I have and it's worth something as we live in the Age of the Puerile now folks.
Bisson
Still not as bad as the UK anyway. Oxford dictionaries will provide a new definition of the term "fucked" which will be 'The UK in the years 2015 to 2020'. How? Why? How on Earth could such a state befall Britain, that gangrenous isle, that dried up piece of shit clinging to the pubic hair of planet Earth? Yes that Britain. Well what happened was the people in the south of England, you're going to love this, did a very silly thing. Well I'll tell you what they did. They re-elected the Tory party of "Dave" Cunteron to be the majority government of the country for the next five years. And no that is not a typo. Nor some horrible nightmare we have yet to awaken from. This is happening. We have the Tories ruling our lives for the next five, long years. Form an orderly queue at Beachy Head folks if you can afford to get there, beat the rush.
What, wait? Suicide is preferable to five more years of the Tories?! It's more humane certainly. Tories only have an electorate just to watch them die, very, very slowly. Ian Duncunt Smith will strip everybody of their welfare and pensions to pay off some rich guys who wasted their own money eight years ago and then videotape all those dying of exposure and starvation which he will then wank himself off to, cos, y'know, he's into that. Jeremy Cunt will charge people for being ill, a hundred pounds per cold please. How dare you get ill. Gorgeous George Oscunt will make every moment of your existence a horror show as he's good at that and so on...
Ok you get it! Life's going to be hell from here on in, that point was clearly made with some bludgeoned subtlety and yes it's all the fault of the south of England and yes the politicians are all liars and deviants who enjoy hurting you. You've heard the same freaking out rhetoric already here and elsewhere. Change the record to something new!
Well, I would argue there is still a fresh fear within these tired old rants. This isn't being a bad loser at the result. How could it be? I'm not wired that way plus most of the population didn't bother to vote and no viable alternative would ever be voted for. Milibot was not going to get in on a majority vote and it's way easier to scare those who do bother to vote into voting Tory with enough bullshit headines. The next thing is "Dave" has come out and said Britain is too tolerant and should interfere in people's lives more. Yes, that is what you have elected. The state suddenly re-exists but not in a Marxist sense, ooh no, that was about people not profit and people are useless when it comes to making real money. Prepare for the sound of your bones crushing under the wheels of state if you don't tow the line more.
Still Scotland has the SNP totally ruling the roost. Or move to the Republic of Ireland. They'll still fuck you over but do it in a charming and lyrical way. We're all doomed anyway so may as well have a bit of poetry to the demise...
Hang on, you say, the placement of the word 'cunt' in the names of leading Tories?! That's the best you can come up with?! Well I ain't got much but that I have and it's worth something as we live in the Age of the Puerile now folks.
Bisson
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