Author Archives: Raph Shirley

About Raph Shirley

I have been creating strange material for the internet for over twenty years. A kind of failed artist yet I refuse to stop.

A portrait of a provincial dickhead

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Walking down Hemel Hempstead high street in the half light of an autumn evening, the industrial estates rising upward against a violet-blue sky, is a pleasure unparallelled. Sexual ecstacy, the embrace of a fat woman, intellectual breakthrough, and moments of realisation and creativity are but hundreds and thousands to the Walls Cream of Cornish ice cream of sittin’ in Has Beans coffee shop with a coffee and two scoops of the aforementioned. x

The hotel where I lost my virginity.

A bottle of JD mate.

Just off Leighton Buzzard Road is where I go hunting on a Sunday.

the hum of a distant city
orange through leafless trees
looks like an eyelash

The gutter I vomit in.

– Oh yeah which way did you go?

– M25 at that hour?! Oh no, not a good idea mate.

Nice one mate,

US enters new era of post election US

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Something very remarkable happened to me last Saturday. I was going about my business like any Saturday. Except it wasn’t Saturday and it wasn’t happening to me but the USA. It was 2008 and they’d just elected their first Hawaiian president. You may have heard of him. A man called… Barack was it? No. Because we are conducting an outrageous thought experiment where America had voted for John McClane. Yippee kay ay mother… no, just mother? You guessed it, it’s election time again, the jolly democratic carnival is back in town, and this time the outcome depends on the voters… again. It. Where Americans everywhere and especially in America go into a little box to place their plops and drips in a pool of water before heading out to vote, but sometimes they get it the wrong way round, something Tony Blair benefited from in 97. It is often said that up to 95% of Labour votes that year were actually accidental toilet-roll/voting-slip mishananigans, but the true figure may be much higher. And John McClane was from Hawaii.

I’ve been spending the last two weeks gauging emotions, and not to mention political temperatures, after mentioning it that one time, in the streets, and roads, and cul-de-sacs, and carparks of the people of this great place of Hemel Hempstead.


Figure 1. Militant? As in you take up arms?

I’ve spoken to the fishmonger who smells so bad that she can’t get a job since November. ‘Who will you be voting for?’ I ask with clothes peg nasality. ‘I don’t have a vote’ she says, as if entirely aware of the gross inequality facing gross fishmongers every second in every way just because of their Britality. I’ve spoken to the schoolteacher who smells so bad she can’t remember the one times table. I’ve spoken to my brother who smells so bad that I realised the smell was coming from me.


Figure 2. A display of my disdain for the actor Daniel Radcliffe. He is seriously pissed off about this.

“One man is a president. The other has a magic hat” – Ricky Gervais, on Letterman. Yeah, but Obama supposedly believes in the virgin birth.

But when it comes down to it, there’s only one poll that matters. There’s only one poll every four years that matters. There’s only one poll every four or two that matters the most, more than the polls which gauge opinion and are not true indicators given the small sample sizes, but there’s only one poll that matters because I know about politics and important things in the world.

But one way or another, we’ll have a new world leader come Wednesday. It is important. It will have a profound influence on you because you don’t understand it like I do. Perhaps that fishmonger will be able to sell her fish for a few extra dollars, but come Romney, or Obama, or a strange hybrid monster of the two, or a total surprise like it was all a dream, politics will be important. Have you ever eaten a meal? Politics. Have you ever seen a tree? Politics. Have you ever fought in a war? Politics affects every aspect of your life except your ear size. Accept your ear size! Listen to what democracy is telling you.

Your man in Hemel,

An attempt to provoke a lawsuit for publicity purposes

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Dear St James’s Palace,

Please consider suing me for posting the following image. It would be very useful publicity for me. Ideally I could take the Daily Mail approach and feign dissaproval of the original publication and still give my readers the tillation of the thought of a young woman’s breasts. This already commercially viable approach, if muddled with the popular mythology surrounding the tragic death of a mother, has the potential to become a winsome narrative/self fulfilling prophecy and could make us a lot of money, while maintaining adoration levels for your vulgar traditions.


Figure 1. Pwooooaaaar! Please note that I am not the copyright holder for this image. I made the rare decision to post it anyway for purely selfish reasons.

Kind regards,

PS for the manipulation of my google page rank may I politely say “Kate Middleton Kate Windsor duke and duchess of Cambridge topless Wills and Kate Prince William British Royal Family French paparazzi peeping tom”.

Life on earth

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And in the ancient earth, where empty ground held vacant sky, magic and sorcery gave this nothing a new vanity. Proto-life was born in an inclement world and the day’s order was suffering. The injured rock took more punishment in quantity unbound when animals looked around. And final indignity came in man making a mirror for chimpanzee to inspect her own arse.

I should like to tell my son about the birds and the bees; how the virgin queen leaves her cell and vows to kill the others until the survivor celebrates by mating with many drones in a “drone congregation area” and uses that mixed seed for the rest of her life until she is too old and must be superceeded; that when a new queen is available, the workers will kill the reigning queen by clustering tightly around her until she dies from overheating. That went down well but the birds with their rape and infidelity, with their murder and most of all the pecking out the sperm of a rival from one’s lover’s vagina left the boy frightened. He asked why no animal had ambition beyond basic personal suicide. Why does no animal set a noose round life? “Technical difficulties” I reassured. And anyway plants aren’t so bad. We watched a Venus fly trap in slow motion on the telivision for pure entertainment value.

All the planets gossip about earth catching life. They giggle at the itchy green patches and vulgar animals; particularly the literate ones. They wonder if earth the slut caught it off an asteroid from out of town like Mars insists. Or whether “it just developed naturally” as earth says, through a sneeze. There is only one cure says Jupiter. But how to throw earth out? How to deny the addict its vice; its Sun?

“It is gossimer thin! This veil of ugliness hides a pure heart of rock and fire. Let me have light. You will not catch it. You are safe.” But they are not secure. They are in great danger. They have let the host free too long.

I hope you enjoy my new and bawdy direction,

Edinburgh 2012 summary

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I got two reviews. One was one star. One was four stars. That pretty much sums up the audience responses. Average star rating was therefore 2.5, half a star down on last year, but I got 2 more stars in total. Yippee! I only need a two star review and a five star one and I’ve got the whole set (I suspect the two might come easier than the five). Also, not a single person this year threatened to beat me up shouting “it’s not fucking funny, like your fucking act”. Not a single one! I am progressing. No-one said “I find this deeply offensive”, and no-one said “How long have you been doing this?”. There is a part of me that thinks that means I’m actually regressing in some sense. “When you’re a misanthrope, the praise of others is effectively scorn” – Raph Shirley, in his critically ignored 2011 Edinburgh show.

What I did have, was a lot of walkouts. I had about five shows go seriously southward, frequently involving mass walkouts. I don’t mind a single mass walkout, but little dribs and drabs throughout the act is depressing. But listen yeah, when you are a great artist like me, people will sometimes be confused. They know not what they do. “Let me tell you about another so-called ‘wicked’ guy. He had long hair and some wild ideas and he didn’t always do what other people thought was right. And that man’s name was… I forgot… but the point is… I forgot… Marge, you know who I’m talking about. He used to drive that blue car.” – Homer Simpson.

* * *


Figure 1. Self portrait at end of festival (a copy of a Matthew McConville painting).

* * *

A sample of quotes:

“Raph Shirley is not funny… [He is] an unpleasant, smug, petty-minded, delusional geek who thinks he can make it as a stand-up.” – Tristram Fane Saunders, absurdly named reviewer for the absurdly titled BroadwayBaby.com.

“Tristram Fane Saunders is a mad, pathetic, evil, and wormlike weasel, who may well hit kittens in their adorable little faces, and doesn’t understand proper use of conjunctions in lists… Petty!? Would a petty man write a rigorous refutation of an accusation of pettiness?! Huh?!?! Would they Tristram, you dreadful man?” – Raph Shirley, cool dude.

‘ “Raph Shirley is… funny” – Tristram Fane Saunders, BroadwayBaby.com.’ – Future press release for Raph Shirley.

No, but seriously, I wish him well.

“This has the potential to be fantastic alternative character comedy… a lot of promise, and it’s certainly original.” – Liam McKenna, FringeGuru.com.

“Liam McKenna is the finest reviewer the world has ever known.” – Raph Shirley.

“[laughs] That isn’t even minimum wage! That’s less than a tramp gets.” – Shop worker on hearing how much money I took that day.

“Hi, we saw you last year and came back. You were the best thing we saw on the Free Fringe.” – nice person after show.

When thinking about reviews and reviewers never forget the following fact: the film Love Actually was generally positively reviewed.

* * *

I had one catastrophe of a show (last year, I had about five), when I asked two people to leave because they were “annoying me”. No, but seriously, they were really annoying me though. The atmosphere in the room instantly fell to the floor and I never got them back. I’ve made a graph:

Figure 2. Vibe verses time during final show when I asked some people to leave.

* * *

Love to all my fellow humans (-1),

Non-cynical non-ironic PS:

Thank you to Peter Buckley Hill and everyone else at PBH’s Free Fringe 2012. Thanks also to the extremely friendly and helpful staff at The Globe Bar.

A parody of 50 Shades of Grey by replacing Grey with Brown

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Before we begin, may I politely remind you that my Edinburgh Fringe show, Computer Programmer Extraordinaire, opens tomorrow of all days! 16:45, at Globe Bar, Niddry St, 4-25 August (not 14), Free.

Warning: this post contains scenes of a deeply pretentious and pompous nature.

50 Shades of Grey has successfully duped the last major group of people still unaware of free online pornography; middle aged women. I’m going for another, not so major group; materials scientists.

She came in to the room and looked at his dick. “mmmm, nice knob” she… SHOUTED… seductively! It is fair to say that he was hard. As hard as steel. As hard as diamond. Literally harder than diamond. She took a Vickers hardness tester out of her vagina and struck his cock with it. His penis… scratched… the diamond. Yes, it was a fucking 2000 on the Mohs scale. Coincidently the number of years since Christ’s visit to Jerusalem? Me thinks not. Assuming Dawkin’s proto-theory of the penis in human males fulfilling a kind of health display role, like the Peacock’s tale (they do spin a good yarn!), his blood pressure was fucking insane, indicating this guy had certainly been taking his cod liver oil supplements, if you know what I mean1. He was so fucking hard that his sex organ… fucking… popped. “There’s plenty more where that came from” he… SHOUTED… seductively, before sprouting a new one “down there” like a lizard grows a new tail. Yes, it is fair to say that Chris Brown (strange direction?), is, capable of autotomy. His blood dribbled down her face like a money shot gone awry. “Odd” they thought.

1 I mean I find the book offensive in it’s mildness. A kind of stark symbol of the timidity and lack of imagination of modern humans.


Figure 1. Vickers hardness tester.

“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck,” he said. They reached sexual ecstasy in Unison (they were inside the HQ of the public service trade union).

Now.

He produced a contract. A patent. She looked upset, as if there was something distasteful about deriving sexual pleasure from simulating literal and intellectual bondage. A concept that is, of course, completely abhorrent. Oh, did I mention he was a… billionaire. It was Bill Gates pretending to be the violent Chris Brown.

Infinite suffering was inflicted upon the woman. Sensory and cognitive oblivion. Wastes of pain and horror. Sexy pain. Sexy horror. He also, and more importantly, provided financial security, something that is all too rare in the current economic climate.

But she wouldn’t do anal and he wouldn’t do gay.

*         *        *

Claire Sarahly left the stage of the Canal Cafe theatre. Her satire had gone down a storm. As in everyone wished it hadn’t happened. Forty years of her life flashed before her. She looked back at her younger self with scorn and said ‘I was a bit of an idiot for writing that’. She died poor and alone.

Yours with love and devotion and an erection,

PS As a little bonus, if you insist, you can listen to a stand-up set I recorded recently sans audience:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/RaphShirley-BBC-NCA.mp3]

or download it for your portable digital media players here

“Hangin’ Out” unplugged session in F Major

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Hello,

A little web cam’ vid’:

There will be no songs in the show. Thank god!

Best wishes for the future,

P.S. You may watch this video as many times as you like!

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Conclusion in unexplainable high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts. This week we conclude with the Conclusion:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section5.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

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Eviction

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I thought secretly living in my parents garden was going to work out… The plan to be covert was going pretty perfectly until my dad followed the daisy chained power adapters to the shed and uncovered my den of sin.

It was Friday night when it happened. 9pm and I’m layin’ on the bed sewing pre-emptive crotch patches into my new wranglers. I got fan heaters in double figures and there I lay, naked in my vault of vice. My cave of carnal cravings. My garden shed of earthly delights. My castle of sin on a sand pit. Sin upon sin upon sin. Soiled sheets and empty doritos bags. Dangerous quantities of both analogue and digital pornography. Empty cans of value lager and printed out computer game guides. Hard drives and keyboards. Mice and memory cards. DVDs upon DVDs upon DVDs (alphabetized). Terminator figurines on computer manuals on atheist propaganda. my wretched body draped in a sweaty grime cloth from George by Asda.

Don’t look at me! Vice and squalor and dirt. The very air was composed of fart, and cough, and the ghosts of filthy words. My parents are retching and they said `this ground must be condemned for a hundred years’, `ten generations shall pay for this crime’. I was a filthy animal. I knew then I had to move out… and four months later I had. I dunno maybe I’m going over the top.

Al the best,

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Discussion section in unremarkable high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts. This week the discussion:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section4.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

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Edinburgh Preview at 9.30pm on 22 July @ The Hen and Chickens

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Hello,

Please come to my Edinburgh Preview at 9.30pm on Sunday 22 July at the Hen and Chickens Theatre Bar, Islington. I’d like it if you did.

Buy tickets here. Or pay on the night to save £0.75 you cheap skate.

If you’re in to Facebook events:

https://www.facebook.com/events/499420723407199/

Many thanks,

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Results Section in mind boggling high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts. This week, it is the results section:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section3.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

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Man Dog VII

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To whom it may concern,

Sayonara, baby (translation of “Hasta la vista, baby” in Spanish Terminator 2 over-dub),

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Method Section in devastating high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts. This week, it is the method section:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section2.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

*************************** BONUS MATERIAL ***************************

Computer Programmer Extraordinaire

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Dear potential friend/enemy,

I’m taking a brand new show to the Edinburgh festival again.

Do come!

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Introduction in heart breaking high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts. This week, it is the introduction:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section1.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

*************************** BONUS MATERIAL ***************************

A recount of a tough crowd

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In the land of small and unappreciative audiences; Raph Shirley’s 2011 début Edinburgh solo show.

I think the worst show at last year’s Edinburgh Fringe Festival was the one I did to a solitary ninety year old man. He’d got lost on his way to the military tattoo. Old people often can’t see very well, and he found himself in/being my audience. They (the elderly) usually navigate in groups. In that respect, they are like penguins, and they huddle together for warmth. If an old person gets separated from the group they will last a matter of minutes. They also enjoy a diet rich in oily fish, but they are poor swimmers.

Anyway, I finished the show and I was swinging a camcorder round on a stick, in an attempt to recreate the sense of excitement at Live at the Apollo (I was hoping to use the footage for my show reel). The man had been politely sitting there for forty five minutes looking terrified. I said ‘well, that’s the end. What did you think? You can leave some money if you think that’s appropriate’. I didn’t scam him. I didn’t say that he needs to replace his roof insulation and it will cost £1500.

Anyway, a bit of the fear went away from his face and he said ‘I fought the Germans in World War II, but nothing could have prepared me for the horror that I just experienced’. I said ‘I’m sorry to hear that’, and I started to leave the stage, and… I tripped up, and fell face first into some nachos, and I looked at the man with a salsary face and said ‘I’m really sorry’, and then my trousers fell down and I farted comically and a little bit of poo poo fell into-the-ankled-pants/onto-the-floor and I could taste a little bit of the sour-cream/salsa/guacamole/beer miscellany and… and… a solitary tortilla chip dropped off the end of my nose, and one corner hit the tip of my penis, and it seemed to spin in slow motion like that man from the Titanic film, and it stuck upright into the little poo poo I was talking about earlier, like a sort of parody of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ our lord and saviour.

Anyway, I was actually quite embarrassed at this point, so I tried to leave the stage, but I slipped on the poo (another bit) and I fell over in such a way that the aforementioned tortilla chip stuck up my rectum. The man, who actually had a purple heart, stood up and said ‘I will never forgive your generation for your decadence’, and he fell off his chair dead, and then my parents, who had come to see my show but had been distracted on their way to the theatre by the Twilight Saga came in and saw the whole scene. I said ‘It’s not what it looks like… Ah, who am I kidding it’s exactly what it looks like’, and then my bum made this noise:
[audio: https://www.raphshirley.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/fartNoise.mp3]

Anyway, there’s no need to go into unnecessary detail, but I think that was probably one of my worst shows.

There was one show that was worse than that maybe, but… I dunno, do you wanna? Well, there was this one time where there was no-one there except the barman and I thought – well I’ll do it anyway, so I started to do the show, and then the ceiling started to come down on me and the barman was, like, ‘ah shit’. That was inconvenient, but I carried on, and then the cieling was, like, pressing on our heads, and I said to the barman “maybe I should stop”, and he’s like “no, no it’s cool, its cool”, so I kept going and then the barman’s head actually popped, and I was like “fuck… fuck it… fuck… I’m going to be blamed”, but I thought… I’ll keep going, and I’m a third of the way through, and the cieling is still crushing my head, and then my brother starts growing out of the barman’s neck except he hasn’t got any skin like Robbie Williams in that video, and his mouth is a speaker just saying all this really offensive stuff. It’s like he doesn’t understand our ways but he’s just heard what we find offensive and is saying it all and it’s, like, all the standard racist, and pornographic, and violent, and misogynist, and all that but there is also this stuff in there that seems to get to the real heart of what makes you a pathetic animal, and what means you are not a dignified human being but a sort of rat, and all your insecurities and weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and it is, like, the sort of speech where after you’ve heard it you’ll never be able to smile convincingly again. It completely undermines you.

Anyway, I look at my watch and notice that time has completely stopped. It has slowed down to nothing at all, but this kind of intense pain and shame is swelling inside, and every centimetre of my body is in agonising pain, and… the thing is, when time stops space also dilates… I don’t really understand it, is something to do with Einstein or the atomic bomb or something, but all your skin and anywhere with nerve endings is getting elongated so that my capacity for pain and suffering is increasing. At this point I’m thinking – maybe I will stop the show because this is fucking inconvenient, but I’m not really in control of my actions and I thought – It can’t get much worse than this, but I start to grow new limbs ‘cos during this I was thinking “well at least my body is finite so the pain can only be on my ten digits for instance I could have twenty digits with all this pain. But as I had thought it I did have twenty digits and actually then my thoughts led to more and more body parts until I’m actually infinitely big, and a little side point, I thought back to that Doctor Pepper advert that’s like ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’, and I realised the answer of course is ‘infinite suffering’. Now I say “right, that’s it – the show is cancelled. I’m not doing it any more”, but as I mentioned – I no longer have any control and this is where it really gets rather annoying, and this is what makes this probably the worst show I did, I then start to destroy everything that I love. The worst thing about it is that all the time Rock DJ by the aforementioned Robbie Williams is playing on the stereo. That’s when I thought – maybe my show shouldn’t be listed in the comedy section.

Anyway, it turns out that my mates had spiked my drink before the show with LSD. They had had some careless talk about doing it but hadn’t really been serious. One of my mates, SexyPete99, had thought they were being serious and came to Edinburgh to do it. When you think about it, it takes six hours and two changes to get from Hemel Hempstead to Edinburgh and he did that whole trip alone. It doesn’t bare thinking about.

Love to all earthly souls,

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Bonus material - Philosophical Investigations Abstract in mind blowing high definition audio

As part of a scheme to promote my forthcoming Edinburgh show, I am releasing an audio recording of last year’s show, Philosophical Investigations. I’m releasing it in six parts starting with the abstract:

[audio: http://www.raphshirley.com/media/PhilosophicalInvestigations/Section0.mp3]

Or download it for your mp3 player here.

*************************** BONUS MATERIAL ***************************

Reflections on the Hubble Deep Field image

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“Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former.”

– Albert Einstein.

Turns out Einstein was better at Physics than jokes.

“In awe I watched the waxing moon ride across the zenith of the heavens like an ambered chariot towards the ebon void of infinite space wherein the tethered belts of Jupiter and Mars hang forever festooned in their orbital majesty. And as I looked at all this I thought… I really must repair the roof on this toilet.”

– Les Dawson.

That’s more like it.

Sit down and prepare to be terrified. The following picture is of a region of the sky smaller than this full stop.


Figure 1. The Hubble Deep Field. It is unclear whether the correct response to this is laughter, screaming, or suicide. Bear in mind that each little spiral is a whole galaxy. Bear in mind that if the universe is infinite then the whole observable universe is itself a negligible part of the whole universe. I often have a bear in mind (Yogi, if you must know).

I advise printing this out and looking at it whenever your life blows.

I was sittin’ on the bog in an Odeon on an industrial estate the other day (Prometheus 3D (washout)) and the picture above slipped out of my pocket on to the floor. I looked at it and then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and had an epiphany.

Here endith the front matter and any pretence of humour.

This blog post makes the following assumptions:

  1. The universe is infinite.
  2. Materialism is true.

I aim to show that if these two assumptions are sound then we are immortal. Furthermore, if they are true then Hell exists, and your actions have no consequences.

1 You are the motion of material. I call this your Shape.

2 Your shape depends on its environment but part of your shape is unchanged by this process. I call this unchanging part your Essence.

3 Your Essence is composed of a finite number of objects which can have a finite number of arrangements.

3.1 In an infinite set of randomly arranged finite forms there will be an infinite number of each type of arrangement if and only if the total possible number of objects is finite.

3.2 You and your Essence are composed of a finite number of objects.

3.3 In an infinite set of arrangements of the objects that are contained in your Shape there will be an infinite number of realisations of your Shape and your Essence.

4 If you want to believe the truth then you must base all personal decisions on the assumption that there are an infinite number of your Essences making all possible decisions in an infinite number of both identical (your Shape) and different (your Essence) environments.

5 All your choices have an infinitesimal impact on the universe since they are repeated and contradicted an infinite number of times by an infinite number of yous (your Shape).

6 For as long as you are possible you are. You are immortal and will always exist if and only if the universe exists.

 * * * * * * * * *

Every major scientific discovery (starting with realising we have a bum-hole around 1 million years ago) has essentially told us ‘you are less significant and unique than you thought you were’.  Currently, we base our significance on believing we are the only life. Come off it. No serious person does not believe in aliens. The next realisation will be we are not alone. Then we will realise that we are not the only version of us in the universe.

  • There is infinite suffering.
  • Hell exists.

And then I realised it wasn’t an epiphany… it was diarrhoea.

Best regards,

Hemel Hempstead AMateur dramatics Society (HHAMS)

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“Imagine creating something and giving it both consciousness and a rectum. What sick joke is this? And then Jesus has the audacity to say ‘consider the lily.’ Yes, it’s easy when you’re a lily, sans-bum-hole. I did consider the lily and then I shat myself.”

– Raph Shirley, Hemel Hempstead, 2011.

When you’re a busy busyness man you wear many different hats (try to remember that I just set up the word hats for in a minute). Computer programmer yes, computer gamer yes, computer owner… oui, but I release my creative juices in the form of being technical director of the Hemel Hempstead Amateur Theatrical Society; The HHATS (remember?). It’s actually called HHAMS but I don’t wear many hams so it’s harder to fit in, joke-wize. I’ve been wanting to talk about something that happened with HHATS/HHAMS/HHADS for a while now, but so far the emotions have just been too fucking raw.

It is the 2011 Autumn season. A cool wind tickles an oak tree, like a lover tickles his woman during the sex act. The production is Noel Coward’s Private Lives. I’d never heard of it, but I had heard of Noel Coward. The script was formulaic yes, but the (my) lighting design was radical to say the least (it was fucking radical). The venue was The John Smithingwaite Hall. It was a three nighter and on opening night the cast were in a frenzy of conceited theatrical buzz. Line runs and high jinx and irritatingly good spirits all round. You know the sort; great fun when you’re on the inside, sickening when viewed from outside. Like one of Eddie Murphie’s fat suits.

I’d always suspected that am-dram-socs were little more than flimsy covers for provincial swinging clubs for the actors, but that night I wondered if there was more to it than just middle aged infidelity inappropriately on display to the naive sub-twenty members. They dreamed of playing the HH dome the young fools. I’d often take them for a McFlurry and tell them the truth that ‘every creature on this earth dies alone’. A speech no less profound for having been lifted from the over-rated Donnie Darko film. I’d go on to tell them that realizing Donnie Darko is not good is just a necessary step on the path to maturity. Truth is, when you’re one of the Kidz like me (taking an admittedly broad 5 to 31 age range) you dream crazy dreams like that every day, except the night time dreams, which are mainly sexual: The original Catwoman, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Oy vey: the realization that even your fantasies have dated badly. I digress.

So anyways, I’m running the lights in the fourth scene and it occurs that this lighting job has been proficient at best. So I start to mix it up a bit. Disco lights and strobes, mirror balls and pyrotechnics. Yearly budgets in seconds. Blackouts over punchlines. Snow machines over set ups. Before I know it I’ve barged the seventeen year old beside me off the sound desk and I’ve taken control of the audience’s ears as well. Zoo sound effects and techno beats at full volume. The Stage manager’s in my ear “what are you doing? Could you stop doing that? I think someone is having an epileptic fit.” I say “believe me Kate you’ll understand when you hit 16.” I’m lookin’ at the audience reaction – they’re bewildered, they’re ecstatic. True, some of them don’t like it, but they gots to admit that it is a truly unique vision, an experiment in to what is possible in a theater.

The show finishes, the bows are taken, the audience leaves. I run down the stairs and in to the dressing room. Bunches and bunches of flowers await me, I’m hugging the flowers to my tingling flesh – I rush out into the car park, where the cast have gathered to smoke and discuss the evenings events. The Leading Lady (LL) approaches dramatically, and says “those are for me you stupid fucking idiot”. “No need to swear.” I think… and say. “Where we goin’ now?”. LL, stares at me, mouth open. Barely able to conceal how impressed she was with the lights. I’ve always been good at judging moods, but I’m not sure what the vibe is here. I decide to go for it. I lean forward to kiss her but she puts her hand on my chest and says “fuck off.” I run in to the darkness, and in to the night, and in to an oak tree (same one), and am informed by email that I am fired from HHATS for 6 months, and that I “ruined” the evening.

I obey their dictat (except for one drunken final show where I sneak in to the audience on closing night and steal the microphone while that same dreadful leading woman thanks her husband for being ‘a rock’, and I tell the baying crowds how narrow minded they would seem to aliens if they landed on earth and what a slapper the leading lady is, and my beret disguise droops off my indignant face as I realize my life behind the lights must end, and it is time to walk… befront of the lights).

Cheers,

Ahmad Lotfi Ashtiani launches internet cartoon competition

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Emergency extra blog post.

I just read this in the Guardian.

Iranian MP, Ahmad Lotfi Ashtiani, took offence to a cartoon by Mahmoud Shokraye. The cartoonist was then sentenced to 25 lashes for the crime. Ashtiani has therefore, in playing with the serpents tail, effectively challenged the global internet to produce as foul a portrait as possible.

Here is my humble offering.

Yours faithfully,

On sex with a slightly fat man

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Yielding to the cycle of guilt, hunger, and McDonalds (oh the vortex!), the slightly fat man builds himself a vile home.

‘You see, at the heart of sex lies a contradiction. The show of abandon and the reality of forethought embodied and emphasized by the prophylactic’ I’m sittin’ w’ Claire in a McDonald’s on an Industrial estate. Claire has just made a complaint about my crying during sex, which she claims kills the mood like a dog in a cattery. ‘It [the sex act] is a symbol of the temporary, and if you don’t find that either deeply sinister or profoundly sad, then you are the one who needs professional help’. I’m watching her leave the carpark in a (Mc)flurry of spinning Nissan wheels and raised (index) fingers. I look to my right at a man with Down’s syndrome who has been watching all. ‘Do you know what I mean though?’ He doesn’t know what I mean. And let’s be honest nor do I.

I set about finding the best value product on the menu in terms of calories per pound sterling, with aplomb. Aplomb turns to reckless abandon. Reckless abandon turns to a smashed Casio scientific calculator. A smashed… to an arrest. Blah, blah, yada yada, you’ve heard it all before. ‘Fucccckkkkkk’ I scream, and dramatically. (Large coke)

Heading over to PC World; I’m out of control. The mood I’m in, I’ll end up like buying a £50.00 mouse/keyboard gaming combo or some shit. It is times like this that I am liable to have a major relapse into over dependence on World of Warcraft. Stop. Count to ten. Remember what we say at the meetings (which incongruously take place inside the on-line world). I’m in PC World and calming down. I’m pretending to be considering buying a MacBook Pro in order to check the internet. A man comes over asking too many questions. I keep him busy with an enquiry about mains power adapters. He perseveres. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’. ‘Alright, I don’t really want to buy one I just want to check the fucking internet, Listen mate, I worked here for ten years, I’ve spent shed loads in this place’. I leave £1500 poorer. ‘Most expensive fucking internet cafe ever’. ‘You really didn’t have to… I was just trying to help’. ‘Yeah right, help… my arse’.

The automatic doors part in a sort of parody of Moses and the Red Sea, and I decide to go into Pets World (as far as I’m concerned it is effectively a free zoo) to Chill Out. In a spectacularly unfortunate turn of events, I am again harassed by a shop worker. I walk out of the automatic doors, MacBook Pro in my left arm, Flemish Giant rabbit in my right arm. I look up at the sky and shake my fist. ‘What have I done to deserve this?! Have I not been a good man? Have I not insisted on tipping in inverse proportion to meal cost so that the poor souls at McDonald’s get something and the relatively lucky devils at Pizza Express get a fairer cut?’. And then, just as I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I shit myself.


Figure 1. Sergeant Harold.

A shatting myself of biblical proportions (hat tip Michael Buerk (via @MichaelBuerk)). I also wet myself. I lay on the floor soiled and humiliated. Even the (genuinely huge) rabbit looked embarrassed. I felt sorry for the rabbit for having me as an owner. Oh well, no use crying over pooing your pants in an industrial estate, with a massive rabbit watching.

Tonight, I’m getting home, logging straight into World of Warcraft and entering a giddy dream of lager and Doritos.

Best regards,

Accidental booze cruise

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Friday, 1700h, I’ve just finished programming a total hog of a Dell XPS 15. The rain knocks on my window and I’m compelled to literally run outside to demonstrate my quasi-youth (thirty one) by taking part in a typical Friday night out, that will no doubt involve significant use of the the sound ‘woooo’. I’m drivin’ out of the industrial estate where I work and buzzing with the adrenaline of a man who knows that within one/two hours (tops) I’ll have traversed the B2264, the A1273, the M1, the A1145, and the B4432, the doors of The Regal, and the upper annulus of a tapered glass cylinder with a blocked end that contains the first pint of like seven/eight with my mates mate.

But today, unlike the Fridays of 27/04/2012, 20/04/2012, 13/04/2012, 6/04/2012 etcetera, I’m feelin’ hot. Hot with the ecstasy of electronic conquest, bathing in the fizzing glow of slave central processing units and magnetic storage devices yielding to my deft touch. Today I’m wild. Today I decide to go on an unplanned trip to Eurodisney just for the fuckin’ shit of it. This is the sort of thing an employed single man’s disposable income was invented for mate.

Hour after hour whizz past the window of my Ford Focus. My mobile telephone not beeping a single bleep of “mate, why aren’t you comin’ out with us?”, “mate, seriously, when do you think you’ll be here?”. “Ha” I chuckle to myself, if they aren’t even texting me they must be really mad! I group text them “don’t worry lads, you’ll have an ok time without me, sure – not as good as usual, but Mickey calls! wink wink. I’m sure you realise that the implication of that is that yes, I am off to some text missing” [sic]. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome mate!

I arrive at Eurotunnel at 2345h, still essentially hot. “I’ll have one return to France comin’ back Sat’ bro’ ” I bark at the automatic ticket machine in a language it evidently doesn’t understand. A trip to the office, and I’m gettin’ somewhere. “Two hundred and fifty pounds! Are you fucking serious?! Jesus fuckin’ hell. Mate! Seriouly, mate”.

***

Saturday, 0900h, I’ve got my passport, a speeding ticket, and I’m sporting a jittery caffeinated mania. I’m back in Folkestone, and before I can say “which carriage?” car plus train equals transport symbiosis and a potent symbol of technological and diplomatic progress. “Freight? Am I freight? Shit. Shit. Shit”. Articulated lorry to my fore, articulated lorry to my aft, am I to be crushed? Is this my last moment on earth – Tired, groggy, and with an unsatisfied appetite for Disney products and theme parks? No. The driver brakes with the virtuoso ease only a professional haulier knows.

A minibus is collecting all the drivers to be taken to the restaurant carriage and I’m cheek to cheek (arse and face) with flabby tattoo riddled arms from various EU countries. All the while concealing my true identity as a non-commercial-driver. And then, I take a long smooth inhalation through my two nostrils. An unharmonious funk filters through my olfactory canal and nerve bundles overwhelm my brain with wave upon wave of atonal funk. I mean no offence to professional wagon masters, but based on this (admittedly small) sample they stink disproportionately. The apparent leader (the fattest) is talking to the minibus driver using only the response “fuckin’ ‘ellll”. By the return journey I will have developed an ear for these smells and will understand the joy to be had from that sharp vinegary BO cocktail. An odyssey of exotic flavours from that sense organ residing at the very centre of one’s face.


Figure 1. A new notation system for malodorous humans.

I digress. Ok. How should I put this? Lets just say me in Eurodisney is like a drunk old man in a pub with free beer: I’m drunk and a man and I can have as many gos on space mountain as I like, but I’m not old (thirty one). By 2200h I’m back at Calais. A short stop at Boozers: The Spirit of Calais, and my voyage of self/theme-park discovery is complete. By Sunday 0300h I’m tucked up in bed tired, drunk and completely satisfied. I can’t wait till next friday and tellin’ my mates about my awesome… accidental booze cruise. I haven’t seen Neil since I told him he was my best friend. He changed the subject – clearly moved to the point of silence. After I tell him ’bout this he’ll almost certainly invite me to his BBQ on Saturday. A perfect opportunity to give him the 1.5m Winnie The Pooh teddy that I (tried to win and then gave up and just) bought him.

See you Sat’ lads,

Yeah?