Apologies
for all but abandoning you this week. I had undertaken an
unconscionable act, and spent the rest of my wholly precious time
flogging myself with birch branches and dead horses. As shocked
and guilt-ridden as I am about my actions, I am compelled to
admit them to you as a strange form of transcendental penance.
Putting aside the scared, bald, chinchillas (happy now?), my
admission of guilt is this: I have been working as a station
announcer at Victoria. (That's a train station for anyone not
gifted in the arts of logic, common-sense, and being English). I
have no major problem with having to tell the oh-so-broad
spectrum of weird old ladies, students and business people using
the trains that the train now arriving at platform twelve will
not be stopping at Victoria, rather it will continue at full pelt
ploughing (or plowing for people too scared they might say pluff)
into the concourse, taking out as many overpriced fast food
'restaurants' as it can. I have no problem with using excessively
long sentences. What I do have a problem with is having to tell
people not to give food to the beggars, (and not to give money to
the pigeons) as it only encourages them.
You'll
be happy to hear that I've been playing with myself again. You'll
be not so happy to hear that all I've been playing with myself is
a weird form of Chinese Whispers where I am the sole protagonist.
Observe: 'Don't give food to the beggars and don't give money to
the pigeons', over the course of six hours becomes 'don't give
food to the beggars and don't kick the pigeons'. Over the next
six hours (they work you like a really hardworking dog who works
for twenty four straight hours, for half a cup of forged pennies
and as much chewing gum as you can scrape off the bottom of the
tableq) this becomes 'don't kick the beggars, it only encourages
them to give money to the pigeons'. The twelfth to eighteenth
hours bring 'the pigeons are workshy asylum seekers, aided and
abetted by beggars who actually have mobile phones and smart
penthouse apartments, bought with the money that YOU give them'.
Before my shift ends a day after it began, I am telling the
unsuspecting public to kill the beggars and feed them in
money-sized pieces to the pigeons. I am sacked as one
understandably impressionable youth does so. The only person who
lost out in this situation was the beggar: I found a way out of a
job that didn't really suit my alternative lifestyle (i.e., not a
fascist cunt), the pigeons got a lot of food and money out of it
and the impressionable youth got to live out his fantasy of being
handcuffed by a saucy policewoman who would then proceed to beat
him about the testicles with her police dog while slowly
inserting her truncheon in his arse. The homeless person died.
All he wanted was a little bit of money so he could eat, perhaps
someone to talk to for a moment or two.
Sorry
to come over all moralistic. Sorry to walk away from cum
jokes (don't worry: I promise the inclusion of a cummerbund
for your delectation next time). If some fascist cunt tells you
how to live your life and tells you not to give money to people
who evidently need it so much more than you, then just remember
that they don't run your life. I run your life. You are all my
bitches. If someone needs some money, give it to them, you cold
heartless cocksucking whores with nothing better to do than wank
over downloaded pictures of emaciated Spice Girls with someone's
fake breasts fakely superimposed. (Can you spot where my PMS
kicked in?)