Hard Talk

Everyone knows that all politicians are lying bastards, but for some reason we all like to pretend they're not. Once every few years when it's election time they all come out of the shadows and launch energetic and completely false campaigns to get re-elected, having photo's taken with babies, making outrageous promises and launching scathing personal attacks on all the other candidates. None of this comes to a surprise to anyone, and we expect it in the same way as the occasional bout of diherrea - unpleasant, occasionally unavoidable, and best forgotten.

What does surprise me is that some people fail to spot the shit and mistake it for gold. The empty promises made by these manicured heads get lodged in their brain, and they become convinced that this person, THIS PERSON will change their life! Which makes it all the more satisfying to see them crumble when the inevidible scandal is uncovered by the opposition; an illicit affair, personal indiscretion, or a rather disturbing fondness for barn animals. The soul-crushing realization that your Member of Parliament took bribes, lied, or exchanged blow-jobs for Raptors tickets, that he/she is, you know, a fucking human being and not the next coming of christ. You might even get upset enough to write a really angry letter about it.

So what's infinitely gratifying is seeing these politicians exposed outside the media friendly campaign trail, like, in newspapers, or on TV. It's called Journalism, and even though it's a dying trade you can still find enough of it if you look hard enough. We need it, if for no other reason than to piss off the smug power hoarding bastards who make up governments across the globe. They know they're corrupt lying fuck-heads, and we know that they're corrupt lying fuck-heads, but it doesn't hurt to remind everyone about it know and then.

Shouts out to my boy Jacob Zuma, currently dealing with mass rioting from the population who elected him 3 months ago based on his false promises.

Shouts out to Ayatollah Khamenei, who forgot that just because he says something it doesn't make it true, no matter how impressive his beard it.

Shouts out to the Burmese government for being offensively blatant, oppressive and scared shit-less.

And finally, shouts out to Steven Sackur. I'll never get tired of watching you make these bastards squirm.

...

There's something about the inky blackness of night that brings out introspection, as the stars of missed opportunities shine bright. How far can you go down one road before you can no longer turn back? Is it still possible to change, despite the weight of wasted years on your shoulders?

Much is made of seizing the present and pursuing the future, but just for tonight lets have a moment of silence for all the mistakes, regrets and lost experiences we've accumulated. Maybe only then we can let them go.

I'm not here, this isn't happening

Tired thoughts this evening, to match a tiring week. Not much energy left to do much other than contemplate the madness that is our working week, and how so much time and effort can go into so little that feels satisfying. I suppose my chance to be a dirty bohemian is gone - but I enjoy plumbing, regular meals, fresh food and four walls with a ceiling to really be a pretentious bastard and 'leave it all behind'. As much as I'd love to gaze haughtily from my compost-heap ivory tower situated on my free-range self-sufficient small holding, eating only the finest home grown organic foods while being cooled by my wind and solar powered fans, the sheer annoyance of my existence would force me to punch myself repeatedly until I needed serious medical care (the kind that comes in hospitals with heavy prescription drugs - not herbal tea's and petal poultices).

Stuck on 'Kid A' for the drive home today and had a very strange moment on the 403 just before Mavis. "Treefingers" started playing and in my half-crazed state of tiredness and frustration time suddenly slowed down and I felt as if I was walking on the moon. Colours were momentarily more vivid, and a strange sense of peace and understanding washed over me. What the christ...?

Just where do ideas come from?

Apparently this puzzles a lot of people, usually the kind that enjoys mathematics, stamp collecting, and watching NASCAR. How does a juicy big idea plop into someone's head, resulting in an award winning novel, film, or patent? How can I have one of these ideas, and become famous and successful? Why do all these clever ideas-bastards never share their secret? Happily, I have found the answer.

Having an idea is a lot like having a poo; there are multiple stages to creating the next big revelation, which boils down to a study of cause and effect. Much like poo, you must feed yourself in order to hatch an idea. This is a metaphorical feeding of your brain, scrounging off the plate of life and if possible asking for seconds. What you see, hear and touch every day is actually stored somewhere deep inside the stomach of your subconcious, where it slowly digests and transfers to the bowels of your mind. It is here that dreams are made by the slow decomposition of interactions settling in your brain as you sleep, filtering sounds and images to either be stored or scorned in a process so complex we'll probably never be able to understand it.

Eventually you're left with a crazed slideshow of images and sounds floating in your subconcious, just waiting to be released. In order to do this, you must concentrate. The moment of release after a bowel movement is often described as 'ecstatic' for a reason, and some would say it's similar to an orgasm. At this point your body takes over, and things start to happen. You feel a rumble, a heavyness and a general sense of panic. The demented wastes of life rushing through you make their presence known, and all you can do is find a suitable outlet. Rushing to a computer, voice recorder, or pen and paper before the idea bursts uncontrolably from within, exploding shamefully down your leg and ruining your favourite pair of pants. If you're lucky, you make it in time and are saved the humiliation of making a mess of things, capturing the snap-shot of genius in it's proper place where you can study it at your own leisure, expanding, making changes, and refining. Sometimes you only manage to capture a little of it as it slides out unexpectedly, and afterwards cry in dismay at the shameful stains dribbled down your favourite pair of pants.

My advice to you is to eat up, and prepare yourself. Go out and talk to everyone you can, smell every flower, listen to every bird, then wait. When you feel like you can no longer hold it in, let go. I promise you that you'll have an original idea of your very own in no time.