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The Brutish Bile Of Britain’s Worst Newspaper

February 19, 2012

“a flagellated protozoan parasite that colonizes and reproduces in the small intestine…”

How very apt. A paper that produces shit.

These are the poems of mine that the vermin at the Guardian deleted from Poster Poems (the theme was February), because they dislike me; why wouldn’t they? Mediocrity always hates talent. Luckily hic liked them enough to save them: I had no copies. Welcome to Con-Dem Britain, the Guardian paradise.





Yesterday’s Guardian front page informed us that the Dutch Crown Prince had been ‘injured’ skiing.

Truly, a paper for these degraded times and worthy of the gossip-columnist Pooter Rusbridger. I think I’m going to be very ill now: excuse me…

PS: Here’s another poem the dullards deleted; alright, the username was a bit of effrontery, but, hey…I’m an effrontery kind of a guy.

The point is: it’s a goddamn poem; maybe not a good one, but a poem. To delete art, however minor, merely out of slavish rule-loving and spite is the mark of the degraded and base.

Anyway, thanks to the ever-wonderful hic, it was saved and here it is, for better or worse (worse -Ed.):

I think it’s much better than the rewrite that I tried from memory for hic’s sake.

  1. Captain Ned permalink
    February 19, 2012 10:11 PM

    ‘The Burden of Sense’ is excellent. It deletion would suggest that you’ve passed into Des territory, where every comment, no matter how unobjectionable, gets thrown in the bin. Fuck ’em.

    My mental picture of Rusbridger is of a man sitting in an immaculate, hi-tech, ergonomic office, listening to Laura Marling on his iPod and failing to complete a Sudoku puzzle, while earnest acolytes attempt to interest him in plans for a series of articles on Britain’s hippest young artisanal ice-cream makers. The conversation is not disturbed by C.P. Scott’s disapproving stare from his portrait on the wall.

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      February 20, 2012 2:51 PM

      My mental picture of Rusbridger is of a man fuming at his oak desk because he’s been beaten by Boris Johnson and Melvyn Bragg at the GQ Woofiest Hair-Style of the Year awards.

      In his fit of pique the PJHarvey CD has been ripped out of the player and hurled across the room where it has lodged in the multi-media installation commissioned from the Shoreditch Nihilist Art Collektiv. Various unpaid interns dressed like extras from Mad Men ( as they must ) are trying to remove it whilst being careful not to break the branches of the white chocolate tree.

      On the computer the bodies of whores and petty thugs lie dying in level 4 of Grand Auto Theft 6 which Rusbridger plays ironically in between penning appreciations of Le Corbusier, JayZ and Chris Huhne..

      Meanwhile outside Rome burns.

  2. mishari permalink*
    February 19, 2012 10:18 PM

    I gave up on those effete, spineless cunts years ago…although, I must say, Alan Rusbridger’s new blog looks enthralling:

  3. hic8ubique permalink
    February 20, 2012 2:48 PM

    Now I’ve learnt to save pages (necessity the mother, and that)
    I’ve saved BudPowell’s four pages of comments (many clerihews) in case they soon become relegated to the abyss of: ‘Sorry. We can’t deliver the page you requested.’

    I was four or five the first time I remember my mother being very very angry. She’d made a small sculptural clay figure which I’d destroyed by gouging out its innards from the base.
    I suspect I did it because I’d observed that porcelain figures are hollow in that way, and I thought that feature was missing, but given my temperament it may have been pure mischief.

    The act of destruction of the creative work of our own or of others was a stern prohibition from a not-very-stern mother. The annihilation of the creative impulse from outside ourselves really can assault us to the core. I appreciate your fury, Mishari.

    Now, however, I encourage you in all earnestness to make a file or folder and save your work into it as you go. It’s an economy really, like ‘measure twice, cut once’. Your work deserves that ‘measure’ of self-respect.
    I’ve just noticed what day this is. Let’s make it a testament to life, to recuperation.

  4. mishari permalink*
    February 20, 2012 4:00 PM

    The Grauniad just has my final word as Bud Powell or anyone else, after they deleted my Amundsen poem):

    Did you ever in your life encounter such spite, nastiness and a sheer hatred of fun?
    These wretched people are to Art what the Inuit were to the string quartet.

    A newspaper and poetry site primarily propelled by a hatred of the poor, a disgust for Art and an especial hatred for me, who is everything these pitiful excuses for human beings is not.

    Poems deleted…out of sheer spite. Charming. Mummy and Daddy and their friend Rusbridger must be very proud..

    And you vapid worthless scum took hours to get the joke: what a surprise.

    Yrs etc etc…artpepper,misharialadwani and so drearily on…

    I on the other hand, am a happy man; you’ll always be the small, pinched born fascists that you are.

    Farewell. But, of course, you won’t. The soulless never do.

  5. hic8ubique permalink
    February 21, 2012 12:33 AM

    So, did you save Amundsen? or am I remonstrating with the void…

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 21, 2012 12:43 AM

      Sorry, ” or am I…” : joc.

  6. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 12:42 AM

    Amundsnen’s gone but I’ll try to recreate it especially, because I thought you’d like

    Deleting poems….My God; what next?

    These are the kind of people we’re dealing with. Was it Schiller or Heine who said that when they start burning books, burning men is never far behind.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 21, 2012 12:45 AM

      Will you not learn?! Of course I copied it. Let’s see how recreation compares with original.

  7. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 1:02 AM

    i swear, I love you more each day. Here’s the recreation I just did from memory;

    First, Uranus was sent into the next world, and although he had always given us the impression of being thin and bony, it was now seen that there were masses of fat along his back; he would be much appreciated when we ate...–The Journal of Roald Amundsen, Nov. 4, 1911

    Cold Seal Deep

    a Thule Inuit shamanic chant for those who would live

    The day arises
    hard with sleep,
    the day awakes
    but not the weak;
    you must rise up
    skirt cold seal deep:
    the day that comes
    sans fat and meat.

    — recorded in Amundsen’s Journals and shamelessly chopped and changed by me.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 21, 2012 1:56 PM

      I can’t seem to get the first version out of screen shot mode, so I’ll email it for you to post, and then we can compare them.
      I’m sure I could get used to being loved more each day. I could build up my tolerance gradually.

  8. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 1:09 AM

    BTW, the username I was using at the time of the Amundsen poem was @Paulytilhaumecydel…not very subtle..but subtlety is lost on the humorless…

  9. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 1:13 AM

    Weirdly, the fuckers have re-instated my Bud Powell rant…go figure.

  10. hic8ubique permalink
    February 21, 2012 2:00 AM

    I must be congenial on this end for a bit, but will come back to you asap…

  11. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 2:10 AM

    No need to be congenial to me, you know…oh…I see…gotcha.

  12. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 2:40 AM

    I’m on a Nordic kick; here’s a pretty poor one for you, but what the hell:

    “You are a sorceress, you have tied me hand and foot, soul and body… I am lost… What wonderful witchcraft do you possess? I felt your lovely arms around my neck… heavenly fire [went] through my limbs and my brain – and the spring is here, more beautiful in Norway than anywhere on Earth.

    Here from my window in my tower, I see the maidenly birches in their bridal veils against the dark pine wood — there is nothing like the birch in the spring. I do not exactly know why, but it is like you, to me you have the same maidenliness – and the sun is laughing, and the fjord out there is glittering, and existence is beauty!…” Fridtjof Nansen

    –from Brenda, My Darling: The Love Letters of Fridtjof Nansen to Brenda Ueland by Eric Utne (2011 )

    Fridtjof Nansen was Norway’s greatest athlete, polar explorer, scientist, artist, statesman, and humanitarian. He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1922 for saving an estimated 22 million Russians from starvation. Nansen and Ueland met in New York City in 1929. He was 67 and she was 37.

    Maidenly Birches

    Tall and slender, wand-like and wyrd,
    they cast a spell on a fearless man;
    of all the frozen sharp he feared;
    these made him love his fear, as well.

    They bend and bow but do not break
    they lower heads but not submit
    they make not that old mistake:
    the granite-heart of the merely fit.

    They whisper of love
    and dance to its tune
    they mind stars above
    they are life as a rune.

    Watch them and learn
    Listen and hear
    for love will return:
    the trees know no fear.

    What can I say? Alle fuglar er ikkje haukar (somme er berre gaukar)

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 21, 2012 1:46 PM

      I love this one too. Birches do tap to the root for me, and mingled with conifers and coastal granite outcroppings they compose my ideal landscape. Love the notion of them as wyrd sisters!
      One minor consideration that occurs to me is the possibility of
      ‘they’ll lower heads but not submit’
      although I can see you might not like a contraction…
      ‘‘they will lower heads but not submit’…? better perhaps…?

      Your well-established practice, M, of taking prose extracts as springboards for poems is a delicious part of the rich appeal of your style. They tend to set an orienting tone, and then you take off with a new slant. Maybe it’s sort of similar to a hand-off as in your Jazz or in R&B where band-members pick up a phrase and see where they can take it. Always satisfying.
      Now I’ll see whether I can drop your first Amundsen version in the comment box.
      (I may need you to clean up the format.)

  13. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 11:58 AM

    I can’t tell you how appalled I was by this lèse-majesté by gossip columnist Alan Rusbridger of the Guardian:

    What has the world of spreading spiteful rumours about your friends and colleagues come to?
    I can’t imagine what Hedda Hopper would have thought.

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      February 21, 2012 1:27 PM

      Forgive me for being dense ( you have done for the last 3 years so it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch ) but I’m missing something here as regards the valium link.

      All I get when I click is a vast list of discussion threads.

      At first I thought it was the prescription you are on to write your self-styled crap ebook but is there a relevant discussion within the list?

      Or has my email address gone straight to Pfizer and I’m going to targetted with pop-ups from now on.

  14. mishari permalink*
    February 21, 2012 2:37 PM

    Sorry, Ed…looks like they took my little joke down. No, hang on: it;s still there:

  15. hic8ubique permalink
    February 21, 2012 11:28 PM

    Oh, I meant to post this old favourite yesterday; highly distractible, I am…

  16. reine permalink
    February 22, 2012 8:37 AM

    You’d want to give that fiddle a good wash, Yitzahk…

  17. mishari permalink*
    February 22, 2012 8:42 AM

    Nah…I do so love that funky aroma…

  18. February 22, 2012 10:39 AM

    (pretends to be shocked)

  19. February 22, 2012 11:04 AM

    Word association… “HELLO Giovanni…”

  20. hic8ubique permalink
    February 22, 2012 6:42 PM

    I agree, your first Amundsen is the better, M, coming from fresh inspiration
    (charmed though I be by your attempt at reconstruction).
    Will you keep testing me or will you begin saving poems, marked man that you are, before we lose something?

  21. mishari permalink*
    February 22, 2012 6:47 PM

    From now on, I archive, baby…you’ve taught me an invaluable lesson.

  22. mishari permalink*
    February 22, 2012 6:51 PM

    …and now, after a 3 day binge of an amphetamine/valium diet (business: no, really), Inez is pouring brandy into me with a funnel, She says I can’t wake up until midnight…ah…6 hrs…do standing on my, erm…head?

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      February 23, 2012 9:36 AM

      Good Lord.

      Isn’t there any easier way of writing this book?

      If you’re not careful with this WH Auden diet you’ll end up with a Brutalist tome which no-one will buy except Tony O’Neill and Stuart Evers rather than the romantic Vampire thriller money-spinner as planned.

    • mishari permalink*
      February 23, 2012 10:23 AM

      Nah….I’ll be larfin’. The chemical binge was to do with affairs I was compelled to attend to, concerning, numbers, statistics, and a great many people I dislike intensely.

  23. hic8ubique permalink
    February 22, 2012 6:59 PM

    My godfathers… I hope she’s not just trying to kill you off gently.

  24. February 22, 2012 11:58 PM

    You are awake two minutes early.

  25. mishari permalink*
    February 23, 2012 12:53 AM

    They’ve been putting some goddamn thing in the brandy. i could run a bloody marathon…

  26. hic8ubique permalink
    February 23, 2012 1:06 AM

    Looking in… well… what can I say? Lucky Inez.

    I may see whether I can still divine how to operate the Tv and watch (some of) the Rebubblican debate. Also, I hear there’s been a ‘crayon burning’. I’d like to see that…

    I’ve been making an excellent cauliflower/cheddar soup, Reine, to nourish me over these few days. (The duo are in Vermont) It has at least ten vegetables.

  27. mishari permalink*
    February 23, 2012 10:25 AM

    cauliflower/cheddar soup is wonderful; I add tarragon. With good crusty bread, a man could die happy…

  28. mishari permalink*
    February 23, 2012 10:48 AM

    I see the errant MM has returned to Poster Poems (though not to us); I swear to God, I’m going to kick his skinny arse when I get my hands on him…

  29. February 23, 2012 11:11 AM

    It’s not doing my heart any good…

  30. mishari permalink*
    February 23, 2012 11:17 AM

    Don’t you worry, darlin’…I’ll take the bastard to the top of Croaig Patrick and cut his beating heart out with an obsidian knife (do they do those at John Lewis)?

    Trifle with your affections, will he, the scoundrel? I’d horsewhip him on the steps of his club–if I had a horsewhip and he had a club.

  31. February 23, 2012 11:23 AM

    I don’t want any trouble, he’ll be no good to me horsewhipped or heartless. (If you do happen to go to Croagh Patrick, be sure to call to Mammy and Daddy en route for tea, tart and a go on the muscle relaxer…) It’s the ivy clad house on the left.

  32. mishari permalink*
    February 23, 2012 11:32 AM

    sweetheart, I have enough fucking muscle-relaxants to put the entire Brigade of Guards into a fucking coma; them and their bleeding horses

    ….but, hell…I’d do it to please your Da, ’cause he’s an obvious sweetie.

  33. hic8ubique permalink
    February 23, 2012 2:52 PM

    Tarragon; that’s a good thought. Do you use fresh? In addition to the usual cauli, VT cheddar, potato, carrots, onion, baby portabellos, I added a bulb of fennel, a bulb of garlic, the whole of a small celery, a coarse sea-salt mixed with herbes de Prov, and plenty of black pepper. Oh, and a leek, and about half the stock was chicken broth for more protein, and a splash of sherry.
    My family would eat this soup, but with straining looks of obedience and politeness, so I rarely make it. All the more for me now, I say.
    I decided to forgo the crusty bread, as there’s enough carbs in the veg.

    MM on PP ? Excellent. I’ll go there during my savoury lunch.
    Sadly, I missed whatever you posted just after my Lorelei.

    ‘Horsewhipped or heartless’, Reine. ha ha!
    I’m sure he’ll deign to greet us.
    For now, I must go prepare to play muscle relaxant…

  34. February 23, 2012 5:30 PM

    Truth be told, I am not a great fan of cauliflower in a soup. I like my brassicas firm.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 23, 2012 5:43 PM

      But you’re a serious chef, Re, so I’m sure you do delicious things that wouldn’t occur to me.

      You’ve just reminded me of the mustard-pickle my grandmother used to buy. There would always be just one bit of cauliflower in the jar, and that was her favourite. I used to eat that pickle with liverwurst. It must be thirty years since I’ve even considered eating liverwurst.

      More recently, I put mustard-pickle on the shopping list and poor D wandered the aisles asking everyone whether they knew what it was and where he could find it.
      He came home empty-handed convinced I’d made it up to torment him…

  35. hic8ubique permalink
    February 24, 2012 8:42 PM

    ‘Go and catch a falling star,    
    Get with child a mandrake root, 
    Tell me where all past years are,    
    Or who cleft the Devil’s foot; 
    Teach me to hear mermaids singing,         
    Or to keep off envy’s stinging,          
    And find          
    What wind 
    Serves to advance an honest mind…’

    John Donne

    Excuse me, Sir, I’ve brought the star
    you ordered, did you want it framed?
    Your past years are layered in this jar.
    My root children are due in May…

    ‘Twas Clovis the Farrier, so I swear,
    did cleave Old Nick’s hooves with his strength.
    Now be so good’s to lend your ear
    for tuning to the mer-wavelength…

    But sorry, Sir, I’ll tell you true,
    I couldn’t keep off envy’s sting.
    That is one task I’ve failed to do;
    that lesson is not mine to bring…

    Freep, Jack, dg, and HLM:
    they all loved daisymoskowitz,
    a timorous gee-whizz sycophant;
    I couldn’t stand that toady bitch.

  36. InvisibleJack permalink
    February 24, 2012 9:20 PM

    Hi Friends,

    Jack has been feeling his age of late, going to London to see the mammy and then back home again, and all that dulling teaching in between. I wouldn’t swap the poet’s life for anything, but sadly it takes its toll even on the most committed.

    I was sorry to hear not so much that you’ve been so lately deleted, Mishari, (for that is the wages of the true subversive anyway), but that you’d been failing to keep a file of all the verses.

    Jack has decided to turn out a novel or two in the near future to try to make a few bob. There’s nothing in the kitty for my future years, and the future years are approaching fast. The poetry will never stop, but on its own it fails to fill the pantry.

    I hope that good old Mowbray is keeping as well as he can, and hopefully even better. The world is becoming more tedious every day, it was nice to see him again on PP. Am I the only one, however, to find a calendar of poetry so deathly dull?

    Well now, so you were that wan, Daisy Moskowitz? Oh Mish, you really are the naughty boy. Long may you remain so. My blessings on your reign.

    Jack Brae

  37. February 25, 2012 12:47 AM

    Hey Jack, your blast of yellow here and green yonder in the place I dare not name are to be welcomed. Hope Mammy is bearing up. She doubtless delights in your visits.

    A novel or two sounds as good a plan as any for the pension pot. I wish you luck and lots of it.

    I fear the calendar is only an encouragement to my trigger-happy outpourings… any month can be cajoled at short notice into appearing in verse it seems. Sluttish in the extreme. A fellow at work is organising a short poetry reading for next Wednesday to mark the retirement of another who hopes to devote himself to poetry writing full time. I have been asked to read a poem of mine he translated into Irish. Needless to say, being a shy, retiring type, I demurred for at least a minute before accepting. Colleagues are threatening to bring in sleeping bags to be assured of a good seat and the chance to have a big fat laugh at my moment in the sun.

    We are hostages in the front room as I write. David is 19 today and has invited the world and its wife to mark the occasion with him. The young folk are lovely all the same… although it is difficult to see them through the smoke or hear them above the din and I have already had to reorient a few of them from my bedroom. Should have moved out for the night but was afraid they would raze the house to the ground. HI is going out in sympathy and downing beer with gusto and I am as a leading pioneer ready to drive someone to hospital at a minute’s notice if called upon to do so. Hopefully, it won’t arise.

    I get a little heart flip every time I see Mowbs and echo your good wishes. Keep well Jack and goodnight. R

  38. hic8ubique permalink
    February 25, 2012 1:28 PM

    Something to cheer you, Jack…

  39. reine permalink
    February 25, 2012 1:57 PM

    … and so I was called upon to bring a couple of girls home – there were three cop cars outside a nearby house when I dropped one off at about half two – one followed me with lights flashing and pulled up parallel with me to ask me what my name was and what my business was in the area. I was waved on when they realised I was just a frazzled mother doing the rounds. Nay, I was winked at…

    I am much in need of soothing myself today.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 25, 2012 3:57 PM

      Try this, Love. And Happy Birthday to your beemish boy!

  40. reine permalink
    February 25, 2012 5:16 PM

    Why thank you lovely lady, I don’t know what to say…

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 25, 2012 6:42 PM

      Not soothing enough? Not like an Irish girl to be at a loss for words.
      ‘…the world and its wife’ ; that was most generous of you, indulgent Mammy.

      I’m held captive today by fierce tree-snapping winds, yesterday by a gale, and preparing for the travellers’ return. Resigned to being cooped up, well almost.
      Normally when the coast is too gusty I head for the woods, but it seems like a bad idea today. The trouble with risking it in bad conditions is that there’s nobody to happen along and rescue one, since everybody else remained sensibly by their fires.
      The idea of my dog running off to bring help is far-fetched in the extreme. She’d notice I’d been struck unconscious and think it a good chance to lie down and relax.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      February 25, 2012 6:45 PM

      I suppose I should say ‘had been stricken’, but I don’t like it. Sounds like influenza or something…

    • February 26, 2012 12:04 AM

      No, no, I love it… just exhausted. ‘night, don’t blow away.

  41. February 28, 2012 1:02 PM

    No prizes for guessing who this reminded me of…

  42. March 1, 2012 6:37 AM

    Dear fellow sceptical optimists and leery romantics, was I to relate my week to you, the next time someone mentioned Job, you would larf scornfully, call him the equivalent of The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo and tel them of some real misery.

    Mostly, it’s been (God help me, computer related. First one laptop went down but I was cooler than several cucumbers.until my second, far more sophisticated machine, the one I’d just installed Dragon Naturally speaking on, had it all figured and copacetic and was readying myself to write Joyce, Balzac,Zola, Hamsun and all those other poor scribblers toward their proper obscurity

    The problem is that my machines are triple-boot (XP, LInux and Debian) the last two are work-related and I use them to write programs that are going to make my life easier in every particular..hahahahaha..just the way technology has.

    Trouble is instead of running de-bugging routines on code as I work, I just merrily write a whole damn application and launch it, whereupon it behaves like gorilla that’s just had a massive injection of DMT.

    I’m so exhausted (well I did get 4 hours last night) that I keep seeing double: literally.

    I look at the screen and think. “why are two command-line screens open?” I have to keep one eye closed to work
    Inez doesn’t get this at all: “just pay someone to do it”.

    “Did I pay some bastard to make that walnut-table in the Sierras? Do I pay some swine (a swine with taste, I’ll admit) to make love to you? Do I hire people to write my admittedly lame verse”…ha-ha…it is to laugh

    I think she sort of got the point. She did moan about the amount of speed I’ve been taking,though. But my sellers passed along a sample-pack of some shit called (|I think) Alolram or something. In the US, it’s called Xanax.

    I took one of them and promptly lost the use of my legs: it was like a Mack Sennet two-reeler: MIsha stands up; MIsha falls down; MIsha gets to his feet, gains momentum, falls across the room at speed (these things are relative), mostly upright until crashing into a gift from a French aunt: a drawing of me that make me look like an especially seedy 20s cruise-ship gigolo/card sharp (think Porfirio Rubirosa)

    Smashed it to fuck, I’m happy to say.

    It’s the US’ biggest selling drug. No wonder they’re a nation of zombies who think Rick ‘My Ass Feels Funny’ Santorum is a serious person. I wouldn’t buy mud from a guy that stupid, let alone govt policy. I’m counting on @hic to save us from these awful people

    Worse, I finally got the lesser laptop going but the keyboard has died and I’m using an USB Keyboard that has a mind of it’s own; a very malignant mind of it’s own. I need a part for my XPS (my baby) that doesn’t arrive until Sat.

    My children’s machines are off-limits; doubtless, lest I discover that they are interested in sex; Christ knows, I don’t remember being interested in much else at that age. Perhaps I’ll send them all to live with the Dalai Lhama.

    I’m tempted to go and live with the bastard myself. Probably still uses an abacus, sensible chap.

    And while I’m having a speed-fueled rant, I must say, I’ve got the hump with MM: you’d think we’d eaten his last Twirl or something.

    It’s one thing being out-of-sorts but if the cunt can type poems, he might do us the courtesy of a brief: “Hello. I’m fine. caught the clap. Hope you’re the same.” (clap-ridden, I suppose he’ll mean).

    I mean honestly: you buy a man the finest prosthetic penis that modern technology (German, of course) can provide and not a word. I hope his prosthetic penis blows a fuse..or it salutes every time David Cameron appears on television.

    Ishal now whave to go back through this shit and corect the speling mistakes and weird symbols that apear for some ocuylt reason. (small example of what I will be enduring)

    How long, long? (in fact, it took me an hour at least to correct a 10-minute letter

    If I had known or some had spoke
    of what this life was like;
    the never ending cruel black joke;
    By God, I’d have quit there on the spot,-
    deserted, ran and got me shot.

    I’d get my little round of earth,
    with birdsong and soft wind-sound;
    now I’m no man for preaching, boys,
    new life comes round, I vow
    but be that next life, tears or mirth:
    we’ll get more ground than now.

    — attributed to PATRICK MURPHY: Private 15161 47th Bn., Machine Gun Corps aged 22, executed for ‘cowardice’; at dawn on Thursday 12th September 1918. Believed to be from Dublin.

  43. March 1, 2012 6:45 AM

    PS:God to hear from you, wI’m going to bed before that Xanax thing makes me fal out of a wewindow,

  44. Edward Taylor permalink
    March 1, 2012 11:56 AM

    For those of us who imagined your “job” was a full-time silk-clad fop being waited upon hand and curly-slippered foot day and night by a bevy of short-skirted babes and protected from real life by the most circumspect filter engines that money can buy this comment has come as a great shock.

    Can it be possible that you are just like the rest of us?


    When you’re done speedin’ any chance of a new poetic assignment?

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 1, 2012 10:20 PM

      Just like me, certainly; I put myself through the meat-grinder once a day whether I need it or not.

  45. MaltedMowbray permalink
    March 1, 2012 6:46 PM

    Apologies for my prolonged preoccupation and loftier priorities. By way of some explanation…
    The Black Joke has been requiring very nearly all of my erstwhile doggerelistic time.
    As evidence, you will see me on the right. I’m the one without a hat.
    So many things to keep track of.

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      March 2, 2012 11:17 AM

      I thought it was line-dancing that was keeping you away MaltedM. Glad to see I wasn’t too far off.

      Are the pig’s bladders authentic or are they Nike sports bladders?

  46. The Comte de Charenton permalink
    March 1, 2012 9:45 PM

    no sweat d00d…the wheel turns and turns again. I only hope that your health is not something that should be worrying me….but love and luck to you and yours.

    Sorrry to be so curt but I’m still in the throes of speed induced fanatical (iif, \i suspect somewhat futile) activiity…fk tis nightmare keyboard

  47. March 1, 2012 9:50 PM

    I’ll kill the pair of ye and keep yer embalmed heads in the boot of my car.

  48. hic8ubique permalink
    March 1, 2012 10:15 PM

    Oh dear, that was only me making a terrible play on ‘black joke’ , a fiddle tune, and the absurd idea of MM dancing the Morris.
    I never thought anyone would believe it. (The hatless and hapless chappie is anyway good for a giggle.)
    But honestly, when MM said that the ‘mushrooms were on the march’
    (mushrooms being fungi) I took it that his aspergillosis condition has been bad.

  49. henrylloydmoon permalink
    March 2, 2012 9:04 AM

    Great to see you, MM. Had me worried there.

    And Charenton, Prince? My only memories of Charenton are that festival of rape and thievery called the Foire du Trône, which I visited a couple of times in the late seventies. Even for somebody who grew up on funfairs, it was a bleak experience. I imagined you ensconced in some étage noble overlooking the Champ de Mars.

  50. hic8ubique permalink
    March 2, 2012 1:05 PM

    Glory. I’ll never do that again. Sorry, everyone.
    Once more: I, hic, posted that MaltedMowbray comment as a pitiful joke, which I found funny at the time. It was meant as an obvious fraud. Apologies to anyone offended.

    Mishari~ if your installed and copacetic Dragon can communicate with your mobile device, that might be a great convenience, though I suppose it might not function yet if the head of the octopus is waiting for a part.
    Never mind labouring to explain; I know I don’t know what I’m talking about…

    more coffee…

  51. Edward Taylor permalink
    March 2, 2012 1:26 PM

    hic. I didn’t take the content of the message remotely seriously but I did think it was MM.

    Trouble is I think deception on the internet is way too easy.

    Back in the meat grinder for you.

    As for me I’ve got some Nigerian business men to invest in. No really they’re terrific guys

  52. March 2, 2012 1:44 PM

    Hic, I can barely type through the tears…

    I wasn’t convinced it was him but hope springs eternal in my ever-hopeful breast. Now you will have to go in the boot too. Minus the tea cosy.

  53. hic8ubique permalink
    March 2, 2012 2:17 PM

    Please, Sir, not the meat-grinder. I’ll not do it again.
    I’ll sit here in the corner all quiet-like.

    Please forgive me, Reine. It was meant to be a jovial dig, following on the hilarity of Mishari’s prosthetic salute.
    I never thought for a moment anyone would believe it, but given overall sensitivity concerning our missing-in-action friend, it was badly judged.

    I wish they were tears of laughter. I feel horrid.

    • March 2, 2012 2:28 PM

      Oh please don’t feel bad on my account, I was not really crying…(much)

      You’d have to do far worse than that to offend me. I must away, father is coming to stay tonight. The finest viandes won’t prepare themselves.

  54. InvisibleJack permalink
    March 2, 2012 10:23 PM

    I could only tolerate 43 seconds of those morrice dancers before I threw myself from the window. When I got back in here, only to find that it was all a cruel joke, I fely horribly manipulated. Hic pretending to be Mowbray, Mowbray gone off to planets more distant than even Jack has been to, Mish addicted to something that sounds like a cheat-word in scrabble, it’s all just too much for Jack. I’m off to paint my toenails, probably in the style of Philip Guston.

  55. March 2, 2012 10:51 PM

    Hic led us a merry dance
    MM, he danced not
    …Perhaps he did
    We cannot know
    His faraway foxtrot remains
    A figment of our imagination
    His rise and fall on Shanklin’s sands
    Causing seagull indignation…
    Still, I am there in his strong arms
    Slow, slow, quick, quick, quick
    Twirling his ‘tache and spinning fast
    Oh Christ, I’ve just been sick.

  56. InvisibleJack permalink
    March 3, 2012 12:43 AM

    My toenails are done.

    In the meantime, I see that Reen has vomited over somebody that is either Mowbray or Notmowbray. Good to see you keeping yourself busy, Reen.

    Time now for the fingernails.

    • March 3, 2012 4:54 PM

      How gorgeous can one poet possibly be?

  57. ice in my veins,blood in my eye permalink
    March 3, 2012 1:54 AM

    nobody knows the troubles i’ve seen etc etc.

    I’m writing this with a software-keyboard, Click-and-Type, created by an American woman named Bridget who:

    “has a disabled sister who is a quadriplegic with some very limited use of her right hand and wrist. That was just about enough to operate a Trackball and click her way through Internet browser links. When it came time to type anything in, she was stuck.

    Well, I spent more than a week searching for “On Screen Virtual Keyboards.” After all, someone had to have written one that suited her needs. Sure – There were free ones, Shareware ones of all prices, and some commercial “Buy it now, see if it works later” programs. With the exception of one Hardware solution that came in at not much less than $1K, they all had one thing in common.

    Under most situations, they just didn’t work! After investigating a little more about how Win32 really worked, I decided to just write the darned thing and stop wasting time. I also found it appalling to see how many people were trying to Stick-It-To people with a disability for a product that would cost little or nothing if it wasn’t targeted to people who really needed it.”

    God love you, Bridget. You saved what’s left of my sanity. How can the same country contain people like Santorum? The software is free.

    Check out these lovely here:

    G’night all. Monday everything returns to near-sanity, Inshallah.

  58. Reine permalink
    March 6, 2012 12:02 AM

    I was near sanity once
    But turned left at the crossroads;
    Ate some berries from the crazy bush;
    Wept when I realised
    And lay down to die

    Only one man could cure me

    I will find him, Inshallah.

  59. hic8ubique permalink
    March 6, 2012 2:34 PM

    And shall I mention sanity?
    near it nor near psychosis,
    Santorum’s neither here nor there
    but his mind has scoliosis.

    His speech: incoherent spasms
    phrases void of sense
    to parrot what the Tea-bags like:
    obfuscation, dense.

    I would that mine ears should be stuffed
    or that he be struck dumb
    but failing that, I’ll get me to
    a sanatorium.

  60. March 6, 2012 11:57 PM

    how dearly i would love to chat…but i’m not a man with requisite patience for this admrable on-screen point-and-click keyboard: alas,, i’m mentally damaged, not physically…the parts i need are promised bytomorrow; thursday, at the latest.

    then see if you can get me to shut-the-fuck-up

    you should be so lucky…

  61. reine permalink
    March 7, 2012 12:01 AM

    Yeah, yeah… you don’t even blow a girl a kiss.

  62. March 7, 2012 12:10 AM

    …of course, the part i really need is a proper brain; not much chance of that by thrsday…

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 7, 2012 2:26 AM

      It’s fundamentally a fine and rare one though. After extensive detox, we may yet have something left to work with… some vestige of cingulate cortex, still inexplicably functioning at an astronomically higher level than 99.8% of others extant in the world.
      It would be a great shame to burn out such a specimen.
      I don’t fancy the spectacle of myself miaowing over the ashes.

  63. arsene lupin permalink
    March 7, 2012 4:36 AM

    relax, toots…i’m an iron man

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 7, 2012 3:24 PM

      I know, Hotspur…
      “In thy faint slumbers, I by thee have watched, and heard thee murmur tales of iron wars.”

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      March 8, 2012 10:09 AM

      You’re Robert Downey Jr.?

      This explains a lot. You’ve certainly been rivalling him in drug intake recently.

  64. Captain Ned permalink
    March 7, 2012 11:30 AM

    Go Guardian!!!!

  65. hic8ubique permalink
    March 9, 2012 1:36 PM

    I have to wonder whether the ‘baby’
    is packed off to rehab after all,
    leaving its master feeling maybe
    more Birdman than Ironman: climbing the wall.

  66. Captain Ned permalink
    March 14, 2012 11:39 AM

    The silence is ominous. Have the pressures of writing bestselling trash, combined with a lavish drug intake, caught up with our host?

  67. Edward Taylor permalink
    March 14, 2012 12:53 PM

    A quick plug for our London-based PHers.

    There is an exhibition by Dave Pearson at the Bermondsey Project, 46 Willow Walk, SE1 5SF from April 20th – May 13th.

    I can’t recommend this highly enough.

    It ought to be at the Tate Modern or some such but it’s fitting that it’s at an independent gallery run by a charity for the homeless.

    Cap’n Ned I think our host is off filming Iron Man 3

  68. Edward Taylor permalink
    March 14, 2012 1:59 PM

    Here’s a link to a blog written by someone who has been archiving Dave Pearson’s work. If you’ve got time it’s well worth a look and clicking on all the “OLDER POST” links as well as enlarging the photos of the work.

  69. March 14, 2012 4:07 PM

    Don’t worry. I dreamt the other night that Ned, Ted, Mishari and I all met for a drink. It was my round. Mishari seemed fine.

    But then I also dreamt that Keith Richards was ginger after 1970

  70. hic8ubique permalink
    March 14, 2012 8:01 PM

    I suspect that with a full systems meltdown, plus physical over-extension (shall we say)
    the start-up process/resurrection must be painstakingly complicated and the first priority.

    Either that, or Inez decided it was time for the Costa del Sol, or some such rejuvenating intervention. Or both, I hope, and our much-missed host will surface with not just a life-sign, but a splendid new thread once all is restored to order.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 14, 2012 8:12 PM

      How was that for my impression of someone pretending to ‘relax’ as directed?

      (also, I may be privately suffering a twinge of regret that I wasn’t invited to ExB’s dream.)

    • March 14, 2012 8:32 PM

      I know, I felt a bit guilty about that. But you were present at the de-luxe party held in my dreams a few months back (I forget the details, although I posted about it here). I think you asked for a particularly exquisite brandy.

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      March 15, 2012 10:43 AM

      hic if it’s any consolation I don’t even remember going to this meeting.

      Unless it was the one where a herd of burning giraffes chased everyone over a bridge made only of gravel which was crumbling beneath our feet as we ran.

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 15, 2012 1:37 PM

      Dear Exit, I am mollified by the brandy.

      No, I was there for that one, EdT, and only now do I realise you mistook me for a herd of burning giraffes.

    • Edward Taylor permalink
      March 15, 2012 1:57 PM

      Is it easily done?

      That glow in the west every evening. Is that you busily burning and herding away?


    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 15, 2012 10:05 PM

      Easily done?
      Only as a first impression.
      The glow in the west?
      Now you’re just being silly.

  71. March 14, 2012 8:43 PM

    I was amused to discover a few weeks ago that my great, great, great, great, etc. grandfather – a Scottish preacher, had written a book dedicated to his son called ‘Gilchrist’s Intellectual Patrimony’.

    And now my uncle in Sweden has just posted me an actual copy of it, from 1817.

    In the introduction the author tells his son ‘the highest aim of all my instructions is to render you a philosopher. The reason of which is, that I consider the most happy, the most dignified, the most useful member of the world’. Aaah.

    I’ve read ahead a little, and whilst he has some wise things to say about trusting one’s own judgement, he’s a little less temperate about theatres and the French.

  72. henrylloydmoon permalink
    March 14, 2012 10:29 PM

    I’ve brought these sausage rolls, and a (rummages in poacher’s pocket) bottle of M&S mulled wine that we had left over…

    • hic8ubique permalink
      March 15, 2012 10:07 PM

      I hope they’ll keep…

  73. March 17, 2012 7:00 PM

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