TALES FROM RUIN, 24/2/10
Well, readers, once upon a time, a young married couple, Kirk and Sally - he talented and kind and handsome, and she, well, athletic and forthright - fell in love and had a fairytale Presbyterian wedding, which means a very long sermon and no dancing and some miserable-bastard least-you-can-get-away-with wedding gifts. Oh, fuck me, says hubby, look, now that I’m over fifty, maybe now’s the time I should think about having a family. And you, too, darling, if you like. Oooh, yes, please, says Sally, let’s be bright, young parents, like everyone else our age. (Most people Kirk’s age are having grandchildren and some of them, Mr Prescott’s Underclass, living on his sink estates and not, like him, in vulgar Jacobethan palaces, are even having great grandchildren but Kirk’s a slow starter with normal things.)
Okay, then, darling, says Kirk, how do we do it? Do we send someone out to get them, to a baby shop? Young Milipond gets his in America, or Mexico, I believe, and I like America, I go there every year for my holidays. What? No, of course you can’t come, you wouldn’t like it. Shall we buy an American baby, preferably a Ken-nedy one? But Sally bashfully whispered in Kirk’s ear…You fucking what, exploded Kirk, you fucking put what where? That’s the most disgusting thing I ever heard…almost, anyway, I mean there was that thing about George Robertson. Oh, never mind…but I’m not doing any of that shit, you can forget that. Isn’t there some other way?
It’s not as though Sally was gay, herself; how could she be, married to Kirk, the sportsman, who had been the most eligible bachelor since Cliff Richard? It’s just that she was a keen supporter of the Gay Pride rallies, where aggressive bald men with iron bars in their foreskins dress up as nuns and wave dildos around and, therefore, need, no, deserve, proper respect from us all and, come to think of it, she was a bit on the manly side herself; no reason, of course, for her not to love her big messy man. But not everybody loved Kirk as Sally loved him. As a matter of fact, people were either indifferent to the brusque manly charms which swept Sally quite off her flat shoes or they hated his fucking guts with a passion unrivalled anywhere, anytime, since we spluttered out from the sea and up the shores, to the caves, the trees, the plains and eventually the cities. No one was ever so detested as was Kirk, the incompetent, shouty fuckwit.
Pot Black, the early and surprising televising of the mind-numbing tedium of professional snooker, hypnotised large parts of a generation enchanted by then-new colour television and sport - or what passes, now, for sport; darts, for instance and for fuck's sake, became a large section of the broadcasters' schedules. The school playing fields, meanwhile, were sold off by and to Thatcherite spivs; PE or PT, call it what you will, declined, in and outside of the school, obnoxious little jerks being ferried about by stupid parents smugly doing what they called the School Run. Fuck it, you could go on forever about how we have a nation of idle, braindead, overweight children who can neither read nor write and who think multiplication is something David Attenborough talks about. Still, can't have them walking to school, the Paedos might get 'em. LoveMyKidsToBits,Me, DoAnyfin4Em.
Lewis Hamilton, walking billboard
Stop calling it sport and call it what it is: Monetised Entertainment.
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|Floating petri dish - Anthem of the Seas - Orkney's first cruise liner of the summer. For perspective - the tiny red and white boat nuzzling up to it is a massive car ferry.