Cracking Open The Tomb

Some time ago on good ol' Myspace.com, I used to post blogs. All of them are still readily available for your viewing consumption but I always felt that this one in particular broke away from the others. Because of this, I have decided to move it over here so that it is more accessible and because no one can be arsed with myspace anymore. Honestly, have you seen it? No one talks on there anymore. It's a like a fucking ghost town. The only activity left is an endless assault of bands all vying for my attention with their self produced songs which I don't want to listen to. Anyway, get on with it...

The Chain Of Blame

Good news, kids. You don't have to be held accountable for anything you've done wrong, ever again!

That's right, by using my patent pending Blame Chain (insert the little trademark emblem here. I don't know how to do it because I'm not a computer whizz spastic like all those 'cool' people who know loads of html code) you can no longer be blamed, held responsible or chastised for your wrong doings.

The system is simple and I'd like as many of you as possible to give it a go.

Firstly, you need to be confronted by your wrong doing...lets say you broke a window. Right, ok now we're getting somewhere. You threw the stone, you smashed the window so the first person that is going to get blamed is you, right? Well, using Blame Chain, we can eliminate your input into the situation and instead shift the blame down the line to who really deserves it. Lets say you threw the stone because you were bored...why are you bored? Are your parents doing something else? Are they not paying you enough attention? Right, lets say they aren't doing this for you so the blame is then shifted onto them. What are they doing? Are they working at the weekend? Right, ok lets say they are so lets then blame their boss for giving them too much work to handle in the week. The blame now lies on his shoulders and it's up to him to now pass the responsibility back down the line.

Of course, this doesn't amend the problem of a broken window. You may find that in the almost infinite number of possibilities as to why it wasn't your fault, it might be difficult to replace a broken window when time/space is a hefty factor in the equation. Why is your parents boss the way he is? Is it something to do with his upbringing? Maybe his parents were say...devout Catholics and imposed on him a strict regime of tyranny (after all, we know what those catholics are like, right, kids?). Therefore, we can blame the Catholic church for smashing the window. Get them to pay for it, they have enough money.

Can you see where this is going? You don't HAVE to be shouted at or blamed anymore. It's not your fault. Blame someone else because realistically, it's always someone else's fault. We complain that the IRA used to put bombs in bins and kill Londoners (top work, Paddy) but why? The IRA are only (or should I say 'were') acting upon an impulse and a desire to be a Republican country, independent of Englands i-ron grasp. What's wrong with that? It's in some way the fault of the English for being so bloody imperial and generally arrogant and flag waving when abroad so don't start getting all 'oh, you're pro IRA merh merh merh' with me. I'm not. I'm just exonerating them from the blame. Now it's our turn to shift the blame from the whole of England onto someone else. Lets blame France. We like blaming France (for whatever reason, I mean come on they might be arrogant but then again so are most of our farmers, not to mention a bit 'backwards' and sister fucking).

Give it a try, kids. Next time some fascist starts giving you a hard time, just say 'hang on a jiffy, The Rik told me that I'm not to blame for this' and then give them a reason why you're not to blame. Keep the chain moving if you want to be completely devoid of guilt and accountability.

Let me know of any interesting 'Chain Equations' you come up with. I'd be fascinated to know just how low you'll sink to avoid taking the blame for masturbating on your grandmother's toilet.

- May, 2006

Heart FM's Dark, Satanic Message

Hell exists, folks and it's right here on Earth. Yep, it's 106fm Heart Radio, drowning you in mediocrity while Satan tongues your balls and imps do the macarena. Having been forced to endure 8 hours of said radio station, I felt the compulsion to strangle everyone within a 15 mile radius with my underpant elastic. It's so unbelieveably twee and coy, I don't think the entire compliment of DJ's working at that station has a single vaguely confrontational opinion. I'd love to be employed by that station, just to say things like 'This whole 9/11 thing has been done to death now, don't you think?' or 'I don't know what everyone moans about Myra Hindley for. I once wrote to her and asked her how she got her hair to stand up like that, she's a lovely woman. I hoped one day she might be able to meet my kids'. That sort of thing. I don't actually think those things obviously but they would be fairly inflammatory, I'm sure you agree.

The most truly terrifying thing about Heart FM is that the poor buggers only seem to have about 12 songs in their entire catalogue. It must be such a pain in the arse having to wait another 20 years or so for someone to release a song, have it played on Radio 1 and then later at weddings/funerals whatever, be part of the national consciousness, be used in a film which then has a long stay at the cinema, a successful release on DVD and multiple christmas showings on television before the Heart DJ's are told it's ok! We have the clearance to play this song on air! Presumably because the original artist is either dead or could use the money given that the wait to hear it is just a fraction longer than the 100 years war.

When I contemplate the standard listening audience of this station, I struggle to wonder how they would react to the worst news you could possibly ever tell them. They obviously have no objections to anything other than what the Daily Mail has decided it wants to berate this week and they obviously have no concept of time, space or particle physics given that they are trapped eternally in an ever circling, outer spiral arm of a dark matter nebula where those caught in its gravitational pull are forced to endure 'What A Feeling' and that famous Backstreet Boys ballad everyone knows. I doubt they would even flinch if you told them that a nuclear holocaust was happening right outside the working men's club. They'd probably titter, say you were silly and go back to talking about Peter Andre and Jordan's divorce because, after all, they are the highest authorities on these matters.

The competitions are always crap, as well. Take this for example: yesterday, the grand prize on a Michael Jackson themed quiz was a copy of 'King Of Pop' CD (available now from all good bargain bins and Asda media racks for a price comparative to that of a tin of really, really nice dog food) and tickets to see Thriller! live on stage. Well, forgive me but, that's a bit fucking tight. Obviously they can't promise you tickets to Jackson's 02 shows. Why, that would just be weird and dark magic-y but surely there's got to be something better than a CD thats been widely available for the past few hundred thousand years and tickets to a crap musical/dance show which, in my mind, is just 2 hours of people dancing to Thriller. It reminds me of that DJ who only brought one record with him in that episode of Father Ted. Plus, they're all zombies in that music video aren't they? I might be convinced after five minutes that the zombie apocalypse was finally upon us and treat this as my cue to start calmly and cooly shooting people in the head.

Yes, Heart FM continues to broadcast it's dark, satanic message of banality and insignificance to bored housewives and warehouse staff throughout the land (or at least in the east midlands). Just thinking about it now makes me want to try and eat my own head, shit it out and consider whether there's a new audio dimension to be explored twixt the sound of their inane prattle and the lumps of shit that would be between my ears.

Emma Bunton DJ's for them now. That should say it all if you think about it.

A Depressing Little Pocket Of Wank

England. It's shit, isn't it? As a country, it single handedly manages to simulate the experience gained from using a melon with a hole in it for masturbatory purposes. It has some of the redeeming features such as moisture, consistency (apparently) but never manages to seem quite like the real thing. I could very easily be described as a romanticist but why the bloody hell not? Is it wrong of me to expect something more from my eco-system than damp fucking weather? Winter time: It rains. Summertime: It rains. For the briefest of brief moments, the extremes of seasonal change resemble something like that which we expect. It becomes sunny with a nice cooling breeze, as if God, Jesus and Elvis were taking it upon themselves to personally cool us down so as to save us from getting dampies. In the winter, we get that cosy kind of dry cold. The kind of cold that makes staying in bed for five minutes longer, wrapped in a goosedown womb of loveliness, a luxury and not just a sordid little excuse to feel that weird morning hard-on for a short while longer. But pretty soon, it's all shitted up. Yep, it's fucked. The sun very quickly becomes a burning ball of suffering, like Lucifer poking a nut out of the side of his shorts and shining it in your face. The breeze stops. All the oxygen is bought up by Disney Inc. to be taken away and redesigned to be all fluffy and warm. It's no longer cooling and fresh but thick and nasty. It stifles and paralyses, like being beaten over the head with a duvet that someone has taken great pleasure in sewing iron filings to. That gorgeous, cosy feeling that a dry winter creates? Gone. Removed to be replaced by a feeling that you've been walking around all day with a soaking flannel in your underpants.

Yep, it's pretty shit. It's the sort of place I expect a tyrannical despot in an episode of Star Trek to banish all his enemies to as punishment. It's the kind of place simpering fuck wits that say 'I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy' talk about. Habitually shit, a depressing little pocket of wank in a lapping, brown whores-tongue-at-your-ball-bag sea. England, along with many things if I'm going to be honest, is to me the final proof of the non-existence of God. As I write this, I'm watching brilliant blue sky appear in the cracks of grey cloud that I've just had to have pissing on me the entire time I was walking home from the bus stop. It was that sort of rain that doesn't just get your clothes wet. It was the kind of shower that soaks through your skin and makes your internal organs scream for water wings. And while I'm on the subject, who the fuck thought that soft fibre fabric would be a good choice for the standard hood on a coat? Well, this is just brilliant. I'm managing to keep my head dry for approximately 4.7 seconds longer than you wankers that didn't bring a coat with a hood! We'll see who has the last laugh! Look at me! I'm the worlds most driest man!!!

So, what's the point of this tirade? What do I seriously hope to achieve from this useless fist shaking exercise? Well, standing atop a hill and hurling abuse at the sky hasn't worked so far. Maybe God's in the internet these days. It's where everybody else seems to spend all their time.