Saturday, 22 December 2012

Fabulosa, fabulosa, fabulosa

I read last week about a new Gay Bible. They obviously don't realise it's already been done, and better. Varda, I bring you bona tidings of dowry joy.

Herd-homies varda'd flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Dutchess trolled,
And Gloria sparkled round.

Bencoves and heartfaces, for the quarter Sunday in Advent, our text is from the first chapter of the Gospel of Matilda, verses 18 to 25, from yer actual Polari Bible - mince over there in a bit and have a varda. Meanwhile, let us put aside for a bijou mo the swiftly-trolling fakements of this world (the gildy clobber, the prezzies, the bevvy and the bona manjarries to come) and get us sat for a serious cackle. We varda here that Gloria Her Absolute Very Self Herself swep' into the world, becoming carnish like other homies, only better: never cottaged, never had the trade round, never took it up the chocolate starfish or even had a J. Arthur so far as we know from the Bona Glossy. She jarried with the landladies and tax-collectresses, and trolled all over, healing the nanti varda and the nanti wallop, and casting out the wicked fairies. Then - and here is the Fantabulosa Gossip - she snuffed it for all the  kertervers* of homie-kind, however manky, and on the third journo, rose from the stiff. Well, after all that, natch, She’s absolutely in bits, bless Her - three to be exact: The Auntie, The Homie Charver and The Fantabulosa Fairy. We’re getting ahead of ourselves here, cos all this is part of the Holy Cackle Fart story, but this way you get a through picture and can see it all makes perfect sense.   

(*Rom 6:23 - 'For the parkering ninty of kertever is death' - but not necessarily!) 

The Gossip of Matilda

18 Now the birth of Josie Crystal was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Josephine, before they trolled together, she was found up the duff of the Fantabulosa Fairy. 
19 Then Josephine her homie affair, being a just homie, and not willing to make her a publick example, was minded to put her away privily. 
20 But while she thought on these fakements, varda, the fairy of the Duchess appeared unto her in a dream, cackling, Josephine, thou homie chavvie of Davina, fear not to lell unto thee Mary thy palone affair: for that which is conceived in her is of the Fantabulosa Fairy. 
21 And she shall bring forth a homie chavvie, and thou shalt screech his name Josie: for she shall save his homies and palones from their kertervers. 

22 Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was cackled of the Duchess by the prophet, cackling, 
23 varda, a nanti charver shall be up the duff, and shall bring forth a homie chavvie, and they shall screech his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, Gloria with us. 
24 Then Josephine being raised from letty did as the fairy of the Duchess had bidden her, and lelled unto her his palone affair: 
25 And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn homie chavvie: and she screeched his name Josie. 

OK, now let's remember the prezzies, the bevvy and bona manjarries (the mustard-infused artichoke hearts in Riesling, the traditional hot-smoked organic Cornish Pasties, the limited-edition kimchee Pringles) and how much the Homie Chavvy, Sparkle of the World, sets you back every bloody December.

You might like to troll over here and have a varda, an all. 


Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Why the Sandy Hook Massacre was OK Really

William Lane Craig Ph.D explains it all for you: the massacre of children and the wrecked lives of their parents combine to bring home to us the true meaning of Christmas. Warning: computer keyboards react badly to vomit, as do screens to fists.

Friday, 14 December 2012

Well said, Dave mate.

Hugh Grant was termed a 'pain in the ass' by an American talk-show host. 'Dave', commenting on the Yahoo News article, says:

'Brits hate our actors being pre-maddona's.'

Grant must be looking into the possibility of gender reassignment.

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

Raga Khamaj

Ravi Shankar (R.I.P.) and his daughter Anoushka perform Raga Khamaj.

Saturday, 8 December 2012

The Night Shift

Thirty-odd years ago, my dad arrived at work in the early morning and was surprised to see the boss's chauffeur there. He had been in London and was not expected back until much later in the day. When in London, the driver stayed at a flat in St John’s Wood, and on that morning he had frantically slung his gear together, bolted from the flat, and gone high-tailing it back up the M1 in the small hours. This was because he had awoken to find a malevolent being glowering down at him, and his body flattened against the bed as if by centrifugal force. 

Many years later I found that this experience is called sleep paralysis, and it is not uncommon. It happened to me on Wednesday last, and I do hope it won't happen again. I woke to find that I was sandwiched between two bodies, indeed attached to them as though we were conjoined triplets. The one behind of course I couldn’t see, but the one in front was clearly Linda Blair from The Exorcist, in full demon make-up. I was struggling mightily but vainly to push the two bodies away, and hollering ‘insanity, insanity!’ as my panic level rose. (Odd choice of vocabulary, that: no idea what prompted it) Eventually my slamming heart beat must have brought me to full consciousness. The experience cannot have lasted more than thirty seconds, if that, but it was a fucking long thirty seconds. When I first understood that the chauffeur's experience required no supernatural explanation, I remember feeling disappointed. In the early hours of last Wednesday morning, however, I was bloody glad I’d heard of sleep paralysis, and was able to turn over and nod off again instead of leaping out of bed and abandoning the flat.  

A respondent in the Guardian article I linked to above often experiences multiple episodes of sleep paralysis a night. Not all of them are unpleasant - occasionally, he says, there's a sexual element - but it all sounds rather trying:
Common images are bearded, goblin-like demons laughing or whispering sinister speech, a faceless girl (usually covering her face with hair, moving around in bed moaning and feeling my body), hands appearing from the wall and attempting to strangle me. A hung man talking in the corner of the room, and some of the most bizarre experiences may include up to a dozen 'critter' entities (think Gremlins movie) laughing and talking about me.

I'm not sure whether he means a hanged man talking in the corner of the room, or whether that was one of the sexual episodes.


I note all my dreams but can rarely make sense of them. Every so often, as a special treat and a change from the banal stuff involving standing in front of a group of students with no idea why I’m there, there’s a Big Dream, one of those that you feel has been sent down from the Top Floor to keep you guessing. My biggest Big Dream I dreamed in the early nineties in Athens. It was extraordinarily intense and focused, in a manner entirely unlike waking life.  

I’m in bed in my flat in Astydamandos Street, Pangrati. The room begins to spin – no, it is not the room, but me; my body is rising from the bed, whirling round as it ascends, as if in water going up a plughole. I manage to focus my attention on a candlestick, and this steadies me. Now I’m bobbing against the ceiling, looking down at my sleeping other self. An OBE! Fuck! I’m dead chuffed, but then I worry: is this body exactly the same as my physical one? I check, and yep, I still have my cock. Much relieved, I decide to explore. I float downwards and pass through the bedroom floor, seeing and feeling the floorboards, the concrete and then the wallpaper on the ceiling below. 

It’s the ceiling of my parents’ living room in England. It’s night, and there is nobody here. I float through the sitting room, through the dining room, and then through the kitchen window and down into the back garden where a boy is waiting for me. I know that unlike me, this lad is permanently out of his body; in our terms, he is dead. I reach and touch the back of my head. What feels like a steel cable protrudes from my skull and connects this temporarily discarnate me to my body, asleep back in Athens. An astonishing, thrilling thought occurs to me. I ask the boy if he can take me to see Nicolas, a young man I knew and had hoped to know better, killed in a car accident a few months earlier. He agrees to do this. I take his hand, close my eyes, and then… he’s gone. I’m alone in the monochrome garden, and Nicolas is as far away as ever.  

My sister just texted me to say she had experienced sleep paralysis frequently in her late teens, but never told anyone about it. 'I was pressed against the wall or bed by what felt like a vortex'. Sod - it's in the family. I'm really not looking forward to turning in tonight. 


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