Oblong Scone

Bristol is not meeting any of its recycling targets, so has put into action a new rubbish collecting plan. What’s the brown bin for? That’s for left over food. And the green one? That’s for garden waste. What’s that one for? That’s for cardboard and only carboard, nothing but cardboard. Do no place anything in it it……except cardboard. If you’re not sure it’s cardboard take it to our new ‘Is it Cardboard? Office’ in the main council building. They can tell you if the piece of cardboard you’re holding is suitable to be recycled as cardboard. They may decide it’s not cardboardy enough, in which case you need to take a long hard look at what you are doing to the environment of Bristol, in fact the United Kingdom. The whole world could very well be completely fucked because of your lack of care in discerning cardboard from very thick, cardboardy paper. What about the black bucket? For recyclable goods that aren’t cardboard. You put cardboard in there and we will kill you. Not a euphemism ,

I had a day off this week to catch up on some stuff. I may have accidentally switched on the television mid-morning and it may have been on ITV. And who was on the television?(Who am I asking this question too?) It was Jeremy Kyle, the Trisha replacement, talk-show host, goat-loving (unsubstantiated, in fact made up) over-opinionated, person I’d most like to punch. Everybody always used to laugh and look down on people on American Talk-shows. But, I think they should be laughing at us. Laughing at people who’s lives are so fucked up they’ve decided to embarrass themselves, by washing their shit-stained laundry on television. The episode I saw, I mean glimpsed at, I mean barely noticed, featured a man who was unsure about whether the child he had been raising was his. Actually…I think this was on the Jerry Springer in the UK show, not Jeremy Kyle. But is accuracy really necessary in the world today? How faithful was the film Lord of the Rings : The Two Towers to the events that really o

“I don’t fucking care anymore.” he shouted to noone in particular, dazed in a smart business suit in the midday sun. His zig-zag walk down the pavement of Gloucester Road in Bristol was slow and hampered by his substance intake. His head was pushed out in front of the rest of his body, so he had to stop himself from tipping over every ten seconds by stopping. “You don’t care about me, and I don’t care about you.” he continued. Everyone carried on walking, lifting their heads up the minimum amount so they could observe him but not gain his attention. An old man with a bright orange coat and scruffy blue trousers walked past and offered “Just calm it down eh mate?” “I am calm” he replied with massively exaggerated arm movements; movements of someone who wasn’t calm. Movements of someone who didn’t fucking care anymore, but might of just hours ago. Who might have cared more than anyone about something or someone, but was drowning under the glare of those that lived around him. People who

What was it with this sun that’s suddenly been doing its heat thing over the last few days. Has it warmed for a reason. To burn the St George’s Crosses from the sides of all the cars in England. We’re all surprised again about how late it stays light in the evening. As if it’s never been this long before. Are we right to be suspicious? Is it the government bringing in longer nights and a hotter sun. A not so prudent chancellor raising the temperature by 2 degrees in his weather budget, putting 10% on the evening illumination. Then today nothing but rain. Nothing but people in soaked summer clothing screwing up their eyes, running through supermarket car-parks with trolleys full of salads and ice-cream. “It’s good for the garden” they nod, and close the door.