G. I. N.

Hello. I have written a thing which I would like to share with you. I think it's fairly self-explanatory. It's called "G. I. N." and goes thusly:

G. I. N.

Gin is nice. Gin is nearly godlike in nature. Gin is not guzzled in negligence. Gleefully it nestles, golden, in naive gullets.
Imbibe now, guys. Ingest nonchalantly, girls. If nominal gender is nuanced, gladly intake numerous glasses.
It's not grotesque. It's naughty, granted - it necessitates guidance. I now get it: novices, genuine ingenues need graduated instructors nearby. Generally, innocent newbies gain insight.
Needing grounding, I neck goblets; it nurtures generosity inside normally guarded individuals.
Gods! I'm navel-gazing - it's nervousness, gang, innit?
Native garrulousness is napping. Grinning, I nod.
Goodbye is now.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Budget 2015

Hello. So, I'm under no illusions that my little blog has a small audience, and that most of the people reading it probably know me personally. That said, the internet is a wonderfully interconnected thing, even for no-name scribblers like me, so I feel this post needs some context for what I like to think of as my international audience. I am both British and living in England, and on Wednesday the Chancellor of the Exchequer (chap who runs the money in our parliament) released his budget, detailing various spending plans and cuts to be enacted. On Wednesday I wrote a little poem in response to that which I'd like to share with you. For the piece to work you need to know a) that the budget has just been released, and b) that the Chancellor's name is George Osborne. The piece is untitled and goes thusly:

Fuck George Osborne.

Fuck him negligently and with no real concern for his orgasm.

Fuck him while making enough noise to seriously strain his relationship with his upstairs neighbour, who has to get up early for work and already struggles to get enough sleep because they have a newborn.

Fuck him with the stereo playing music which does not really create a fuck-appropriate ambience - Chopin's Nocturnes, or didgeridoo music, or something.

Fuck him in such a way that accidentally break several small ornaments of great emotional worth.

Fuck him whilst wearing a cologne which aggravates his hay-fever.

Fuck him and give him a hickey which is clearly visible above the collar on his work shirts.

Fuck him directly after eating a kebab so you get chilli sauce on his favourite pillow case.

Fuck him with the door left open so the cat can come in and stare at him.

Fuck him after agreeing on a safe-word which you know will set off a speech impediment which, while not all that noticeable, he still gets embarrassed about.

Fuck him and, at the point of climax, whisper into his ear the name of his least favourite geography teacher.

Fuck him and afterwards, when he asks if it was good for you too, leave a very slight pause before answering.

Fuck him and then, later when he's just about to fall asleep, sneeze so violently that you bash the back of your head into his nose. Then when you roll over to see if he's alright, wipe it on his shoulder.

Fuck George Osborne in all the above ways, then over the course of a week leave him one hundred and thirty seven voicemail messages tearfully asking why he doesn't want a second date.

One hopes you're well,

Yrs,

ADWoodward

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson

Hello. I've written a little fable which I'd like to share with you. It's called The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson and it goes thusly:

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleston

"Hello, madam," said Joseph Spunkleston. "These are my genitals. Would you like to lick them?"
"No, thank you," she replied, as politely as she could manage.
"Fair enough," he replied. "The offer's still open if you change your mind."
Joseph Spunkleston never really learned the appropriate context for his penis and testicles. This led, later in life, to a rather embarrassing conversation with a lady paramedic after he tried to fuck the toaster

The End


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Civility

Hello. The other day I was irritated on a train. I have written a cathartic, and slightly childish, thing which I would like to share with you. It goes thusly:

On Civility

If you can’t be civil, don’t be near me.

Them’s the rules.

And, by the way,

I know I mutter,

Under my gin-stained breath,

With monotonous regularity,

For the most arbitrary of reasons,

That some bloke’s a dick.

And equally, I know,

And feel some remorse,

That, at times,

I don’t even bother

To have the good grace to mutter.

But I still claim the right

To lay down

This forceful

Unilateral regulation,

Because I’m a hypocrite,

A poorly-evolved primate

Who does not pretend

To be a moral example,

So my bad behaviour

Does not absolve you

From the stern and solemn duty

To be a halfway decent human being.

So, please,

If you’d be so kind,

Abide by my rule,

And, no matter how tempting it might be,

Don’t,

For example,

Stand with headphones blaring,

And an elbow in the small of my back,

And don’t

Spend an entire train journey

Blatantly staring

Down my friend’s blouse,

And don’t -

And this irritated me most,

Which is saying something –

Shove me and shout

“Come on, I need to get off here!

And if you don’t hurry

The doors will shut!”

When the way is barred

By people refusing to move,

And I’m trying

With equal fervour

To de-train as well,

You self-absorbed, egotistical,

Myopic, fucking prick!

One hopes you're well,
Yours,
ADWoodward

The Peril of the Department

Hello. Looking for something else on my laptop I have discovered a thing about which I had entirely forgotten. Last year, my department was one of many under threat of debilitating cuts and restructuring from an over-paid and out-of-touch university management. I wrote the following out of anger at this. I wrote it before I had started this blog and so didn't post it then. Since last year the proposals were successfully fought by the department, so the piece is now out-of-date. That said, I think it's still quite good so I thought I'd share it with you. It is inspired by the Cyclops episode from Homer's Odyssey (IX.80-410) and goes thusly:

The Peril of the Department

                Striking the white surf with their oar-blades, my valiant crew and I came to the land of the University Managers, a fierce, suit-clad people who never raise a hand to plant knowledge in young heads. All the aspirations and abilities that grow in that green, red-bricked land spring up, as far as they know, unsown and untilled. Thinkers and writers and groups of young people clustered with new ways of approaching old problems that sprout with the aid of critical-thinking and research skills all appear thanks to the providence of the immortal gods.

                Not so very far from the land of the university managers, and not so near either, there lies a luxuriant island, covered with world-class academics buzzing merrily away in their paper hives and happy, flourishing students sprouting from the sun-splashed lawns. The University Managers have nothing like our ability to see the soul of a thing, no sensitive minds to see the value of a thing beyond the bottom line of a balance sheet. Such visionaries would make the isle a fine colony for the university managers.

                It is by no means a poor country, capable of yielding any crop in due season. However, unable to access its splendid meadows and friendly, intriguing caves, the University Managers, unknowing of the Elysium they destroy, shroud the land with clouds of external fees which they send up like a man with an overly-focussed gaze clears out his attic, throwing away ancient treasures glittering with jewels of the purest beauty. Ignorant of the benefits such artefacts could bring to him and his family, he piles them on the bonfire as though they were dust-covered, empty boxes of Fox’s Teatime Assortment. Such was the pall hanging over this little isle. With such pressure from overhead blocking out the sun, the natural beauty of the island faded and its crops, delicious and useful, were already struggling to burst from the rich loam in the quantities they had in recent years.

                The tide and the wind conspired without consulting us at this critical stage in our journey, forbade us from landing on this still-happy little land that reminded me so much of our homeland of peaceful, verdant Academia and drove us directly to the land of the university managers.

                Springing from the ship, the tall and much-lauded Department, I and my companions landed in this strange, foreboding land, pausing only to pick up a skin of fine, purple-red wine to appease whoever might live in this land that they might grant us the supplies we needed to continue our journey back home, back to sacred, joyful Academia.

                Trembling with the fear the rumours of these monsters had instilled in us, we swallowed our fear and made our way to the great, fearful residence. The bones of previous adventurers driven to these shores by fickle providence crunched under our feet, but we had no choice; our only hope of continuing our journey lay in the mercy of whatever creature made its home in that awful, joyless place. Entering the residence, a lofty cave hacked out of the living mountain by the sweat of thankless slaves, we were appalled. Our hearts sank as we spied banners bearing the ancient, terrible battle-cry of “Efficiency Savings.” Tears ran down our cheeks as we spied the spreadsheets, terrible trophies of battles past. Vomit rose in my throat and I sank to my knees as I saw a terrible sight. There on the floor, mutilated by the strokes of an axe but still recognisable, was the head of one whom I’d known in my boyhood back in Academia. Poor Sussex; hacked to death and abandoned in the corner like the garbage at the end of a riotous feast.

                “What’s this?” A terrible shadow fell across us as the voice boomed around the corpse-stenched abode. We turned and saw for the terrible form of Polyagnosias, King of the University Managers. One horrible eye, capable only of seeing one horrible, lifeless vision of the world, gleamed like a pus-oozing boil from its forehead. The bloated, barbarous creature wore a jacket fashioned the skins of his victims, with patches on the elbows dyed with the heart-blood he mercilessly drains from them. The sickening image stood in malignant mockery of the garb and peaceful mindset of we Academics. The trousers bulged grotesquely with the fetid, stinking masses of the creature’s half-finished meal of “bonuses”, a sickly sweet fruit no honest man can hope to taste. We learned this term from brave men who have faced these monstrosities and fled with their lives weakened and trembling, they shamble about their native homes like the pale shades that haunt the banks of the Styx, unable to continue with the work that used to give them such due to their grief for slaughtered companions whose absence they miss like a butchered limb.

                With the pallid, gaunt faces of these heroes-brought-low capering in their nauseating dance before my eyes, I approached the dreadful creature and looked into its gaze, into that terrifying window both flat and unloving. I proffered the wine which we had brought from our ship and spake thusly:

                “Sire, noble king of this ancient, wooded land, I thank you for not instantly devouring us and taking our meagre supplies for yourself. It shames us to have to rely on another’s mercy to survive, but we have no other choice. We set out with enough supplies on our great ship, The Department, to make it to our destination, with a small amount left over as well. Woe befell us when those being who shape events and control the smallest aspect of our lives placed upon our shoulders a great and massive burden. Those supplies, which without this would have been enough, are now under great pressure. We need your help so that we might return to our homeland where our crops need tending and our young require our experienced hands to set them on the right course for the future. Please take this gift and let it warm your heart towards helping us in this time of sudden uncertainty.”

                The beast seized the wine in its oversized paw and greedily drank it down. It did not pause to enjoy the gift or express any thanks that it had received it. Such thoughts of gratitude do not enter a mind that regards privilege as its due. The beast turned its eye to me and smiled a terrible, grotesque approximation of a grin. It’s mimicry of civility made what I feared seem all the more terrible. With the half-rotten flecks of previous meals visible in its teeth, the beast addressed me:

                “Who are you who rightfully honours me so?”

                “I am Nobody, Lord.”

                “Then as a reward I shall eat Nobody last.”

                With this the beast seized two of my companions and ate them whole and speedily, their cries for mercy as redundant as their attempts to get away from that terrible, reaching hand. Not sated by this first barbarous course, the beast seized another two of my companions and dispatched them in the same way. Gross excess of this sort warms the body and soothes the mind, and so the terrible beast retired to its bed of piled-up treasure, unearned and unvalued, and began to snore.

                The beast had left the entrance to its home unbarred, and left nothing to prevent us escaping and evading a further confrontation which would surely end in us sharing the same grisly fate. But what use would flight serve? Losing four of my faithful companions had wounded me deeply. More than that, though, without them we had no hope of properly steering the tall and well-built Department. We would drift, unable to properly move the oaken planking and swift painted prow through the surf, until some unseen future catastrophe from the gods ended our adventures for good.

                We were resolved. Our only hope of being able to continue under the bright lamp of the sun lay in this cave, lay in our own determination. Lying to one side of the cave was a huge staff of green olive-wood which the beast had cut to carry with it when it was out strolling to support its weight when circumstance, as it so often did, left him with barely a leg on which to stand. Spying this pole, a plan instantly formed in my mind. I called for my companions to aid me in this new task before me. The pole was so large that it took the combined efforts of all the crew-members of the Department to move it and so secure our freedom.

                We moved the pole over to the fire cheerfully blazing under the cavernous hearth and held it in the flames. When the fierce glow from the olive stake warned me it was about to catch alight in the flames, green as it was, I withdrew it from the fire and my companions gathered around. A god now inspired them with tremendous courage. Seizing the olive pole, they drove its sharpened end directly into the beast’s flesh next to it monstrous, sleeping eye while I used my weight from above to twist it home; like a man using a hole-punch to pierce a stack of papers he’d spent years of painstaking research producing while his colleagues work around him proof-reading and ensuring the piece is of the same high quality that secures the reputation and future income of their college. In much the same way we handled our pole with its red-hot point and twisted it into the beast’s flesh until the blood boiled up and the stench of scorched flesh rose up and stung our nostrils. We removed the pole and could see the unused eye we’d released from its binding of healed-over skin, the second eye that grants its owner perspective and which can fade if not used.

                The pain caused the beast to empty its stomach of its foul meal. My companions came tumbling out in rush of wine and foul juices, shaken but ecstatic that what they’d thought was their end was not so. The beast awoke with a yelp and screamed in a voice that could be heard for miles around the following:

                “Nobody has opened my eyes! Nobody has helped me see the justice of using some of my grand resources to help him and his Department continue on their journey instead of keeping it selfishly for my own comfort!”

                All around him the other University Managers nodded approvingly at what seemed like a fine decision which would do much to improve their people’s reputation in the world and resolved to congratulate their king on his noble and praiseworthy action. It didn’t matter to us that the king of the University Managers was now seen as clement and wise, we were simply jubilant to have resolved this dangerous situation. As dawn appeared, fresh and rosy-fingered, we were once again striking the white surf with our oar-blades, back on course to our home of peaceful Academia

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Bread and Games

                Hello. We live in a democracy: a society wherein government rules only by the consent of the people who have the right to demand certain things from their rulers and throw them out of power if they deem those in power haven’t looked after their interests. I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it? Eugh, people getting a say in the fate of their own countries, yuk. This is not a good idea because, as anyone who’s been to a Weatherspoons on Curry Thursday can tell you, people are scum. They’re also sorely in need of a few elocution lessons, but that’s a topic for a different set of poorly-researched, opinions masquerading as an article. Today I’m concerning myself with how to minimise the damage this whole “Right of Nations to Self-Determination” thing can do to the plans of an aspiring oligarch.

                I recommend oligarchy rather than monarchy to solve our country’s problem with mob rule because there’s a lot of work involved in manipulating the fate of nations to suit one’s own needs; it is a complex and time-consuming exercise which will be made much easier with colleagues. The other reason is that the existing governmental system is one with power in several hands so by having a cabal rule your people by your side you can maintain a facade of not changing things too dramatically; this will allow you to strengthen your grip on the reins of power before anyone realises what you are doing. So, you will need a group you can trust to follow instructions. You either need people with shared goals and philosophy or some on whom you have some dirt which can be used to blackmail them. I advocate the latter because ideals might change when a person is given power, but blackmail will only become a more potent means of control once they are in the public eye.

                You will no doubt want to rush straight off to pull down the great pillars of your society and tear up its foundations to make room for your new solid gold swimming pool, but if you want to succeed hold on a minute. Grinding down the institutions of a people to make gravel for your driveway takes longer than one might thing – Rome’s constitution wasn’t irrevocably altered in a day, as they say – so you’ll need some sort of fig leaf or mandate to hide behind while you’re working. I recommend blaming the previous rulers. Whether you’re pretending to restore republican morality or tackle a deficit, you will be thankful for the ability to say “Well, I’m sorry, but this wouldn’t be necessary if they hadn’t messed things up quite so badly. Now bend over, bite the pillow and take your medicine. Oh, you like your medicine, don’t you? You need your medicine because you’re a sick society in need of reform, aren’t you? Oh, take the medicine! Take it! If you stop clenching then we can all be in THIS together, too!” Practice this sort of phrase and remember to vary it; you’ll seem far from genuine if you just repeat the same catch-phrase verbatim each time you’re challenged.

                This is quite enough for your to-do list for now, so I’ll leave you here. I don’t want to blind you with science and in any case I have a date with a bottle of gin. Don’t be scared if it seems like a lot of work, it’s all necessary to get the changes you see as being necessary. But in the interest of balance I will tell you that you can affect these changes another way. You can properly engage with the current imperfect system, organise your peers and lobby your representatives to actually earn their salary, constantly reminding them of problems and what you think needs changing, tell them they’ll lose your vote if they fundamentally change the health service, for example. I didn’t say the alternative method of changing society was any easier, did I? In any case, you’d better get cracking on finding the darkest secrets of your soon-to-be colleagues in office, or writing to your MP or whatever. If you don’t get started soon some other group with educated accents and shiny faces and vast wealth will get in and dismantle the country to suit the interests of their friends.

                Oh? They already have? Hmm. Well in that case make yourself a bacon sarnie, stick on “The Apprentice” and accept your fate like a good little subject. Pan ludique are all we, the ruled classes, really need anyway, innit?

One hopes you're well,

Yrs,

ADWoodward

Pogonophilic Nonsense

Hello. Pogonophilic means 'beard-loving', which will be the theme of this post. Because it's my blog and I can do what I want with it, that's why. Incidentally, you may be interested to know that my browser's spell-checker doesn't recognise the word 'pogonophilic' and, when I right-clicked to see if I'd misspelt it, instead offered me the word 'necrophiliac'. This post will in no way be about that.
I have a beard and I love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a bunny made out of a half-forgotten childhood memory; and because today is the two-year anniversary of the last time I was clean-shaven  I thought I'd commemorate this important milestone by sharing with you a number of the thoughts I've had about the exciting world of beard-wearing in that time.
I suppose I should start off by admitting that mine is not the most spectacular beard in the world, and lends me less gravitas than those of other men and women (I do not ever knowingly discriminate on my blog). My maternal grandfather's beard, for example, made him look like Tsar Nicholas II; mine, by contrast, makes me look like a pokémon that might one day evolve into Brian Blessed. I acknowledge that this particular joke would work better if you could see me, but if you picture a pale creature with the contents of an unblocked bathroom sink's drain glued to its face you'll get a rather close approximation. If you want your image to be more accurate give it a gin-glazed expression and a puerile smirk. Oh, and damn sexy legs, those are an important part of the picture.
I originally grew the beard simply because I'm naturally a rather hairy man and it's a bugger to stay clean-shaven. In fact I'm hairy enough that I was once helping a six-year-old with its maths with my sleeves rolled up when it put down its pencil, stroked my arm and asked me if I was a cat. I'm not.
Despite the fact it's origin came out of practicality and laziness, over these two years my beard has grown on me. (Grown on me! Ha! Oh, what a shining wit I am!) Nowadays I wouldn't be without a beard. There is not a single moment in life when stroking one's beard is not an appropriate response; joy, anger or boredom there's always something it can offer - it's basically the Swiss-army knife of facial features; both because it has many uses and because a lot of the people who resisted Nazism had one. The moments when it is most useful are those in which I am upset or stressed because it's soft and comforting like a kitten made out of Kinder Buenos.
A beard's uses extend beyond being an emotional crutch (which is different from an 'emotional crotch' - my beard has never got drunk, put me in a headlock and shouted about how much it fucking loves me. This is fine, my beard and I have that deep sort of love that goes beyond words. It doesn't need to say anything, I know it loves me; I can tell.)
Like all relationships this one does have its ups and its downs, and its lefts and its rights, and occasionally a sort of spiral motion that makes me dizzy so I have to go have a bit of a sit down and a glass of ribeana (which the browser's spell-checker thinks is me attempting the word 'Caribbean'). The first downside is the fact that when I go drinking, as I am occasionally wont to do, my beard generates an unseemly fascination in some of those around me. I know it's a wonderful symbol of manliness, I know they're incredibly jealous, I know they see that it is soft and comforting like a puppy made out of a mother's love, but can these drunkards not at least ask my permission before they grope my chin? One time a particularly pissed bloke licked it. I felt violated.
But the chief downside is that I now get followed around by the staff whenever I enter a toy shop. I am in fact there because I'm killing time waiting for friends and want a look at the Lego and for all they know I could legitimately have a nephew or niece for whom I need to buy a gift, but no, they take one look at me and think I'm there for a bit of toddler snatch-and-grab! It's not my fault I'm a naturally sweaty man, my house doesn't have a cellar, any sweets I happen to have me are for my own use, and I don't even own a van! But they see the fact my Gillette doesn't get that much use these days and all these valid excuses start being ignored. They never say anything, but they don't have to; I can feel them judging me with their lifeless, glass eyes and mocking me with their neatly upholstered fur. ... I may have got toy shop workers mixed up with teddy bears there, but I think the point still stands.
But despite these minor annoyances I still love my beard because it's soft and comforting like a guinea pig made out of a joke that probably doesn't bear repeating a fourth time.
One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward (and beard)

A Message From Your Friends at the BNP

Hello. As much as anything else recently I've been endeavouring to catch up on the news, particularly political news - solemn duty of all citizens of democracies and all that. This made me remember that I'd written this piece. I thought I'd share it with you because I enjoy it; it's the closest thing to satire I've written. It goes thusly:

A Message From Your Friends at the BNP

I’m here from the BNP to make a party political broadcast. We here at the Belgian Geologists are Nasty party want to warn you about the grave threat Belgian geologists pose to Britain. Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – every single Belgian geologist is evil and out to destroy your way of life. Belgian geologists are a naturally backwards and jealous people, it’s ingrained into them at birth. Belgian Geologists - all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – even the little ones you see playing in the park, every single Belgian geologist bases their entire life on one holy book – the Manuel belge de géologie- which if you read it you’ll find is full of gross, outdated barbarisms. I’ve not read it- eugh books- I don’t need to read it, I know it’s evil, my mate Barry told me so.

The Belgian landscape is made up of mud, boredom and occasionally and an irate Colin Farrell, this leaves Belgian geologists very little to study. That means Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists – even the nice ones at your work - every single Belgian geologist is part of a conspiracy to bring all other geologists down to their level. Now the English are fantastic geologists, as our language exhibits. English contains the word ‘homilite’ which is both an ‘association’ and a ‘borosilicate of iron and calcium’. Belgian geologists don’t have access to such a brilliant word for ‘borosilicate of iron and calcium’, if Belgian geologists want to discuss borosilicates of iron and calcium they can’t use homilite, they have to use another word, a Belgian word. I don’t know what that word is, obviously – I’ve not done any research to back this up. Who needs research when your opinions are informed by blind prejudice and things I’ve barely understood from internet chatrooms? And that’s just one example of the evil of Belgian geologists – which you would all know about if you weren’t blinded by the liberal media who are too cowed by Belgian-geological extremism to bring you the truth! That’s right Belgian geologists – all of them, not just a small minority of extremists - even the ones who are entirely integrated and don’t even know that much about geology - every single one of them believes that if they sneak onto British public transport and suddenly and violently explain the differences between igneous and metamorphic rocks then they will be rewarded with 72 samples of homilites. We can only hope that if it is true there’ll be some great cosmic joke: “I was promised 72 homilites!” Yes but did your holy book state whether they would be borosilicates of iron and calcium, or simply rather fancy synonyms for association?

One hopes you're well,
   Yrs,
      ADWoodward