Panning for Mirth

The laughs that I love have moved out of town,
It seems that things have been dragging it down.
The smile I once had, has failed to appear,
The eggshells friends walk on, placated with fear.
For what I had grown has gone in a flash,
My humour, the tumour, malign since the crash.

You're trying so hard to pretend it's all fine,
But it's all turned to vapour, these dreams of mine.
The goals that were posted have now been destroyed.
Put one past me, my defence is devoid.
Now I step back and scrabble in earth,
Keeping me desperate: I can't find the mirth.

This colour inside is greying and ill,
No focus at all, now, should I take the pill?
It was all going so well, in line for success,
Then they dropped the bomb; Stupid! Careless!
So choose new options ones that align,
But I didn't have a back up, for this feckless crime.

You knew where it was going, you were working hard,
But they dodge your gaze for you're no longer the card.
And now it's all blurred - a kaleidoscope of bland.
Your drive is in neutral; seated, not stand.
For the courage you had in being scrutinised,
Is now so fragile; scared, cowers and hides.

When everything you work for is what helps you breathe,
But it's taken in one note, from the unwitting thief.
And then it was smashed; it's broke, it's gone.
How long will this take before you move on?
Now it feels like the love of your life will not return,
For you pile your moon and stars and place them in urn.

Toilet

I hope you choke, you big fat fuck,
Your boarded up windows devoid of luck.
The death that reeks out of your door,
Invites lost souls who want to score.
The exit it doesn't even lock;
Kick it, hard, no need to knock.
I'd daub your boarded panes with red,
If it meant they'd swoop and take you dead.

A wretched whore comes for fix,
Add his girl and dog in the mix.
In daytime you see his fists punch out,
His screams and incoherent spouts.
You deserve nothing you poor lost scourge,
You are gone, your venom is real; an empty purge.

But it is not the one that beats his friends,
It's the one who helps you meet your end.


For the big fat fuck, he never leaves,
The girls visit, ensemble, a sweaty heave.
They sell your wares like sweets to all,
If I were brave, I'd make the call.
But they must know you're here dishing horse,
For my community continues in discourse.

And the poor old man who's next to you,
His windows smashed for what you do.


The man lives in fear; alone, afraid.
Is it worth it for what you've made?
Your mother is proud of what you've built?
If I were her, in your mouth, barrel to hilt.
For what you do you poison and taint...
But, Lucifer is waiting for the greedy saint.
So, open wide and take too much.
I hope you choke, you big fat fuck.

Judging The PulizterShit, Sir.

You think I'm intense? You should meet my radiator. 

Bikfinpie does not condone the manhandling of anyone, especially whilst your arse is hanging out.

Being a strong woman - almost 6ft tall - who is able to lift a man, can have its pitfalls. Occasionally I get referred to as "mate" in shops when people don't pay attention, but then I imagine Francis Rossi has the same problem in reverse.

When I say strong, this is of course massively subjective, I mean, not many girls are going to describe themselves as weak, unless they're pitching for a man who likes a needy woman. Or perhaps a weak woman would like an equally weak man so that they can lettuce around being wet and meek. After all perhaps some do have an agenda to inherit the earth? Quite how that happens being submissive is anybody's guess. I imagine they don't step up to much.

Note, I said strong, not tear-you-a-new-arsehole Bitch from Brigadoon - though she sounds awesome! Yeah I think I'm pretty strong, or stubborn or stoic, but I'm also pretty gentle, sensitive, quite passive and generous. After all, I infamously coined the term 'Gentle Jesusing' as a verb.

When I perform as a 'Bitch from Brigadoon' - let's call her - it can shirk any interest in you when those eyeing up your wares believe you to be exactly like your persona. I recently encountered this first hand when someone - who had initially demonstrated romantic interest in me (I say romantic, he wanted to get all pumpetty on me) but following two relatively, lengthy, 'normal', quite amusing 'off stage' conversations that seemingly went quite well, hence the attempted pumpetty pillage) I was taken aback when he described me, rather nastily, as scary. Now yes, I am rather an intense personality, and yes, I do operate in a rather dominating stance whilst performing, because you have to use what you've got and control a room, but NO, I am not like I am on stage. Between four walls I'm very different. It's a shame he never got to find out, but at least I managed to halt it before he got wriggly between my iron thighs of Brigadoom.

A further example of misjudging those on plinths:- Jack Dee is the most irritating optimist I have ever met, you can't wipe the smile off his doughy, moist face, and the polar example being Professional Christian Aled Jones, who is a notorious arsewang (actually he's not, he made a gag about anal sex to me in a lift once,  it was quite funny bearing in mind it came from Aled Jones' mouth), but you catch my drift. In fact both examples are total falsehoods, (and though the lift story was true, it just didn't happen to with me in said lift).

People make assumptions as to who you are when we all have exteriors and fronts just to battle through life. But if no one is willing to invest the time and energy to see beyond that, and we're not able to ever let our guards down, then we're screwed. When you present yourself publicly for performance you are open to judgement. A case in point being most goths are lovely (obviously they'd hate me saying that, but they generally hate everything), they just don't want to deal with shit from Norman's and hope their appearance might automatically tell the Magnolia's to keep-the-fuck-away. Same with meat heads, except there's a little too much time spent in the mirror and most of them have small penises - but that's the illusion of the meat stack. More often than not, their stout stature couldn't even guarantee an effective upper cut due to the excessive friction against their barrel chests and the subsequent dangers of spontaneous combustion.

It takes time to get to know someone. A whole lifetime. And it's not nature, it's definitely how you nurture. Until you get us out of our masks and clobber we are ALL illusions, especially as 'personalities'. David Copperfield's tan is testament to that. And even David needs love.

The D Train

I tried to catch the D train, but it seems to have stopped.

I tried many times, but the service has dropped.

The timetable - when it comes - it comes sporadically,

But I receive no notice, it seems to stop me.

For no reason it has in postponing the trip,

But self-service demands it, in riding the dip.

A brief encounter is what I am to expect,

When I felt that I missed it with total regret.

For the D train it travelled just like hi-speed bullet,

But my empathy came and I just couldn't dull it.

A visual memory, I arrived at the station,

The D Train was nowhere near destination.

But National Rail called and they told me to cease,

But the D train didn't appear to have had much peace.

For it stayed in the shed, unloved and uncherished,

It stayed in the shed no award, past-embellished.

One day I hope they will call me to say,

Jump onboard the D Train, today is the day.

A legal high

For those in pain and it will not surrender,
You try other options to avoid the street sender.
For when it comes, it comes without timing,
And the horror you feel is increasing and climbing.
You wish that you could put a gun to your head,
Rather than feel pain, it'd be better to be dead.
And who would have thought something simple as this,
Would lead to a mess, a stigma; a diss.
When the pain, it was double, the only relief,
Was to get on the stage and act the big chief.
So now look at the mess that this whole thing has caused,
Your body an existential mess on the floor.
You stay in your bed and you try not to weep,
You wished that it was a permanent sleep.
For nobody likes a moaner, you see,
You rock up for laughs and the weekend party.
But the pain that you felt, was the bear with sore head.
How can something like this make you want to be dead?
And when it was taken a euphoria came,
But nobody wants to know what you can blame.
And so investigatory work it now must continue,
To find the answer is natural, it's something within you.
But the pros in this field, they don't have a clue,
For they study their books and don't live as you do.
So you wait and you wait, treading water-like mud,
And the help that has come, couldn't but should.
And things have spiralled out of all control,
You stumble to walk like the clownish young fowl,
But the strength you have, you must again try and muster,
When you're tired of the fight, and the professional fluster.
So the answer is out there, one day it will come,
But for now, you drop out; what's done has been done.
Now you hide your head in shame and you cry,
The pain has gone, but you still want to die.

Rubbernecking...

Dang, you missed it...now move along, there's nothing to see here...

Bifkin Trafficking

Much like the average person, I like an odd search of the internet now and again; when I'm alone, in need of research, bored and trying to avoid looking at the same clip of pornography over and over again, but it may be worth noting that many people visit the bifkinpie in search of some horrifying things. Things that would make you want to become a Vicar (in addition to the boon of getting a nice free big house, an endless supply of biscuits, and all the lavender scented gilf you could handle).

And so over the past 6 months searches to arrive in the pie, include:

'All animals being silly', the tamest of the searches. Firstly let me address those people - I don't want you people here. You idle away your life looking at cats doing something moderately amusing. Go on, sod off and be useful. At least film a small child eating a lemon for the first time...now that's funny. Cats incidentally won't eat lemons. If they did, Lisa Riley might still have career (a minutes silence, please).

'Tattoo on teeth' - as I discovered this is an actual procedure you can get done. It's not even a tattoo, it's a stencil. Some bloke had Kate and Wills done on his teeth for their wedding. Fortunately like the fixation with Pippa's arse, it's not permanent (stop thinking of her arse). I imagine many will now rush out now to  get something natty done to secure a record deal for their closeted suburban grime act 'Bruvvasundercovers'.

'Dominatrix with a pie in the face' - that kind of defeats the object you filthy worm, now lick my shitty wellies! A dominatrix would never let you put a pie in her face. NEVER! Unless of course the attacker was taped up in a bin bag with a singular arm hole with which to fire said pie. That might be fun.

'Shave the Baby' - Yes you can shave a baby, you can buy a hairy doll that you shave, and it's a ginger baby, with hairy ankles (see post: 'Kicking it with the kids'). Quite why you'd want to 'Shave the baby' is anybodies guess. But at least it's not an actual baby you want to shave, unless you're rearing your own 5-a-side bunch of neo-nazi's and are looking for tips (Tip #1: try not being racist).

And finally, 'Diarrhea on face'. This search is clearly for scat fans who prefer it loose. May I recommend that you don't drop your poorly guts onto someone's face. They may die. Perhaps try mocking the act by using 'Cow & Gate' Autumn Vegetables range - it's almost the same, with a tad more parsnip and less E-coli.

And so over the next few months I look forward to many people dropping into the site to be massively disappointed by the nonevent of their searches.

Now you must excuse me, I've got to find pictures of dogs in lingerie. It's for a thing.

Punch Drunk Punk

That gap I could fill with a boot to the face,
Your self-concerned arrogance remaining in place,
Your syrupy words try to grab at my strings,
But you can't even see your deceitful weak stings.

Remember when this...? Remember but why?
Don't even bother, it's not worth a try.
When we slept as terrace in seaside states,
I thought you were it; my finest of mates.

But time muscled on, and jealousy destroyed,
The big one hi-jinx; my playtime with boys.
The vintage has blurred any speckle of care,
And the laughs that once were, were just left right there.

Remember the powder party; hi-fliers galore?

I spoke with the addled and saw rotting core.

One such child had spoke at me for hours, 

Yet my manners intact, my impatience had cowered. 

Now you may like a dram(a), you may want a shot,

But I haven't the time, not even a jot.

As heads disappear and invert up backsides.

I hope you've enjoyed all of our rides.

You think that I'm stupid, that you can take the piss,
If I could see you now, that gap would meet weegie kiss,
I hope your quaffing chaps see you for who you are,
A secretive, charming continental with a peanut - har de har.

The phone will ring out, so don't try and dial,
As judge and jury, there's no option for trial.
So remember - with fondness - all the fun we had shared,
But that was yesterday when perhaps you had cared.

So next time you want to rinse someone of knowledge,

Remember 'the small talk' that came at the college.

I was doing well, just fine, thanks for asking.

I'm sorry if you thought extra words would be taxing.

The inuit is focused on catching his fish,
And feeding his face with his premium dish,

So shove your mer medley where the sun won't shine,

You were, are no longer, a good friend of mine.

Good luck Francois, now I bid you Salut,
So now you can focus on you and you too.
Don't be considered, for one moment that I am bitter,
I'll drink a smokey note, and think of the 'big hitter'.

Muttering Uttering Nuttering

The guy on the bus, he went fuckin mental,
We'd only just left Manchester Central.
Stopping the 85, driver disabled.
Impatience from all sides enabled.
WHERE AM I? His voice projected,
Near Moss Side - he's disconnected.
I grabbed my chain, observed right in,
Regardless of the crack coke sin.
For his body screams the sign is vacant,
The abuse has left him, screaming latent.
For some just think 'What a nutter'.
The addled mouth in faux filth mutter.
Screaming at a woman, "ARE YOU BLIND?"
He didn't mean to be unkind.
Her shades suggest she couldn't see,
She shrugged in the face of uncertainty.
And finally he found his stop,
Driver frustrated; at last the drop.
A one fingered salute was how they departed,
For the young shop girl had bravely started...
Her voice was calm; she spoke like lamb,
And touched him soft, unlike the gram.
For she had been the one true hero,
When others would have met with zero.

Chittering Shat

What lame arsed line did you just say?

To try and catch me for seedy play?

"Do you think he'll spin some Jagger and Keef'?"

He did, just then, you dribblin queef.

I know you think I'm easy game,

I've seen so much, I'm tried of the same.

To talk to girls in bars is cheap,

Come on man, you're just a creep.

Your breath it smells of desperation,

The beef? I'm guessing perspiration.

But I 'spose you have some kind of balls,

To rally lines and hope they'll fall.

But back up fella, this girl is taken,

Even in fiction my boyfriend fakin',

It's a shame your eyes are blurred with ale,

As this is obviously a fucking fail. 

So piss off will ya' and give me a break,

I only came here to move and shake.

Why not try the girl to my left,

She's drunk so much, dignity bereft.

That whiff of vomit in her lap,

Her fella left her, with water on tap. 

If you're looking for some easy meat, 

Then sit in the gutter, it's in the street.

Or go and find some sweaty sauce,

I'm talking Shish Kebab of course.

So let this be a lesson to all triers,

A girl with respect doesn't need a buyer,

For closed bids only is what I'm after,

And most of all bring me the laughter.

Douillet Tété (a Tété)

The blackbird it screams bullshit,

It's black eye as wide as hell,

Gnawing on meaty bones,

No stories he had to tell.

This cloud of thick vagueness,

It stutters foggy dense,

And that catholic guilt, you spoke of,

In this new age, is past tense.

So open your beautiful blue eyes,

And see the cronies in the midst,

As they're the ones who are dining,

You can see them, dribbling, pissed.

Do you know who you are now?

Can you see what they do?

For those friends that surround,

Don't want you for you.

So keep your royalty,

To lavish on those you crown,

As the ones that kiss your arse,

Are the ones dragging you down.

You're funny, and shy and silly,

And it's all stuffed in nice and tight.

For you're the boss my friend,

Keep it real, boy, keep it in sight.

So return to when you were extra;

Alone, real and pure, 

For that was when the melody,

Lacked the obvious formulaic score.

Listen to your heart, 

As that will speak in honesty,

You don't need borrowed middle eight,

Secure; your admirable modesty.

I hope it works out for you, 

I truly am an admirer.

But watch yourself, illustrated, 

And avoid the twisted that expire. 

Judah's Preach

You gave her a kiss, but you bit off her head,
Anything that could've happened, is instantly dead.
Now she's floating, suspended, thinking 'what if...',
When a small bit-of-banter became an overblown tiff,
You feared that she'd write about you and your ways,
Yet, you don't know of subversion, and the way that it sways.

She wishes you weren't you - you were somebody else,
And that your self-interest, hadn't left you on the shelf,
Whoever hurt you, whoever shut you down,
It's completely irrational, the Judah-in-crown,
But you hide away, mournful, licking your paws,
And you've unwittingly closed all of those doors.

Your prey wanders free, and prospers content,
When you got it all wrong, you didn't know what she meant.
Now you think in your cage you have a problem of sorts,
When she closed the door on lovers-in-court.
But time rolls by, the moment has passed,
It's a shame you missed out on that great piece of ass.

So you want to know how I'm doing?

I'm just super...anyone else want to take a shot? 

images courtesy of Lauren Kay Davies

Marked

I am not crying for me, I am crying as I cannot help Marked,
He paces endlessly like a caged animal - because that's what he is.
We are animals.

He spoke to me for the first time today, he asked me to protect him,
And right now I can't. I am helpless. Because I am a caged animal too!

These tears are for you.

17.11.11.

The Sickest Kick

Where were you when we got sick?
Working 9 to 5, busy in smoke, thick.
Your S.H. lacks any service or health;
You're far too busy counting up your wealth;
Your cars, your frocks, your deco garnet rings,
Enveloped in power with fraudulence it brings.
Speaking to ones whom mouths tell no truth,
Your silence projects no form of couth.
Your lies, your words, they don't mean shit.
Where were you when we got sick?
You could have rang, you could have spoke,
Yet you remained gagged and made me choke.
My hurt is infinite; awash with anger,
Yet the days passed, and I waited longer.
The call - when it came - was dripping in fable
And you're the one calling me unstable?
So treat your patience as I'd expect;
Lacking concern, but now regret.
Who has felt the strongest kick?
Where were you when we got sick?

Satellite

Do you know just how important you are?

For tolerance and acceptance from those afar.

Your face is always a pleasure to see,

You are the glue; essential to society.

Some people they may ridicule,

But ignorant fuckers are so cruel.

WE love those questions, and that banter,

As you visit the spots, a weebling canter. 

I miss your face when you disappear, 

But it won't be long till you reappear.

For I get it, I do, I totally understand,

You're anxious, that's fine, showing hand.

Once I tried to hug too much,

You then recoiled, unable to touch.

Though I knew it wasn't only me,

It's one of those things I didn't see.

But don't be shy, let's see those moves,

And ease up on Arabian blues.

For it will work out for them, you'll see,

Revolution and greed will be the key;

Uprising? Gas it will decline.

It'll work out man, it's going to be fine.

Oh dearest Pat, you make me smile,

Walking your beloved Golden Mile.

For you are truly loved by those who know,

When you're around, we know there's a show.

Bird of Rosacea

The milk we knew was sour,
It was never even sipped.
Rosacea; cracked and dour;
Baby bird mouthed; needy lipped.
You gave the bird no option,
To do it by themselves,
For support had had no gumption,
In helping you help yourself.

As the tiny baby bird grew;
Shy, awkward, misunderstood,
Her youthful wings were clipped,
By the sick, progressed through mud.
They flew and left the nest,
To escape the fat cuckoo,
The birdsong mute at best.
Unanswered, what to do?

But the little chick had grown,
Into the one you see,
When she flew the sickened home,
Unsupported; what would be?
Whatever was slung and thrown;
It fell from tattered plume.
So do you see that had grown?
Beyond the sick catacomb.

She dances and sings sweet freedom,
And laughs and loves with heart.
Her escape had found the Kingdom,
Against the guns; poisoned dart.
For the bird still flies alone and free,
And will not be stopped nor crossed,
The wings extend long, you see,
The Bird of Rosa - Albatross.

The Gentle Con

Ha ha, you laughed,
And accused me of such malice.
Whilst you stay, Dolly Daydream,
Inland in your stagnant palace.

The drink, a gamble;
You profess no sense,
Just an extension of your shamble,
In aiding a downfall, tense.

You said do me a favour?
I fired, send me the papers.
I do not need emissive non-labour,
From one who commits idiot capers.

You think you know best,
Remote, away from the truth,
Yet it was me who was to invest,
Roulette wheel - a private pursuit.

For one who did nothing,
And omitted his intoxication,
Yet, still he did nothing,
The downfall of procreation.

I ask, do me a favour?
Keep your concern out of my life,
For I'm not yours to savour,
Not your trouble, not your strife.

You had your chance,
I tried to show you the way,
But eyes remained blinkered,
Mouths did not honesty say.

They say you still love her,
A pointless exercise,
As she lost it long ago,
A gradual - obvious - demise.

An empty vow,
That had nought within it,
A con it seemed within the home.
And so it continues infinite...

Perhaps she'll find the secret,
A meat-only-jaundiced-mess.
One who consumes on the quiet,
And sunbathes all-inclusive for less.

I wished you well,
I meant it true, completely,
But any help you ever gave me,
Was clearly interest-free only.

So now it is the end,
I mean for real this time,
Because what once was yours,
Is - really - now just mine.

So send me the writ,
As our journey is at the end.
And let's forget this bit.
Holy union? No, I pretend.

Repeat, Repeat, Heartbeat It Beats.

Repeat, repeat,
Heartbeat it beats,
And here we go again,
The one I had my eye on,
Is another one in pain.
Perhaps this is universal,
This is a perma-state.
When eyes and minds are closed;
I hope I'm not too late.
It must be the major,
As times they are so hard.
I seem to be a hoarder,
Of damanged collector cards.
So let me in for mischief,
And chat, and laughs galore.
Perhaps I hand you my hand,
In opening up the door.
Though this can be done solo,
You could do it D.I.Y.
But have you got a grasp of it,
Do you know the reason why?
A problem held it doubles,
And rides upon your back.
But don't worry my sullen friend,
My heart it will not attack.
So let me in for helps sake,
You can't do this on your own.
For the one who remains unopened,
Is the one that stays alone.
Repeat, Repeat,
Heartbeat it beats.
You need not be afraid,
For I only want to help you,
Not allow me to be laid.
So back up little brother,
And see what I can do,
For my motive is not sinister,
Why would I want to hurt you?
Someone must have come along,
And broke your life in two,
Remember times will always change,
They'll become electric for you.
So ride this time as best you can,
And hold your head up high,
For now you should tall posture,
And dream toward the sky.
So don't take this on in single,
Let the ones who love you touch,
Come out from your sanctuary,
It doesn't take too much.
Repeat, repeat,
Heartbeat it beats.
Repeat, repeat,
Heartbeat it beats.

Rough Wood

I didn't want to mention,

Though I have some information,

You can't think of refrigeration, 

For you know the situation.

Don't blow the lobe inflation.

You're going to miss the station,

Distracted by congregation,

Yet in need of aviation.

Don't idle on fine vacation,

As you've got a proclamation,

It's not an adaptation,

This drawn-out situation.

An endless dead location,

Make sure of correlation,

They have their expectation.

To soothe a sickly nation.

You know the implication.

So speed up exaltation, 

For we need a celebration,

Of child-like demonstration. 

So hurry up with gumption,

We need your salutation,

Don't open to corruption,

Just do your dissertation!

Snake Flower

Your nag is not the champa,
The scent will never be the same,
It's nauseous permanence a damper,
In memoriam of empty game.

So pass me the fragrant note,
One that rings white pure,
In memory of love and respect,
It's bound in smoke, folklore.

You're doing alright Jacque,
You have support, go on fly.
Now don't you dare look back.
Stay focused on your sky.

Because the snake tree smells putrid,
It's toxic venom oozes red.
And the smell that once was lucid,
Now reminds me of the dead.

My friend Steven

You're my favourite friend called Steven, 

And today I pen you this,

You're not a jerk like Martin,

Or a broke McQueen on the piss,

You wouldn't wrestle a croc,

And then get stung by a ray,

Because you're clever, and hilarious, 

And today's your special day! 

I'm glad you're my friend Steven,

Not even Fry can compare.

How could he, when the posh fop

Wouldn't wear spandex for a dare!

Jobs is no longer here,

And Merchant is a freak,

Tyler's lips scare small kids,

He's a lady dude, that shouldn't speak.

So don your mask, pussycat! Be proud of who you are,

For you're my friend, Steven;

Pooting around in your comic car. 

Blow on something noisy, and ring a tiny bell, 

For you're the bestest Steven, 

And damn that hair's so swell!

Don't ever call him Steve, just make sure it's Ste or Stevie.

It's akin to calling Saint and then turning up with Greavsie.

So let's hear you Clive Coogan, 

As you writhe and spaz with fun, 

If I was with you today, 

I'd have baked you an oversized bun (a muffin).

Mildred at 21

I know the lights hurt you, because they hurt me too.

The memories flicker, and fire bright blue,

You lie there in pain, no one knows what to say.

Your inflections reveal, this could be any day.

Mildred, young girl, you lie awake at night,

Gaining some comfort from the darkened respite.

Mildred, old girl, you were once just like me,

But your memory stutters, and one becomes three.

I spoke to you gently and smoothed back your hair,

If only they knew, then maybe they'd care,

The pain in your side is apparent to see,

Yet help is denied, and they had to stop me.

I held your hand tight, and whispered your name, 

The brightest blue iris, its beauty to blame.

Your chatter, your calls, it doesn't matter what you said,

For the Mildred that once was, is now left unread.

BIG NEWS! EXCLUSIVE (ish)

I found this today, and it made the tasiest bifkinpie ever. You will love it.

Dive in friends and see where you're going.

Can you see the future?

Good luck.

Get off your arse, and let's get to work.

UPDATE: banoffee cream pie

This is for all my sexy fans across the world - I love you!

Thanks for all the under-the-counter pain relief, chums. Do not in anyway feel responsible for my untimely death. 

Utmost

I saw a spark: a fire, a fight,

The utmost underdog might have might,

Endlessly - though - how wrong we've been,

A passive plea that should have gone unseen.

The saboteur is happy in fractious control,

To avoid the reality of being out-of-control.

But it's back to the start; repeat, rinse, recycle.

We've been here before, it's part of the cycle. 

Push it away! Your perspective is twisted:

Lethargic, gnarly, blackened and blistered.

Look to the sky, please find the light, 

I pray the utmost underdog might have might.

Hey wiseguy...!

...Yeah well your momma is so fat, she died whilst having a gastric. Now can we please put an end to all this and just be cordial to each other?

Is your shit perfect?

I did a gig tonight. I did a gig I'm a fan of at XS Malarkey. I was introduced as experimental, which was quite the compliment even though immediately people will be edgy (see it?)  about seeing the special kid, but I don't mind at all starting on the back foot, it's my preferred start. There was laughter, and a lot of silence. I'm not scared of silence; I originally thought I was a while back, but that was just tinnitus pain dressed as silence - that's thankfully not been a problem of late. I'm also okay with dying, as in really dying; so dying on stage isn't an issue when you've been around the stench of death so frequently.

Thank you comedy displacement.

The energy between crying and laughing is so fine that does it make any odds to how you exit that tense knot welling inside? I guess that's why I love hysteria so much - such a borderline emotion, and quite the ride. 

I know I've flippantly discussed death before and my reasoning for not fearing it, but really, now really, do you seriously think you're going to be spending much time worrying about life in death? No because you won't be able to  - and you think I'm the morbid one?

Why did Nick Griffin banish his goth son? Cos he liked wearing all blacks. 

I've been on stage 3 times in a week, it's been the only time I haven't felt ACTUAL pain, emotional pain doesn't even figure. It's been an odd relief to get that high. Thank god for comedy in these difficult times.  

That's my analysis over. My last solo stand up gig of the year is next Tuesday. Then I'm going to have a break, get well, write more, and launch into the physical wonderment of 'Sheeebeast Vs The Masked McGee' for several slots before Christmas and into the New Year. I can only try and polish one turd at a time.

Heard the one about Gillian McKeith's split from her rapper boyfriend? He dumped her cos she wouldn't quit analysing his shit.

It's a good job when you don't take yourself seriously. 

Adios Beads x

Free spirits for all!

Hello, so things have moved forward haven't they? Apparently my mum said I have a fan, so I'd best give an update into how the bifkinpie is stewing. It smells of warm Autumn dumplings that are essentially damp and musty in texture. But, aren't we all this time of year?

I've been working hard on secret things that aren't that secret, but everyone loves an enigma. Like Tom Jones' wife. I'll just say I've made some wonderful new friends over the past year and for that I am very thankful. I've had some amazing experiences, and I've loved going to work. I've also stopped drinking for a 90 day stint, and day 51 is going great, thanks for your concern.

Things are moving forward the way I like within my work and study and personally. It's ace. I have noticed that my awkwardness and sporadic shyness has lessened since I took my headphones off; which as a muso and radio broadcaster - for the best part of half of my life - has been a good habit to break. Why didn't I see it earlier? Clown.

Anyway, to a reality. I've always felt a little bit in the lurch with regards to physics, naturally I'm going to shift the blame here to an appalling teacher and my "I don't understand that" (shut down) stance. Another example, the people who decide that they can't catch, will never catch (incidentally learning to catch takes around 20 minutes to get, 'can't' catchers).

I researched schooling in West Yorkshire today. I found a progressive school. They apply their studies in a practical, physical way, because that's relevant, right? It's actually more likely that ADHD is a permanent state, but one we refuse to acknowledge en masse as it doesn't align with big societies control.

My appalling GCSE physics teacher would slink off for very long skives leaving us to fill in worksheets, unable to apply a method to a reality many lose interest due to a lack of involvement and understanding - me for one! Naturally, being a dick, I cocked about with my good friend Bec and the nice big boys; seeing how many goggles we could get on our heads in the quickest time before he returned, cutting the word 'poo' out of a paper towel and laying it on the projector for illuminated hilarity was a failure, but seeing how many metre rulers you could retrieve from the front of the room in a stiff legged fashion scored a record of 8. Those were the days.

The physical world of which we were once so attached is now becoming so removed from our lives a LOL contains as much sincerity as a full-stop. People are burying their faces in computer games and computer life and computer dating and computer work and computer language and computer etiquette. We're fat, we're lazy, we don't 'work out'. We don't work out with each other. We're becoming introspective, 2D and focus on dealing with an unreal reality of online socialising, and in turn are becoming less outwardly social in reality. Tucked away, safe from instinct, unable to act with spontaniety, calculating every movement. We're not built to do this!

How will we be firmly rooted in an autonomous interactive era when a resistance is natural? The answer is, we won't. The resistance is coming. Pomp, pomp pompetty pomp. The regression to Utopia will always override Dystopian leanings, because we're instilled with faith and together we are nails.

And what will we learn from faciabook? Probably not an awful lot. Other than we can have an infinite persona, that we did look better when we were younger without realising, and the friends we need the most will always be there. Predictably.

Depending on your level of interaction, the facebook soap opera of bullshit may as well be the same as drinking stagnant pond water. Oh boy. That tastes bland. So switch off your 2D and come and play in the 5D.

Good luck Quantum Foragers and balls to social networking. Get me on an email letter sometime. Or just send me your beams.

The essence of bifkinpie

I haven't really delved into the ethos of the bifkinpie as yet, some have asked me "What the fuck...?" and I thought I could address it in this metaphoric manner. Currently I'm stuck in the paranoia of pretense, though I have never purchased a beret with intent, but by elaborating, I'm pretty much tipping the balance in sending me down an endless hole of selfimportance - I'll keep it brief.

My ethos is largely Utopian and was founded when I realised emotional eating isn't really the way to handle the bad guys. Have you ever sobbed uncontrollably whilst eating cake off your fingers and the floor? As a sensory Sorceress I get off on touching stuff, hearing stuff, smelling stuff (even stinky stuff), seeing, you know, I'm an all 5 senses WHORE. Some people wouldn't go "Mmmmm" when being allowed to touch a strangers velvet jacket. Yes, I have asked to touch random peoples velvet in the street. Yes, they usually let me. They love it.

This is one of my best pies. I found this book some time back on a Chazza Shop Stomp, and have used it on many occasions when someone might need cheering up, in performance, in private, it's a universal prop. However, I wanted to document this for myself as I am handing over the book to my niece Isobel for her 8th birthday. We share the same birthday, the same silliness, and a love of all things animal. She likes spiders - she rules. I know this will always be a good one for her to look at and realise that life isn't too bad, it's just a bit stupid sometimes.

Even lo-fi, these pics ought to make you feel something.

Happy birthday to all the May Kids. The book of 'Persian Cats' by Edward E. Esarde

Behold.

My Favourite. Is it a bat is it a monkey? Shapeshifter.

Beauty in the face of death. Noose symbolism.

I may have been molested by a taxidermist

Bowie Cat for the Dads

The Accidental Racist

I've recently got into the habit of addressing a lot casual male acquaintances as 'Chief'. It's a nice reassuring status shift for people, only analysed now, but I like it. It spells flippant respect. On the flipside, I probably appear to be some sort of roadie barra' boy.

I can mix with most people on a superficical level; mimicry is handy when dealing with 'fluff' interaction. I like different viewpoints and balance to the extent that I have many unlikely friends. I like varying approaches; intense personalities, grounded types, grafters, romantics, spiritualists, plodders, surrealists, all of it. I like people. Just not the subjective world of the dickhead. And flakes. Don't talk to me about flakes.

I only hate one person. That's a girl called Claire. She was nasty, vindictive, destructive and had massive coke whore tendencies. She spouted off about me for no reason other than jealousy. I quite envied her massive tits, but I wouldn't want to psychologically destroy someone for the craic; I'd never experienced a psychopath before. When directing my anger, I occasionally fixate on her, and bang, she gets my cranial beams of fury. Let's hope for her sake, the bad vibes I'm transmitting are all a load of bullshit, eh?

So let me tell you about 'My Racist Manchester Mum and Dad':

Powerful imagery sells pleated woollen skirts, Autumn 1991. 

My real Dad's dead. I'm in the dead Dad club (see prior reading)...5 years following much loss and despair, I met Steve. He was a listener when I was high on red bull and handbag house. Whilst I was broadcasting in my early twenties at Galaxy 102 , Steve was a - almost professional - prize winning caller largely due to the fact he has the gift of the gab. And his voice! There's nothing like it; it's rounded, camp and he's liberal with the laughter; and what a laugh! Hearty, genuine, full of fun and playfulness. He made great radio and was a genuinely wonderful man when I met him and his wife Denise a year later.

We mostly eat curry together, moan a bit, do presents, and laugh a lot. They look out for me, and I'll look out for them and allow their nuturing as the 'daughter they never had'. They're my Manchester Mum and Dad, they love each other, and I love them. We've known each other for 10 years.

BUT, is it right to remove someone from your life because you can't abide their ignorance? Why do I give them concession for sending me the odd racist joke on text? Because racist jokes are rubbish and are not worth the energy of a big massive kick off, they don't deserve my attention.  Lazy, lazy joke. To prove it, here is a sample I received yesterday:

I was walking down the street the other day, and I saw this n***er carrying a telly, and I looked at him and I thought, is that mine?

And then I realised, mine was at home sweeping the stairs.

Ok, so it works in the basest form simply because you get a lame twist, it's a slavery gag, and call me a maverick, but I'm not really into 18th Century jokes. I heard a Barrymore swimming pool joke at a comedy gig the other night. It brought the house down just as much as it did 10 years ago. I died inside.

So to sum up why I still love my racist Mum and Dad; I admire their family values, their loyalty, their openess, their wit, but I can't attempt to changed their skewed opinions that were probably far worse in prior generations. It's a shame fear and ignorance manifest themselves in such an arbitary way, but they know I won't engage in a conversation that uses 'rag head' rather liberally. Remind me to write something about a Racist Skeleton some day.

I once dated a nice lad who was very funny and clownish, and we had a brief, but intense affair. At the time he was playing with ironic racism. He would refer to me in private and sneakily as his 'n***er'. I couldn't really see the point of this beyond he knew it wound me up and he wanted to punish me further. We didn't last long, "do you take this n***er to be your lawful wedded n***er?".

So in my local shop, I made a regular fruit pricing query.

"Alright Chief, how much are your pineapples at the moment?"

"Are you trying to be funny?!"

(Process. Process. Process. Oh he thinks that because I've identified him as a Red Indian, he thinks I'm being racist. Am I being racist, am I? Am I a racist?).

"...The price is written on them"

Oh.

One day we're all going to be the same colour. So when the gingers have died, and our skin is suddenly able to cope with the scorching heat, shall we look back on this time fondly, thinking "what a bunch of dickheads".

Big Ted's, Little Ted's.

Dedicated to my wonderful friends D and J.

I like bears. I like bears in all forms; anything remotely fuzzy makes me feel tickly. 

The Spirit of the Bear - A lone, courageous, nails, wedge of blubber that likes to roll around a lot and climb up stuff, and looks ace when fully erect and waving their paws about. They get to sleep loads when the weather hits indoors lock down. 

Super Ted.

Now to bears in the gay community: You can further break them down to Daddy Bears and Cubs. I love chunky gay bears - that’s a Daddy Bear, I get drunk off the futile arousal. Cubs are their younger, most often slimmer twinks. Twinks are young gay lads who mostly like lycra. Lycra is a combination of space matter with 15% Ford Capri.

Controversially I would like to add an addition to Bear Camp - The straight bear as yet undefined to my knowledge. Man Bear. A tad Daddy Bear, but less likely to dig lycra.

     

He works in meat or creative guff or something involving calloused hands. He likes ale, practical fashion and old-fashioned ways. He also knows his beardy face looks like a reassuring and comfortable saddle. Temptresses! He has some control, but not enough to like cake and pie and real ale. You know? The good stuff. Probably overweight by about 2 stone. Might ride a bicycle and would definitely buy you an ice cream.

Gentle Ben.

In studying facial hair I have to say I am a great fan of the neat beard-tash set. It’s less try-hard than some more playful adornments. But just enough to not be one of those bushy unkempt beards able to hide salmon or suggest you should be CRB'ed.

But that brings me to polar form of the dreaded spiv thin moustache. I had a conversation with someone who had one last night. I could not take to him at all, solely because of my newly recognised phobia of bum fluff topiary.

You know what? Thin stuff is weak. From a practical perspective, thin stuff dies first and it can't lift a barrel of ale. Go to a farmers show and see the size of those marrows and tell me a streaky pissy one looks appetising? Models live on champagne and fags, and would survive a maximum of 2 months if the shit hits the fan (unless they shag for spam), so you can kiss my fat arse - I’ve got at least 5 months because of my massive buns. You can bet I’ll be hitchhiking to Disneyland on my resources.

It’s the floating form of the waif tasche I can’t abide, Sigmund. It’s just wrong, aesthetically, logically and fashionably. Thin lip framers do nothing for the wearer. They’re as self-conscious as their fashion conscious owners. It’s a half-arsed attempt at manhood and the boys need to be told. Big bears you need to tell them. Hold off a while and wait till you’re a Man Bear.

I collared two young 'uns the other night; one baggy, one wedge haircut. I knew wedge haircut was more susceptible to the possibilities and I butted into their conversation demanding a debate on the thin moustache.

They agreed they looked shit - I made Haircut promise he wouldn’t grow one, and they returned to talking about Stoke City. Well one of them did anyway. Haircut just dropped in filler.

Boy love.

I don’t have a problem with men who can’t grow decent beards at all, to be honest I don’t seek Beard Utopia (though actually....), and it’s all superficial nonsense but it’s quite a boon in my world. The bears in my life make things so much more stronger, fuzzier and ticklier.

And don't ever let them tell you you look like a paedophile.

The Sloth Bear - probably endangered due to immobility and honey. 

Some may have paedophilic tendencies that remain unrealised due to lack of motivation. Found in India. 

Dead Dad Club

I’m from a single parent family. I never knew who my dad was, I asked my mum once. Mum, who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad? Who’s my Dad?

The guy who played the green giant wasn’t quite what I was looking for, yet on appearances it could be plausible. I'd met him in Safeway's in the Spring. 

I wrote him a letter. Well I wrote a sweetcorn distributor a letter.

Dear Jolly Green Giant

I think you might be my Dad

RSVP Victoria McGlynn, 4 Manor Drive, Blackpool.

P.S. How tall are you?

Quite a formal letter for a 5 year old, but I met the balance by sending a Roland Orzabel and Curt Smith of Tears for Fears a drawing of us watching telly together. We were having so much fun!

If you’re going to write one letter to a giant and contain one question you’re not going to waste it on asking him why he’s green are you? Well that might be question number 2, but certainly height is the top answer.

1 How tall are you?

2 Why are you green?

3 Do you struggle to find shoes in your size?

4 How big are your feet?

5 Erm...Can you lift a fat man?

I was once chatted up by a man who was half Dutch, half stilts. His head was as big as a window, and he was so tall he was bent over me like a lamppost. I thought if he could invade my personal space any further he’d have absorbed me. 

I didn’t get a reply from the Jolly Green Giant, but as a surrogate he remains rather admirable; he hits his veg, laughs a lot, and has a general pleasant demeanour. Plus he could stamp on any adversary with his passive joviality, claiming it to be an accident, again. 

Oh Dad!

And this is the reason why I maintain my brand loyalty to Green Giant. Damn those marketeers and their fictitious male role models. 

Ho ho ho. 

Sorry Dad.

Dumped from a great height

I have just met an alpha male, at least that's what his faternity top said. No I don't like overly dominant men, I've been thinking about a gentle ex of mine - he was a lot smaller than me.

It worked. I wore the trousers, he wore little trousers. When we went shopping, I’d get the top shelf stuff, and he licked my boots.

If he stepped out of line, I threatened him with the papoose.

But the sex was amazing, like a chimp in an adventure playground.

It was like what Michael and Bubbles got up to.