Idle Eye 185 : The Lovers (a farce in one dimension)

London called me on the landline last week. I knew something was up because we’d been down to communicating by text and this meant business:

London:  So what’s this, I hear?

Me:  Er…

London:  Don’t piss me about. Word’s out that you’re leaving. Is it true?

Me:  It’s more complicated than that.

London:  Okay. So, you come to me in the 80s, a miserable, deadshit no-mark with nothing going for you whatsoever. I pick you up, put you in touch with people who turn your life around, introduce you to fun stuff, make you a bit cool (that was a tough one) and now I gather you’re buggering off to the seaside?

Me:  Look, Lon: it’s not you, it’s me. We had a great time together, no one can take that away. But I just think it’s time for a clean break. You know, start afresh. And, let’s be honest, I hardly hear from you at all these days.

London:  Do you have any idea how busy I am? Seriously, any idea? I’m a fucking capital city, I can’t be…

Me:  Sorry, got another call coming in.

St Leonards:  Darling! Can you talk?

Me:  Hang on…

London:  What’s going on?

Me:  It’s nothing. Can I call you back?

St Leonards:  I’ll be here as long as you want.

Me:  I wasn’t talking to you, Len.

London:  Who’s Len?

Me:  I wasn’t talking to you, Lon.

St Leonards:  Who’s Lon?

Me:  Hold up, I’ve got another call coming in.

Brighton:  Darling! Can you talk?

Me:  Not now, bra, not now. Can I call you back?

St Leonards:  What’s going on?

Me:  It’s not what you think.

London:  What the..?

Me:  Lon, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.

St Leonards:  You tell that bitch she’s history, doll.

Me:  Len, please: let me do this my own way.

Brighton:  And what about me?

Me:  Can I call you back, bra?

Brighton:  You’re all the same, you London ba…

Me:  Hold up, I’ve got another call coming in.

Hastings:  Darling! Can you talk?

Me: Jesus H Christ.

Brighton:  Who’s this?

Me:  I’ll call you back

Hastings:  I hear you’ve been sniffing around my sister.

Me:  It’s not what you think.

Hastings:  I’ve got everything she has. And more besides.

Me:  Look, I love everything about the pair of you; really, I do. Please don’t make me choose!

St Leonards:  Tell her to rack off!

Hastings:  Back in your basket, bitch!

London:  Hello?

Me:  Can I call you back?

London:  I’m hanging up the phone now. Call me whenever.

Me:  Don’t go! I’ll sort something.

Brighton:  Goodbye.

Me:  I’m so sorry.

St Leonards:  I’m waiting…

Hastings:  I’m waiting…

Me:  This is ridiculous! Can’t you two talk? I’m sure we can work something out.

St Leonards:  Good try, girlfriend.

Me:  Come off it, you’re basically the same p…hold up, I’ve got another call coming in.

Hove:  Darling! Can you talk?

Ad nauseam

Antenna Studios, Crystal Palace, London 17/01/16

Shot on the coldest night of the year to a robust audience, mollified somewhat with free booze and a significant hard cash bribe for the applause. Performing my own work marks a significant departure from the original concept, but as a little of the thespian runs in the blood, I thought I’d give it a go. And although both cameras were riddled with interior dust and on the blink, there’s a satisfying lo-res charm to the edited result which those social media instafilters can’t replicate.

IE Audio 13 : The Smear

The denigration of our upstanding hirsute brethren.

https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2015/02/26/idle-eye-141-the-smear/

IE Audio 2 : The Lunar Twits (Have Taken Over The Asylum)

Here’s No.2. We had a hoot doing this one, as you’ll see when I post the outtakes videos. Coming soon x

https://theidleeye.wordpress.com/2014/04/24/idle-eye-110-the-lunar-twits-have-taken-over-the-asylum/

Idle Eye 141 : The Smear

Eagle-eyed readers will have spotted that the humble gerbil has graced the dailies once again, but not in a good way. Turns out our furry brethren can no longer be considered impossibly cute playthings of the very young (and, on occasion, my good self), being as they are conveyors of misery, disease and quality herbs and spices brought in on the Silk Road. And we’re also expected to believe that in 1347, in between exercising on their little wooden wheels and nibbling whatever they liked nibbling back in medieval Syria, they found time to pop over to London and give us all the Black Death.

It is a monstrous slur, cooked up by some Norwegian boffin with too much time on his hands, and fails to digest some pretty basic facts. For starters, there is no evidence whatsoever that gerbils took up residence in the UK until comparatively recently. Why would they? If your thing is copious quantities of sand and sunshine, you’d probably give it a bit of a wide berth, right? To say nothing of the logistical issues if and when you finally made it to Calais. Absolute nonsense.

Furthermore, architectural clues only date back to the 1950s. Before Rotastak, the Nottingham-based pioneers of affordable rodent housing, there were slim pickings to be had if you were small, hirsute and over here. Rats understood this implicitly, so they made alternative arrangements. But they were also fat and greasy enough to hack it. Their smaller, more delicate cousins wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. You can take Syria out of the gerbil etc…

Clearly we are being whipped up into a collective state of anxiety. It’s what the media does when it wants us to go to war, or sanction the spending of taxpayer cash on something unpalatable the government has shares in. What on earth can the gerbil have done to get them wound up so? And why are we being told that the more sinister rat is the fall guy? It smacks of Andy and Rebekah, the former taking the hit so the latter can persist with her satanic craft. Something stinks up there in the corridors of power, but what?

And then it struck me. Helen Perley’s exquisite 32-page tome Enjoy Your Gerbil (The Pet Library™, 1971), clearly states that the same is no ordinary rodent, and frequently refers to him as a ‘Superpet’. Probably the exact kind of pet that could radicalise British teenage girls into making the arduous pilgrimage to his homeland. And guess where that is? See? By demonising the critters, we surreptitiously put the brakes on the next wave of IS recruits and no-one gets hurt. No-one, that is, except these innocents abroad, and who speaks for them? Who will fight their corner after the first spate of distressing pet murders? And which sick individual will be the first to expand their perspex property portfolio at the expense of the less fortunate?

Right there.

Idle Eye 110 : The Lunar Twits (Have Taken Over the Asylum)

Property prices getting a bit steep for you in that there London? Need to stick your flag into a chunk of affordable real estate almost certain to appreciate wildly over the course of several lifetimes? Well guess what? You’re in luck. The Lunar Registry is currently flogging off tracts of land on the Moon, complete with certificate of ownership, full mineral rights and a framed satellite photograph of your very own galactic Shangri-La for the unrepeatable knockdown price of $18.95 an acre. “What could be greater than to own your own crater?” Indeed.

Tempting though this offer may be, it might also be prudent to point out that many of us will be simultaneously drawn to the more desirable hotspots of our celestial neighbour. For example, the Sea of Vapours is looking pretty tidy: Own front door, excellent transport links, ideal for first time buyer, no onward chain. And unorthodox though it may seem at present, Mare Vaporum is likely to be a strong pull for artistic individuals priced out of the likes of Penge and Peckham Rye, and speculative buyers can therefore realistically expect a robust return on any investment made in advance of the inevitable gentrification process. In short, there’s going to be a bunfight.

Let’s presume I want to snap up a couple of acres in the Lake of Dreams, one of the most sought-after locations for adventurous romantics. Lacus Somniorum has, at best, ill-defined borders and includes the flooded impact craters Mason and Plana to the north. Which basically means I’ll be pitching for the south-facing plots like everyone else. To say nothing of future boundary disputes, riff-raff moving into the neighbourhood and the division of maintenance duties once the conversions start:

“Turns out them next door have discovered a rich seam of anorthite that runs DIRECTLY through my back yard and I’ve only just had the bloody thing moonscaped. I’ll be screwed if I’m going to help those nouveau riche shysters any more than I have already, particularly after they only painted their half of the pod doorway. In orange, for Christ’s sake! So petty! And while we’re at it, the sinkhole’s opened up again and guess who’s mucking out the sulphur deposits? Now, I’m no pedant but it’s basic human decency to keep the communal zones clear. Who else do they think does it? And as for the stink that comes out of their kitchen most nights…”

To be fair, Lacus Somniorum is probably not for me. And that goes for pretty much every must-have bolt-hole on the wretched planet – It will become the East Grinstead of the Solar System before you know it and I haven’t got all that long left. So what to do? I’m thinking Pluto’s looking like a good bet right now, as is the Heliopause and Eris if you can be arsed. Or simply wait for Foxtons to open their first gravity-free bar.

Idle Eye 105 : The Ron Solution

As I struggled into the flat yesterday clutching two shopping bags filled to bursting with wine, real ale, rolling tobacco & Nitromors, I spotted a flyer in amongst the many destined for recycling which blazed ‘Has Your Body Become A Toxic Waste Dump?’ Now, I’m no great fan of the door drop school of marketing (too blunt an instrument and we need the trees), but I figured they had a point so I took it upstairs. And yes, I gave it a few precious moments of the limited time I have left on the planet, only to find out that it is, in fact, the latest ruse from our dear old chum L Ron Hubbard, founder of the Church of Scientology, brains behind the crappest film ever made Battlefield Earth and purveyor of the grand-scale whopper. Who died in January 1986.

I have to admit, I do have a bit of a soft spot for L Ron. Back in 1983, I left a house party in Dorking, somewhat worse for wear and about two hours before the first train back to London, and what I saw at the end of the High Street as dawn broke must surely rank as one of the most ill-conceived book launch campaigns of all time. A monstrous purple metal beast lay in wait for its quarry, clutching a plethora of monochromatic handouts in which it declared itself as Terl, the Alien Psychlo. Quite who (or what) its target market was, given the time of day and stockbroker-belt location was anyone’s guess, but I did admire the balls of the thing and took home its offering. I later discovered it was pushing ‘the greatest sci-fi novel ever written’ by the man himself. He’d even composed a soundtrack to go with it (available separately) which I thought bold. Further research revealed that he had also declared war on Mexico, fired torpedoes at a magnetic ore deposit off the coast of Oregon believing it to be two Japanese submarines and spent several years in prison for fraud. Dude…

So how come he’s now back in Crystal Palace, attempting to cleanse my rotting carcass of self-imposed excess? What can there possibly be in it for him, what with him being dead and that (apparently from self-imposed excess)? And are the pollutants of yesteryear still rattling around inside me like it says in his new book Clear Body, Clear Mind (£8.99 online, no soundtrack)? I must say, I’m intrigued. Almost enough to go for the free toxic test, available at his Purification Centre which also happens to be the Church of Scientology HQ. The reviews are glowing:

“I’ve been living in a fairyland. Many thanks to L Ron for caring enough to invest his life in bettering mankind” G.S.

“Fifteen years of brain fog has dissipated in a few weeks” L.P.

And many more. Maybe this time he’s really stumbled upon something and death, as they say, becomes us all. I’ll let you know.