GET IT?

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA

wheeze

Christ, I really was knackered last night. The rest of my posting spree seems to more or less make sense, but this clearly doesn't. It should read something like:

'This could well be a Bonnie 'Prince' Billy lyric.'

Nothing more, nothing less.

Yores,

Au contraire. Well, au somewhat contraire ... I've watched enough of 'em to confirm their superlativeness re time-whimey infundibula.

As I may have said before, I think the Versailles episode about 18 months ago features perhaps the single best line of dialog ever, by anyone.

Clockwork alien robots are popping up here and there in time, weirdly stealing human body parts. The Doctor arrives in 18th century France just in 'time' to prevent them from extracting Mme de Pompadour's brain.

He also falls madly in love with her. The King - her job title being King's Mistress and de facto prime minister - seems to understand.

The Doc executes a rapid in-out twirl thru time, saves the day, etc. The clockwork nasties lose their energy sources. Entropy gets them.

As they judder to a halt Doctor Who utters the immortal words

- It's all over. [pause] I'm not winding you up.

In context, this is actually sublime. And the love story is a three-hanky, um, weepie. I'm just an old clockwork romantic, I know.

What's a conperson to do? Particularly one with my high degree of artistry and fear of flying - not to mention the gratitude the world owes me for forcibly separating 'Tom' and 'Nicole'. Now both making mad passionate babies elsewhere, as nature intended.

Stanley's Double

- Rembrang *who*, fella? When will you arty types understand that there's only room for three or four artists in pop myth, and therefore in movies? You can have Vincent (off his trolley), Michelangelo (agonized yet ecstatic), or Picasso (randy old goat). This Dutch Rembung guy seems to combine all three types - which confuses the audience - and he spent way too much time looking in mirrors.

I can't recall which cretin is credited (some googleur may prod my memory here) with a line something like <"Saying 'My country, right or wrong' is like saying 'My mother, drunk or sober'..."> -- apparently meant to indicate that both statements are deplorable examples of what happens when the 'heart' rules the 'head'.

In fact they could hardly be more different. Even saying "My country" is a pretty rotten start, regardless of how ("Tis of Thee ... Land above all of Just Add Hot Water & Serve") one follows up. Nationalism is a psychosis which varies in intensity -- but countries qua countries are quite dangerous entities, so announcing that one will follow the policy of the country one happens to inhabit, and never mind how wrong it might be ... is just rank stupidity.

(And I don't care if the original quote was by Churchill, GB Shaw and Mark Twain, playing at <consultation epigrams>: it's still tripe.)

Mothers aren't anything so dangerous as countries and deserve a modicum of support for having given *actually* birth, not just metaphorically. <My mother, drunk or sober> seems rather an enlightened attitude to me. And certainly a vast improvement on <"Let's shove the old bat into rehab and divvy up the spoils">.

That way lies Jacobean tragedy.

Nonetheless, let us consider the advice of <Jessica> - an actual female person: a mere century ago they thronged the skies by the billion, but now they're extinct, hunted to their doom by rapacious ...

No, wait, that was <Passenger Pigeons>. Female persons aka women ... are they the ones who won't breed in captivity? I may be thinking of pandas ...

Yikes. It'll be <soft toy fetishes> next ...

Anyway, we should take very seriously Jess's advice to the effect that *women like it slow*. (I'm paraphrasing).

Remember that many major Christian denominations - Roman, Anglican, Bristol Witnesses, etc - have stressed that reproductive activity is God's way of making more Xtians, and any pleasure derived from the act is secondary. It thus follows that the act should be consummated as quickly as possible, to get it over with and leave time for other stuff like scrubbing floors. Thus, theologically, fast is good.

But the churches also tell us that sacrifices should be made during Lent, the forty-day period preceding Easter. In the past this meant giving up smoking, not eating pancakes, or climbing jagged mountains on your knees until you've kneecapped yourself and will never walk again.

These are anachronistic. Pancakes are not a luxury, few people smoke, and knees should be given to the needy.

Instead, why not *slow down* your sexual actions? Instead of rushing through them in the normal way, linger over them. And "offer it up" as a penance if pleasure accidentally intrudes.

This penitential praxis - slow food, slow sex, slow venality - is the source of the French word "Lentement", meaning 'slowly'.

Lent is still a long way off, but a truly pious type should start practicing at once. Get the <Vibrating Palm> right and you'll never regret it.

Neither Frogspawn, FIDE, the Vatican, Canterbury, Dr Ruth, nor Bristol City FC accept any liability whatsoever for any pleasure thus incurred.

Now go forth and multiply.

There's a genuine neurological condition called *Williams Syndrome*. I think it's a sort of linguistic slippage that results in talking almost-plausible nonsense.

You may have discovered the typographical equivalent and must surely be in line for a <Nobble Prize>. Note that Grauniad hack Zoe (of that ilk) Williams was also renowned for parentheses (somebody wrote to the paper to say so).

(in birds, the bastard wing).

May The Gods Be With us, Bill

You could be on to something here but I'll have to get back to you..Gonna need at least three paragraphs.Need to marshall my noughts.