Michael Kelly (author of 'Clara and Miles Act Up', etc)

Time 2020-09-15 14:03:56

Web Name: Michael Kelly (author of 'Clara and Miles Act Up', etc)

WebSite: http://michaelkelly.artofeurope.com

ID:47553

Keywords:

of,Clara,author,

Description:

RIP my great friend and kind host Jeremiah, gentleman, poet, independent man, funniest writer of our times. Such a spirit does not die. Now he is where all the art and music and poetry comes from. Be with Ludwig and Mahler and your Ma, chase the looser-virtued angels, delight, astound and scandalise God with jokes he never thought of and lines he never foresaw. Peter Hitchens has had a genius idea: "I suggest that we are allowed to register as 'relaxed'. We will sign declarations that we will not sue anyone or claim on anyone's insurance if we catch Covid-19. We regard it as a minor risk of life, to be coped with. "Employers...ask staff if they too are prepared to declare themselves 'relaxed'. "Where this happens, all the footling palaver of visors, muzzles ... and 'social distancing' will be abandoned... Trains can have special 'relaxed' carriages where refreshments are served and baleful, doom-laden announcements are turned off... Everyone else can carry on, shrouded in gowns like the staff of a mortuary." Brilliant, brilliant. But it needs extending into all walks of life, virus or not. Register as Relaxed, agree not to sue, and you're spared all Health and Safety nonsense. Sign a form saying you're Relaxed about the health risks and you're allowed to buy cigarettes in attractive undisfigured packets as if you were a grown-up in a free country. Sign up to be Relaxed about free speech, and you're allowed to say what you want without penalty; in return you agree not to complain when others do the same and it offends you. (I seem to remember this was actually tried in many countries for many years and the results were quite good.) Say that you're Relaxed about the fact that life is a finite and fragile thing and that you move through it cheerfully responsible for your own decisions, and the bars of the barbed-wire playpen are finally taken down. I want a Relaxed mass movement, a Relaxed party, a Relaxed Prime Minister telling everyone to chill the hell out. The phenomenon of famous or semi-famous liberal-darling social media addicts who normally feel compelled to comment on any daily news, add their tuppence on the least little storm in a teacup, suddenly posting nothing but, say, kitten pictures, nature notes, hints of works in progress, announcements that they have rearranged their bookshelves or sorted out their socks; studying their fingernails while outside the world burns, because deep down they don't really approve of riots, mass hysteria, the erasure of history, poster tests or the cancellation of JK Rowling but hey why rock the boat? The Germans probably have a word for it. (I have looked it up. It is Huhnscheisseshtumm.) It is funny, sad, pitiable, in some cases genuinely tragic; should not be judged too harshly by those of us with nothing to lose; is at least a step up from active collaboration with barbarism. I would be the last person to condemn anyone for living in a world of their own. But if this was a fairy-tale they would hereafter be cursed, or moved by a simple sense of shame, to hold their tongues on all topics for the rest of their lives, not having spoken now. God Almighty, aren't the covid dreams bad enough, do I have to wake up to this? Unbroken gibberish monologues all night, the bits Joyce threw away. Sendak monsters dragging me round with barbed wire nooses. I've got to find a pebble that could save the world, no not a pebble I realise it's more like a mouse, but it's too late now Prometheus is being nailed to the ground and graphically flayed before my eyes and his nerve endings stretched out across telegraph poles to become the living nerves of the screaming world. Every time you sin you're flinging nails in the faces of the beyond people, they show me how they scream too, my eternal shame, my unending grief.Scenes of desecration, old dreams perverted, a forest become a World War One battlefield, I find the Bookshop of all Books and it's now a horrible SM dungeon. Then Max Bygraves introduces a rising star, it's just this eight foot scowling budgerigar who shoots members of the audience with an automatic and everyone laughs and loves it. The lockdown has a new mascot, Colin the Covid Catoblepas. Colin the Covid Catoblepas says Stay Safe Stay Home. I'm watching you! His head coming through my window to get me... Thank Christ that's all done with, awake now, sweet sweet reality. Look out the window...oh. Could I go and live in Italy and suddenly start telling them their forebears oppressed my forebears and start pulling down all the bloody statues in Rome? The people trying to pull the statues down should all be deported to an alternate world where the people in the statues never lived. Sign a petition to ask the Prime Minister to protect the statue of Churchill. Petition? Petition? I have to petition the sod to do what he should be doing automatically? If Boris isn't up to this he should step down in favour of Priti, and she should change her name to Kali, and add four mechanical arms holding scimitars, chainsaws, flamethrowers and so on and rampage through the streets killing without quarter.Where is the catoblepas? Where is the catoblepas? What's the catoblepas doing? Last week it was poking its head at people in the middle of forests and up mountainsides. Too late, the catoblepas has taken the knee. The catoblepas will come to get you if you believe in the existence of women or the continuation of civil society or that the gangster saint died of a drug-induced heart attack. - Meet up to TEN friends or family members each situated not less than SIX feet apart - Go out for exercise up to TWICE in any 24-hour period - Gather in mobs of NO MORE THAN 5000 people - Burn down a maximum of FIVE shops per dayAlso, still can't go to church, but everyone kneel down to revere a man who stuck a gun in a pregnant woman's belly, nothing at all creepy there 'Don't Fart' Like all those films where you can't make a noise or the monsters get you, or you can't look at the monsters or they get you, only this time you have to hold your farts in The aliens have no sight or hearing but they can smell one part of fart per billion of air, even the noisy ones that are odorless to humans, if you let rip they pounce You can distract them for a moment by throwing stink-bombs or rotten eggs but it still won't save you Only those with perfect arse control can survive, there are only about a couple of dozen humans left alive when the film opens, half of them the Royal Family Wait wait and there's a tribe of Amazons, aged 1950s babes who went to finishing school or the Rank Charm School, they don't fart either. They have resorted to genteel cannibalism and maraud around in E-Type Jags, but they spend so long getting out of them in a decorous way so you can't see their knickers that you can usually flee when they arrive Our heroes are an ordinary family who survive from day to day by virtue of an iron disciplineover their hindquarters. They're tense and bloated but they're alive They're trying to make it to Fart Valley, a legendary haven where the aliens can't go and you're free to blow off to your heart's content But here's the twist: they have such perfect sphincter-control because they used to be professional farters, they were a cabaret act, they were the Von Trapps of farting They reminisce about it sadly, the time they blew out Beethoven's Ninth for the Prime Minister of Belgium, Dad's unparalleled triumph when he pulled off Flight of the Bumblebee at the White House They even laugh nostalgically about the time he sharted in front of the Pope They forlornly play with fart cushions but it isn't the same They're artists, you dig, this is a family, and most of us have known one, who not only love to fart but live to fart OK so they finally find the way to the promised land, Fart Valley, they bribe a 1950s Amazon with the last surviving Norman Hartnell dress or something and she gives them a map And they almost make it, there's one last bridge to cross and then they're safe, but as soon as they set foot on it the son stumbles and falls and lets rip And then, Jesus God, the aliens will come, and they all start farting in panic I forgot to mention that for weeks the only food they've been able to find is beans and so on and things that are slightly off and it's been taxing even them to hold the wind in, they're like balloons now And the father gives the mother a look and says, 'Go. I'll hold them off.' And he sacrifices himself so his family can get away, as they run he turns to confront the aliens with head held high and deliberately farts out a farewell performance that draws them all I don't know what it should be, something triumphant, Ride of the Valkyries or something, or something long and intricate, Inna Gadda da Vida maybe, or something poignant and apposite, Let My People Go or We Shall Overcome or Blowing in the Wind But whatever it is it's something he's never pulled off before, too difficult, we'll set that up earlier, this was the thing he tried to blow at the Vatican but he shit in the Pope's face But now he redeems himself, he does it And it's bloody magnificent The most beautiful and moving thing you've ever heard farted I think it should probably be 'Amazing Grace' Even the monsters are spellbound somehow, their proboscises twitch, maybe it smells incredible too, more and more of them gather but they wait for him to finish before eating him And his family, safe and free, look back tearfully as he's devoured They hold hands and solemnly fart out The Last Trump for him It echoes from mountain to mountain in tribute, lingering in the air ...And meanwhile we're living in a very surreal film called Don't Touch... Suddenly almost missing all those uninvited hugs and unwanted cheek-kisses... There'll be a backlash afterwards, I reckon, everyone even more touchy-feely than ever in sheer joie de vivre...Even boxers and bouncers walking down the street hand in hand, sober accountants licking each other's nostrils just because they can... in place of handshakes people leaping on each other's necks and rubbing their genitals in their faces... entire cities will screw indiscriminately in the streets,from Land's End to John O'Groats the whole country will be knotted together in one vast squirming orgy from which only I will be left out... Update! There's an update! I have updated! Fresh! New material! Look! THE 237 NEW GENDERSUlrich's book has been republished by Dover in the US. Some of my own stash of copies of the original are also still available.I am currently available for hire to do almost anything, up to and including murder and chicken-sodomy.

TAGS:of Clara author 

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