My 'Marvel Superheroes: Secret Wars II' quilt will protect me from bastard illness..maybe.

Sockamagee! I’m Living on Soup and Comics.

Due to fecking bastard bhroncitis I have been sleeping, working and reading comics and doing nothing else for like the last three weeks, it's been shite, apart from the comics bit, that was great I read a lot of Keith Giffen era Justice League stuff and the new She Hulk, more comic geek posts soon.

At odd hours of the night and morning, though, I would get the urge to scrawl demented rants while listening to Bill Hicks on my headphones. So you're in for a treat/unimaginable boredom* with four posts from the black hardback book of Jimmny's vile soul:

1. Fistbiter Blues: The Tides of Lust.
2. Outbreak Blues: Head filled with literal rather than figurative gank.
3. Vendetta Blues: Twitch of Death Labia.
4. ‘Slow Bus to Thetford’ Apocalypse.

I have also included some 'afterthoughts' in italics.

*delete as applicable.

Any excuse to show pics like this, do know how long it took me to find this...hours of research.

Fistbiter Blues: The Tides of Lust

Academia's a strange path, you spend most of your childhood in room reading books and comics, thinking to yourself...'hmmm there must be people out there on the same wavelength as me, maybe if I keep at this I'll meet them. Then as a PhD candidate you find that you've got to spend most of your fucking time in your room reading books and comics anyway....arse.

This isn’t a problem during summer where there are only lunatics around and it's probably better to stay in your room. Norwich has a Quantity Theory of Insanity vibe about it. It has a certain amount of craziness shared equally among it’s denizens. So when all the students leave over the summer, all the craziness gets equally distributed among all us poor mooks that are left behind. October and November, however, saw the usual influx of students from all over the world and the unseasonally mild weather made for a scantily clad perkfest well into winter months that would usually require winter coats: all hail global warming. Yet again one is struck with the afflictions of being a ‘lustcripple in norksville’ A phenomenon was observed by myself and the Badbrute as we happened upon the UEA Angels* cheerleading training 'routine'. Even this was enough to have us buckled in the throes of lust. In this freshers period my cranial fluids get consumed with the tides of lust. Everyone's so perky and friendly, they do not realize they are talking to someone who has been stuck here far too long and is just about to keel over.

Norwich is a pretty small place but every year there’s this influx of smart, arty hot American ladies, which are my only weakness, you know, apart from all the booze and porn. The size of UEA and Norwich also means that if you’re wandering around town/campus and see someone who’ve got the hots for, it’s only a matter of time before you get introduced them at a party at like 2am or something. If this happens, I generally go all diddums and talk really fast. I talk fast anyway** worse if I’ve had a few pints, in which case I talk faster and faster until I reach a sort of critical mass where I can’t speak any more and a friend has to prop me up against a wall where I just gurn to myself for a while and then go home and watch Office Space, or Henry Fool or The Big Lebowski or Spaced something. I don’t know what would happen if I went to live in America, I’d probably explode or something.

Anyway, this tongue-twisting horniness now occurs even without extensive alcohol consumption. A coworker recently had a great party that went on for like 24 hours, it was insane with fireworks, decks and goth type poi excitement. One of ladies at the party was an amazing amazonian goth who seemed about 7 foot tall if you counted the heels and heair do (with a not just a boyfriend but, as 'CS' put it 'a full-blown' husband...drats). Anyway as she passed I couldn't contain myself and crouched down and bit my fist in what I can only describe as a 'lust crash position'. (badly recreated here: you could always try and do better and email them to me and I can do a 'fistbiter gallery') . It became a sort of unofficial salute in the kitchen every day when I came in for a while. It was one of those Monday morning conversatiosn in the kitchen, the head chef goes 'do remember bit your fist behind that amazing goth girl?' and there 'no'....oh wait a minute...'yes'.


*A friend of mine recently said he was going to the UEA Angels 'slave auction', and I thought to myself what? you bid on amounts to pay them to stay the fuck away from you? The Americans just do certain things better, cheerleading's just one of them. Some even combine cheerleading and religious fundamentalism! check out The Christian Cheerleaders of America: Building people before pyramids they're priceless: "The true purpose of cheerleading is to be a really awesome source of spirit and support and when done correctly can make a big difference in the morale, spirit and sportsmanship of a ball game". These guys are more my style.
**In the new year, I'll be TV talking about Vic and Bob, I talked for about two hours with my ranting media studies spiels. Afterwards the producer goes, 'amazing stuff, but it will be a nightmare to edit", I recounted this to the Badbrute, "story of your life" he presciently replies.

(I wrote this a while back and the sheen of going out and the fresher influx has been knocked off by my illness a bit. Plus the fact that Norwich has a habit of sucking the perky enthusiasm out people pretty damn quick. I'm quite happy to stay in now and read comics. As I said to 'FI' on the bus, 'I am retreating from the salon.. I've had my fill'...I momentarily had a terribel vision of a future where there were letterboxes big enough to accept pizza boxes and Taschen hardbacks so I wouldn't need to leave the house, epecially when my RealDoll* arrived. Three years of the grad bar means three years of the same sort of people doing almost identical courses, which means they have the same fucking arguments. I'm like don't drag me into it and give out because someone 'dissed' your favorite writer. I literally could not give a solitary fuck if you think writer 'X' is far supererior to writer 'Y', and I don't think they care either, they're probably up in heaven...riding.)

*On second thoughts they look a bit creepy, knowing my luck I'd probably get a haunted one..they're doing a discount fro christmas though, which is nice, some gentlemen will get to spend Christmas with 'company'. As Laura The Tooth has pointed out there's only one man doll! I'll just stick to my dodgy books.

I was going to put up some lung x-rays but this obscure Fast Show-inspired pic was better.

Outbreak Blues: Head filled with literal rather than figurative gank.

And so it goes, you can only stand so much of working shit jobs and staying up until 5am almost every night. The cold I had lingered and has now developed into bronchitis—which I never got when I smoked, proving that kitchen work is more dangerous than smoking. One minute you’re going to Pendulum until three in the morning, going to top parties and watching three films in a row, the next your squirming around in your bed in jogpants and a UEA hat with a head full of phlegm blubbing along with the LCD Soundsystem song ‘Losing My Edge’. And wondering how many days it would take someone to discover your bloated corpse. The indignities of age! I had to whip out the boring type of ribbed rubber again and wear jogpants in bed, it’s far too close to pyjama wearing to me. Men’s pyjamas, I mean, sure they look great on ladies but they are slightly head-wreaking*: It’s like hassle enough getting dressed every day without having to get dressed again in a special little fluffy outfit to go to beddy byes, the only thing adults should wear in bed is each other.

(I was literally just sleeping, eating soup and working at this stage, my only enjoyment was watching the odd episode of Justice League: Unlimited. The Booster Gold -centred episode, The Greatest Story Never Told, had particular resonance as it concerned Mordru generally fucking up things, including making buildings come alive and attack people. In my darkest hours, I often feel that the grim buildings of Norwich have some sort of personal vendetta against me, like the city itself is trying to kill me but I'm too stupid to die...happy thoughts all round, roll on spring so I can remeber what daylight looks like.)


*I’m not a big pyjama fan, I'll that sort of thing to these fucking idiots, you’re liable to see me in Batman or Superman boxers at the most. I saw some great Silver Surfer ones in H&M but when I got back with the money they were gone....and when I asked the guy were they ever coming back...he said he didn’t know.

Does it really take two chefs to watch an egg being being put in pan?.

Vendetta Blues: Twitch of Death Labia.

On top of having fucking bronchitis and working every fucking day, there’s a 'firing fanny'* after me. There’s this battleaxe of a manager at work who is well known for getting off over sacking people, it’s her only outlet. She always looks like she’s having a constant heart attack and hasn’t sacked anyone in about a month. I sense her thobbing-veined, thick-headed firing–horniness grow. She’ll fiddle her “final-warning labia” until working her way to her full-firing climax. I’ll be like two minutes late or not sweep up some tiny bit of crap or something and she'll use it as an excuse. One of the last KP's got the sack for asking for his wages on a Saturday when he had a day off, a monor misunderstanding turned into a stupid argument and him getting the sack (with yours truly filling in). I could almost sense it this Monday, when I got a head’s up call from one of the kitchen guys: 'don’t be late today or you get a ‘final warning'. So before I’m even late, she’s already planning to give me a final warning for me being late, what kind of Schrodinger's cat type sacking method is that! I work in a kitchen for fuck's sake, it's not Minority Report. So you were planning to give me a final warning, which shows that you really want to sack me, but didn't get the chance because I came into work on time and will continue to do so because if I don't you'll fucking sack me? So the fact that you didn't ge to give me the warning is the reason you won't get to give a warning.

Oh yeah, the fact that I’ve been coughing up blood the last two days and still come into work doesn’t mean shit, the fact that I get kept late every day for at least an hour doesn’t mean shit...if I’m a few minutes late, I get a final warning then the sack. Hey I don’t mind, as long as I last until the staff party so I can drink my own body weight in booze at someone else’s expense whilst wearing my black suit and spider-man tie. (Have contemplated getting a Spidey mask, but I don't want to go down that road, as I might want to wear it all the time). No worries, I’ll just act as stupid as she thinks I am and drink my sugary tea.

(Christ! that post was a bit harsh, but I was quited pissed off when I wrote it, hope I got that across ok. That boss woman still isn't speaking to me, unless it's to give out. As a Kitchen Porter I am obviously subhuman. Am still hanging on in there at my place of work though-have to work every night almost until I get home for the Christmas! Am writing this on my only night off until Sunday, hoping that sleep-deprivation will step in as an intoxicant in lieu of red wine...Oh well, think of the money eyes on the prize and all that jazz.)

*More notes on slang for the overseas readers, I mean 'fanny' here in the British slang sense of furry front bottom, 'the crimson' the 'pink lettuce leaf' etc (I'm sure there's loads more here) rather than 'fanny' in the American sense as in 'ass'. Cf 'fanny pack' versus 'bumbag', which can cause confusion or embarassment to stupid tourists. To be honest though one should be ashamed of wearing a bumbag or a fannypack, 'ooh it's for security' I hear you say, what's so secure about advertising you're valuables in a garish external dayglo bladder.

The Big Bus

‘Slow Bus to Thetford’ Apocalypse.

The first time I flew, I looked around the plane and imagined what freaks would inherit the earth if some cataclysm occurred while we were in the air and the only humans left to repopulate the planet were in my flight. Mind you, I was on Ryanair at the time, which doesn’t hold out much hope for humanity. I know this sounds a bit like Lost (still haven’t managed to see any of it) but believe me I have been mentally preparing for apocalypse since 1989*. In this year, I bought Prince’s Batman soundtrack, a big hard-backed book of mysteries and a pop-up book of evolution. The mysteries book had some stuff about Nostradamus predicting the end of the world in 1997, so I mentally connect Prince and the end of the world. I mentioned this on the school bus and some Presbyterian started giving out to me because only 'the Jesus' knows the future!

I recently went to Cambridge and had to take a bus from Norwich to Thetford. (It was worth it, got to see my sister and got to Fopp to get this and this and Galloway and Porter where I go this). Lets just say that if this mobile plague-tin of freaks inherited the Earth, the human race's days would be numbered. You know when you’re on a bus and you’ve got your seat and see someone in the queue and you think, ‘that person looks fucking insane I’d wager he/she/it will happen to sit beside me’, this was a slow bus to Thetford so everyone was the most insane person you’ve ever seen. The one who took the cake, though, was an old woman with three teeth and three strands of hair, I shit you not. Thankfully she didn’t sit beside me, but I did get her granddaughter (I think, it could have been her daughter or sister…this is Norfolk) who was literally a sphere. For an hour she eat a seemingly endless supply of sweets and crisps from magical ‘bottomless’ Harry Potter bag while I tried in vain to move my elbows far apart enough to read my fucking comics.

*What’s your favourite potential apocalypse? I always have to go for a massive cosmic cataclysm, the whole solar system wiped out in the blink of an eye before we know what’s hit us, none of this Barefoot-Gen style scooping up your radiated ass skin with non-existent hands crap that would happen after nuclear war. A zombie attack would be my second favourite apocalypse. Sure you might get eaten but you’d have a lot of fun before you do.