Unavailable.

This story was never available, but now it is unavailable (click on the Substack link above to prove next to nothing). Just get your head round that. I did not bother to plot it, record it, type it or illustrate it. I didn't spell check or grammar check it. I did not do anything. There is no content whatsoever. But now, despite there being nothing, I am choosing to keep that from you. I declared that sweet nothing to be unavailable. It may be here and released one day, should I decide to do so. You would probably come across it if you were idly scrolling, or if you followed me. Maybe a friend shared it, or some algorithm pushed it your way. But for any of that to happen it must be available and, clearly, it is not. So it remains unavailable. You cannot get beyond the black.

Another Day

 Graphic art by @wefail1

Click to read: It's quite a short post.

Art and the Deconstructed Salad

Spoken word shopping list for a Supermarket Salad in the City.

Products come in bags and plastic and wraps and shrink wrap and have no clear serving suggestions. Scissors are required. Sharp knives. What’s your postcode?

Tomatoes on the vine. An aspirational dream for the middle class wannabe.

Chopped and washed mixed leaves from some huge polytunnel somewhere in Spain. Rocket, spinach and iceberg. Salad days stereotypes. (Salad days is a Shakespearian term from the play Antony & Cleopatra referring to a period of carefree innocence, idealism, and pleasure associated with youth. The modern use describes a heyday, when a person is was at the peak of their abilities, but not necessarily youthful. A time of perfect rapport … perhaps.) Salad Boys are a band from New Zealand.

Hedge clippings. Shapes and textures. Parked up Park Ranger Jeep Wrangler.

Added extra crunch. Lubricate the parts. Balsamic vinegar. Whenever I see somebody outside but heading into a salad bar wearing earbuds or headphones it’s hard not to assume that they are also using a Bluetooth butt plug device … for the clarity of the bass tones of course.

Carrots cut like crunchy soldiers modelled from Barry Lyndon style uniforms or just 4 x 1 Lego bricks.

Peppers in at least two colours, but is it the three bump bottom or the four bump bottom that I need, and why can I not taste any difference?

Cheese. All kinds of cheese. So many that I cannot name the best flavours or tell you the details. Soft Italian. Cheddar. Maybe Greek. Maybe mozzarella. Blue cheese for the carefree. Brie for those who like to bite into a triangle’s powerful shape in the vain hope of cracking the universe. Carefully set the temperature on your fridge as if you were defusing an unexploded bomb.

Potato salad, any kind you can get, in a plastic click top tub. Poverty spec. Ready made.

I would ask you to add anchovies, but you might ignore me. What are these salty little fish, cramped and all oily from a can, doing here anyway? A deep sea mystery and unjust market forces are at play.

Chicken with garlic mushrooms. Pretty basic. Anyone could do this but I’m not judging you or your level of skill.

French Bread. Hot butter.

Branston’s fine pickle pieces on a shiny sliced tomato are nice. Chutney is another thing.

Raw red onion, sliced and hidden like landmines among the green jungle. Your breath will not thank you, but they add a twist. Dangerous living. Best to leave early.

Thousand Island dressing and the steel blue eyes of Paul Newman (RIP). Other name dropping products are available but I can’t recall the names.

Crumbly, flaky, seedy mixes to throw across the plain bowl. Salad nuts. Beans and has beens. I forgot the celery, cucumber and various watercolour flavoured dips and nobody really minded.

Boiled eggs, cut up perfectly. Beyond the skills of the average human, but we try. We often fail too. It is possible to “keep” chickens these days. Egg shells are also useful items that you can just throw away with a clear conscience.

Olive oil. The height, width and depth of all of civilisation is here, stored in these virgin green glass bottles with their exotic names and arty labels. £6 a pop. Or maybe use a plastic squeezy bottle that can be fine tuned for an exact rate of magical drizzle experience. Use of such an item suggests a professional level of cookery skill and/or that you shop in Tesco. Also try an actual olive. Beware of world shortages and spikes of frosty weather.

Herbs and seasoning. Fresh or dried or frozen. Green leafy herbs are the key and garlic is the lock, and that makes no sense at all. Some people have these readily available from their garden herb tubs or tub free herb gardens. A trowel may be needed. Sharpen up your knife. Wear good quality gloves.

Croutons to scatter like edible confetti at a teenage wedding.

Breadsticks we munch and nod towards, wringing your hands in the queue for the mayonnaise spoon. Is it clean? The mayo is not homemade either. The body language for idiosyncratic queue behaviours is learned from dealing with difficult adult encounters at an early age.

Hellmann’s.

No joke. Now need some lemons to juice. What could you say to that if you were a vegan?

Try a fine red wine with it. Clink.

All on a warm, clean white plate. A splodge of Guacamole to add some post war bathroom/hospital colours to the feast. Smashed Black and Decker avacado and some tipsy roll-mop herring pierced by a well machined cocktail stick. Not to be confused with Coleslaw. Shredded raw cabbage.

In any garden centre cafe you will likely get a pile of plain industrial style potato crisps with your tuna panini, plus a green salad with some of the above piled up on the side. That’s all going to be overpriced but OK at the same time too.

Radio play for mood music: The Guitar Twang King Thing.

The Blood of Angels - Part 2

 

Angels are not at all like us

They're wispy spirit beings

All light and fancy fine and white

Something you might believe in.

-.-.-.-.-

But I don't.

No Law

I've told myself that I'll stop once I get to one hundred. Make what you will of that. Click the pic above to enjoy the thing that's there, whatever it is. Also, cats don't really do laws.

Thought for the Day

 

During a normal day, like everyone else, I have a few thoughts. Most are ordinary, nothing worth keeping, nothing worth sharing either. The one that's colour-cartooned above isn’t mine. And I don't mind saying that I admire it. Credit to the thinker and the artist. They may be the same person. I don’t know. I don't even have a job.

A Useful "A" Word

Stuck for a word to describe yourself, your feelings, your views, your way of being? You may not know it, but the word you are currently looking for has been found. It was me who found it. Not just the other day. Some time ago, but like many things, it sort of comes along and then goes away. I am not sure it has ever been hashtagged much either, not that hashtagging is so much of a thing any more. Those early days of Twitter? Good times. Then it all went a bit dumper truck. I closed my account.

This particular word has been around for a while though, hidden in plain sight - as “they” like to say. I just don’t use it often enough. Neither do you. Something to do with the actual word maybe, or how things really are. Getting your tongue around it or fitting it into a sentence is tough. Not one for a sharpshooter mouth. I have no idea how this situation came to be either. Probably a common enough experience, but I have done little or no research in support of anything I’m saying here. I just have not had the time or inclination. I have been busy with other things that, to be honest, I cannot quite recall in any great detail. Time passed as it does. Then the penny dropped and so I wrote a casual para or two. You just read them.

So what is this word then?

Here is what it means:

The coexistence of opposing attitudes or feelings, such as love and hate, towards a person, object, or idea.

Uncertainty or indecisiveness as to which course to follow.

Mixed feelings or emotions; uncertainty or vacillation in making a choice.

The word you are looking for is, of course, ambivalence.

There. You can thank me later.

Free for all at the point of use. Try it today. Or tomorrow.

Indie Music

There's a lot of it about. Maybe too much. Decide for yourself. Click on the gun barrel.

£16.19 and Tiny Funerals

Base things that we have now been reduced to: Not quite so crazy pricey times and shortages as we've known in the past but this is what £16.19 worth of prime stock petrol looks like (10 of your UK litres). Except you can't see it at all because it's in a plastic can. The reason it's in a plastic carrier can (that's not an actual jerry can) is so that I can use it to power my faux electric lawn mower or perhaps a hybrid motor vehicle. These things are all the rage out here in the backwoods. 

Yes. It is getting very close to the grass cutting and shooting season. I face facts. The guys in the comic below want to eat the rich -  but shoot them first I suppose. I'm uncomfortable with that idea though they may have point about a few wider issues. But shouldn't could  be couldn't  in the word balloon? Maybe it's a "more hip" slang take on other regular slang and I'm missing it. It would be nice to use a word like vernacular here but I'm just not sure how to. I can't keep up.

 

In the garden we have this lovely bush that goes crazy with huge blossoms at this time of year but they very quickly get obliterated by the mad March and angry April winds. It happens every year and nature doesn't seem to learn. I makes me sad and annoyed but never unemployed. I have to pick up the fallen blossom and give them all a series of quiet, tiny funerals.

Heroes & Villians

“Not another long, rambling piece about those golden voiced, Californian kings of surf music and their mid career turn around brand of mystical, esoteric, adult-oriented, mild acid rock?”  I hear you say. 

Well, it certainly isn’t about that eternally interesting but confusing topic. Nope, just me going on, a bit tediously, about the kind of opinionated pish older men like me tend to favour. They can’t help it. Perhaps it may or may not pass as wisdom. Nobody listens or gives a fuck anyway. Maybe the Kurdish barber doesn't mind a few moments of low key ranting.

Click the link in the pic and you’ll be transported somewhere better. Maybe. You won’t learn anything that's new though. I'm not for giving away my revolutionary plan.

Nutella Dog Biscuits

The title gives away is exactly what this story is all about. Except that it's not really. Click on it to read.

Oh, and Happy Easter, to my dear bots and readers. Easter doesn't mean much to me but I do like a chocolate egg or two. Mustn't grumble.

😼

The Lost Jotters

I am not the kind of person who'd want to waste a decent enough home baked portion of graphic artwork. I'm not happy for it to languish lost somewhere. Wasted. Out of sight, overlooked or forgotten. I put it here and it leads on to a short story that's stuck up on Substack. That's as stuck as a story can get. How stuck can a story ever be? Don't ask. Too many examples.

Everybody and anybody who's ever done any kind of writing knows and understands the deep pain and frustration of losing a jotter's worth of your workings. Everybody except for me.

Live and Reasonably Dangerous

It's not just a long dry list. There are opinions, experiences and things like that. A lot of it really happened, as far as I can tell. You can't be sure these days. Click on the immaculate piece of design to enter into the low level debate.