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BOG — the weblog of Psilocybe P Pook

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Greetings

Wow! Here we go! And gosh!

Isn't "technology" marvellous?! Here I am on the World Wide Web - or the Weally Wild Web as we techno buffs love to call it - and to be honest this is my first appearance in the "new media", so please be gentle with me - ha ha ha!

But really, being a "writer", I was pretty excited when I heard about this "weblog" thing - or just plain "bog" as we techies like to call it. I mean, here is a chance to put all your best thoughts on paper - or on cathode anyway - every day and have simply everyone in the world read them! Really, it's a new form of art!

James Joyce did something like this with his stream of consciousness experiments but he had to stop at page 719 in Ulysses because it was just getting too big to go on the shelf! I can go on and on forever! Sorry James "!"

So please read my weblog. I'm sure you'll find it interesting and invaluable. It's always comforting to know that there's someone out there who shares thoughts and feelings with you! I will be adding to this weblog everyday WITHOUT FAIL, so be sure to check back from time to time to see what's here.

-Psilocybe P Pook

Contact Psilocybe P Pook

 

September 27, '08

I am baffled by the number of ads I get in my email for penis enlargement pills and therapies. I am baffled because I enlarge my penis almost every day and it is very simple. All you need to enlarge your penis is an erection. When you have an erection your penis gets bigger and turns the other way up. It can inflate to about six times its normal size. Not bad, I reckon, and no expensive drugs involved.

Yes, a simple erection will rapidly enlarge my penis to a handy size, if you'll pardon the choice of words, and is in a state where I can use it in a number of different ways. I can use it, for example, as a substitute banana if the fruit bowl is looking depleted. It makes a useful plunger for clearing blocked sinks. You can prop open windows with it and make tents. If you should find yourself in a riot, you can use it as a baton. It's also quite convenient for cleaning the wax out of the ears of elephants.

An erection has the advantage of speed and portability. If you order pills, you have to get out the credit card and wait for about two weeks for them to arrive, if they ever do. An erection you can have straight away with only the slightest manual effort.

And of course, if you don't have a penis of your own, you can borrow mine.

Definitely sausages for tea today.

March 1, '08

Listening to Mozart last night: Mass in C minor. I tell you, he has class that Mozart. I bet he can tell his Bordeaux from his claret. Pure class. I suppose that's why they call it classical music.

Poulenc for tea.

May 3, '06

I had sex today. Not a lot of sex, just a bit. Well, it turned out there wasn't that much in the bag.

It was packaged in that slightly deceptive way that suggested you were going to get a biggish portion, but when you get the wrapping open you find that it's mostly air inside.

At least the bag had SEX in big letters on the side. That's how I knew what I was getting.

Because of the ses, there was no need for sausages at tea time today.

April 19, '06

I'm not saying my dog smells awful, but he's got no nose.

April 18, '06

I believe I may have social cramp.

April 17, '06

I must make a note to nurture the little Tamagotchi in my soul.

Feb '05

Dear Blog,

Those voices in my head are speaking to me of sex with fish. Of course, a fish is a Freudian image of a post-coital penis. And a halibut is a Freudian image of a post-coital penis that has been run over by a bus.

The voices also talk of Republicans as if tormenting me with memories of the demise of Picasso's halibut. During the Spanish Civil War the fish was confronted by Franco himself. George Bush is, of course, a close personal clone of General Franco. Franco demanded of the fish 'Are you a Republican?' and the fish stared back at him with those fishy, unblinking eyes and flexed its gills a little, which is, of course, fish speak for 'No way, Jose'.

'You can't fool me by denying it! I know you're not a Republican, you slippy slappy thing!' barked the General and had the halibut promptly shot.

'You will shoot this progressive halibut promptly at the eleventh hour. And don't be late.'

And so it came to pass that Picasso painted his massive Fishist monument to the horror of being on time for anything, known to posterity and all those who turned up later as Halibut. The name halibut is of course significant for being the Spanish word for halibut. Sadly the painting was blown to smithereens in the Fascist air raid on Guernica.

With those ghosts exorcised, sleep well, sweet Blog
.

September 4, 2004

I noticed today that the trees are covered in twigs and leaves. That's what comes from being outside all the time. The council should invent a tree brush and tidy them up a bit.

Sausages for tea.

September 4, 2004

You, know, I don't think I've added to this weblog since May 27.

I saw a cloud today.

Sausages for tea.

May 27, 2004

How many uses for bananas are there? I can think of a few.

  • mimikaki for people with large ears
  • if tied to the bottom of feet they are a cheap alternative to roller blades by virtue of the slippy quality of banana skins
  • a crutch for a small person
  • a device for cleaning around the U-bend in toilets
  • a neck support for passengers on long haul flights
  • a stirrer for your tea
  • a friend to talk to
  • using advanced laser technology, a banana could be a device for storing huge amounts of information such as a novel like War and Peace: using clever mathematical formula you can encode War and Peace as a single long number: using clever laser technology you measure the exact mid point of the banana, then convert your number code for W&P to a fraction of one, and burn a line exactly that fraction of a centimeter from the mid point of a banana, and voila, you have the entire contents of W&P stored on a banana
  • a non-returning boomerang
  • a dug-out canoe for mice
  • artificial chonmage
  • a lump in your pocket
  • prosthetic fingers for amputees
  • snorkel for people who don’t do their snorkelling under water
  • vegetarian sausages

May 223, 2004

Of all the stupid things people say, one of the most stupid is 'Would you like a nice cup of tea?' I mean, what is nice doing in that sentence? It's the sort of thing daft old grannies like to say. 'Ooh! Let's have a nice cup of tea.'

So I went round to my Gran's the other day and I said, 'How're you doing Gran?' and she said, 'All right, you know, considering.'

She's dead, my Gran, but she takes great care of herself, you know what I mean?

So she says 'Come in, sit down. Would you like a nice cup of tea?'

I thought to myself, 'God, if I hear that one more time ...' But I said, 'No thanks, Gran I'm all right.'

Then she said, 'Would you like a horrible cup of tea?'

I thought for a moment. 'How horrible? Without sugar?'

'Without sugar. And I'll spit in it.'

'Nah, I'm not too bothered, thanks, Gran.'

'I'll put some spiders in. No sugar, spit, and spiders. And I'll make it with toilet water.'

'Aye, all right then. Cheers.'

'And how about some nuclear radiation?

'Nuclear radiation?'

'Nuclear radiation. I'm got some yellow cake.'

'Now you're talking, Gran. Champion!'

 

January 3, 2004

A disturbed night. A new age coven decided to take over the house, and some aliens decided to occupy one of the bedrooms.

The house filled up with coven paraphernalia and coven people. The aliens had squatted one of the bedrooms to set up a bar — it was nothing to do with the coven and was merely an added inconvenience. These particular aliens set up their bars whenever and wherever they please The bar was supposed to be a night time thing only and they were supposed to move on. The aliens were bright pink and had four or perhaps six legs. I watched them drinking. They would take one swig of their alien booze and spring from the bar stool to the wall to which they attached themselves feet first to pass the rest of the night in wide-eyed catatonia. As the evening passed the wall became covered in this staring, stoned aliens. Apparently alien booze is very good.

The pink bar-thing assured me that they would all be off the wall and out of the house by morning. I was sceptical.

Escaping the bar, I found that spare space in the house, and seemingly the closets too, was filling up with sleeping small people. Apparently these were a smaller version of the human race, perfect in every respect. Idealised creatures, an idealised alternative to humanity — the good of humanity in essence? They were being collected and sheltered (stored?) by the coven. They were a coven project.

They're filling the house with homunculi and elves, I complained.

Next thing, a coven member had cornered me and was trying to explain their world view. So I am in the middle of a house full of sleeping new-age super beings and stoned pink aliens, arguing metaphysics with a zealous old biddy. I try countering her with the apophenic argument, that religion is merely the desire to invent an order to rationalise away apparent disorder or inexplicableness; that there is a sufficiency of order and meaning in the universe and that don't need to invent silly religions to make sense of everything. It was evident that the woman had no interest in opening her mind to reason and thought I was being bloody minded and hostile for not accepting her view. She pursed her lips as if dealing with a naughty and willful child and the argument petered out.

I petulantly had sausages for tea.

November 21, 2003

On my way to work this morning I was reading Haruki Murakami's Wind Up Bird Chronicle. I don't know if you've read this novel, but if you have you will know that it has some pretty frank sex scenes in it and I came on one of these scenes while hanging from my commuter handle. It's weird. The book has 605 pages and just a few of these sex episodes, but I only come on the sex when I am on the train. What do you make of that? I don't come on these scenes when I am alone or comfortable or settled. I come on them when I am on a crowded train, standing crushed between smelly old men and old women who look like sacks of potatoes. Anyway, so I'm reading this steamy scene this morning and I guess I was in a pretty vulnerable state because I started to over heat, if you know what I mean. Right there, with all the commuters and the bad breath, I am getting a woody. So I stop reading and look around the carriage to find something to distract myself before it gets too obvious. And I make eye contact with this young woman right in front of me. I figure she had noticed my state of heated fluster but instead of being shocked or offended, instead of mocking me, she was getting pretty turned on too. I mean, it was just obvious. So we stared at each other, each with the same thing in mind. She was pretty darned good looking too. So this is a situation. We are two strangers consumed by the hots for each other — I mean urgent hots — but we are on this crowded train. What to do? Without a word, we climbed up on to the luggage rack and had energetic, wonderful sex right there, above the oblivious heads of the other commuters who were reading their morning papers, listening to walkmans, reading books, staring out the windows, scratching their balls, picking their noses. Eventually the train reached my stop. She pulled on her clothes and got off the train too. Most people were getting off here. On the platform I looked for her, but she had been absorbed already in the thick crowds. Absorbed, dissolved. Gone. And me too. I went on my way to work.

October 26, 2003

Here's a conversation I didn't have with my father
when I was growing up.
" And what do you want to be when you grow up, son?"
" I want to be a complete shit, Daddy."
" That's my boy!"

October 25, 2003

I just wrote an entry for my blog 'Bog'. And when I finished writing it, I
posted it here, like this.

Click here to view my blog 'Bog'.

Sausages for tea.

October 10, 2003

In my fridge I have a pack of "100% natural cheese". I scoured the supermarket for "100% unnatural cheese, but strangely I couldn't find any.

October 4, 2003

Cinema

I went to see a film. It happens.

I sat down in the auditorium with my pop and my popcorn and I looked around at the place. I opened one of the beers I had smuggled in which I was saving for the start of the film.

I waited. And I looked around and I ate and drank. I like pop and popcorn and smuggled beer. I like pop and popcorn and smuggled beer because they`re good.

I waited quite a while and, you know, the more I waited the more I looked forward to the film. It was going to be really good. I could tell. I had decided. It was going to be like a film made by Terry Gilliam, David Lynch and Stephen Frears all together. Only better.

So I waited and I opened another can of beer and went and bought some more popcorn and the anticipation got kind of unbearable, you know. It was just too exciting.

And I wondered when the film would start. I could have just asked someone or looked at my ticket stub or whatever but I was actually enjoying the popcorn and the beer and the sense of imminent adventure so I didn`t get round to it.

Eventually I opened another beer and snuggled down in my seat a bit further and I wondered where all the people were anyway. I was the only one there. Like, they were going to miss the start of the film. I suddenly thought there might be some kind of mix up over theatres. But if all those other people were just going to sit there in the wrong theatre waiting for a film that wasn`t going to happen, it wasn`t my problem. Why should I risk missing the start of the flick just to go and find them?

So I waited some more and wished the film would hurry up and start. I don`t know how long I can just sit here. There`s only so long they will allow it. They generally throw you out after seventy or eighty years.

Still, I`ll give it a little longer. After sitting here so long, surely the film is about to start.

September 15, 2003

I am not well read. I have not, for example read the New York City phone directory ... not beginning to end, anyway ... and not strictly speaking even through one volume.

I was going to read it on the train on the way from NYC to Providence, Rhode Island. I was told the US was a big country which is why I chose a big book, but the train ran out of track before I ran out of As. Some big country — huh! Anyway I couldn't finish the phone directory on the way back to NYC because I was scheduled to read Proust's Memories of Things Past. I was going to read it backwards which seems the best way to approach memories. But you know how it is with long train rides. I'd got myself all psyched up and was about ready to get stuck into the book when we pulled up in Penn Station.

I have not read the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

I did read pi to three decimal places. Pi to three decimal places reads 3.142. the other day I inadvertently read the fourth decimal place which was 5. This meant the third place was not 2 after all, but 1 because 1 rounded up before a value larger than 4 is 2, which was kind of disappointing because it turned out I hadn't really read pi to three decimal places after all, only to two ... but there is some compensation in the fact that having read the fourth digit and been corrected on the third digit I am now two steps further on in an infinite series.

I have not read Mein Kampf.

I have, to my credit, read Capital — or as much of it as was necessary to scrape a pass in my political philosophy module at college, which is still more than most people have read of it and definitely more than your average Marxist, so I figure that counts as a full read.

I don't remember much of it though.

September 03, 2003

When I first went to Japan I was struck by the enormous number of Japanese people there are there. The very first person I met was Japanese and then the second was too. I just kept bumping into them after that, all the way down the airport concourse and out into the street.

Well, I suppose they have to go somewhere. Why not Japan?

Well, tell me about Basingstoke — you know, to tell you the truth, when you first said you lived in Basingstoke, I thought, "Basingstoke? That’s the standard method of cooking mastadon isn’t it?"

Where do I get it from? I want to know where everyone else gets it from. It’s hysterical! Down our local you’ll hear “I had a cup of tea today. Brown it was, and in a cup. Later I creosoted the fence. But I’ll tell you what, you don’t wanna go gettin your creosote mixed up with your tea. Especially not if its a good cup of tea. Now I find the best way to keep my tea and my creosote apart is to put the creosote in a teapot and keep the tea in a blackened tin can. Cos a teapot and a blackenend tin can look totally different and there ain’t much chance of gettin the two mixed up now, is there.”

September 02, 2003

Today I was in a plane crash.

Sausages for tea again.

August 29, 2003

Smokers. Don't you just hate them.

While I was waiting for my train this morning a smoker came up to me and without preamble called me a piece of shit, head butted me, kicked me in the balls, forced his fingers into my eyes and tried to throw me in front of a moving train.

But what really got me was the choking stink of cigarettes on him, like he had been chain smoking in a closet for a week. It made me want to gag. I really hate that.

August 28, 2003

Yesterday at the office I exploded. It was a big explosion and quite unexpected.

One minute I was proofing schedules — always a favourite activity — and the next minute, without any warning: boom — I was a mushroom cloud reaching right into the heavens displacing the sky and showering fallout on everyone around me.

The fallout was the atomised remains of me. The dust of my spleen ended up in the boss's coffee — I hate coffee — my heart got mixed up with the make up on the pretty secretary's face and got into the pores of her skin, my lungs clogged the photocopier, my liver settled on the cactus and my hands and arms ended up under the keys of my keyboard.

I don't think I endeared myself to my colleagues who were incinerated by the flash and demolished by the blast wave, but still, it was something different.

August 24, 2003

Surf: Gets clothes so clean it makes you want to masturbate!

August 22, 2003

An open letter to Certs, makers of breath mints.

Dear Certs,

Fuck you, I don't have bad breath.

Yours,
PPP

August 20, 2003

I met a speaking cat today. Imagine that: a cat that can speak! We talked at great length about a great many fascinating things. I had no idea a cat had such thoughts in its head.

A little cloudy today. Sausages for tea.

August 19, 2003

Don't you have anything better to be doing with your time than reading this?

Day 750
August 17, 2003

Inspiration is a cherry knocker.

Day 749
August 16, 2003

Farmer Shitpile

Everytime he goes it ' s the same telephone city atrocity pain in the arse. Get over it. No way in no way out, running around the edge the concrete edge some big motherfuck stone grey stone mausoleum jobbie landed by GOD right here, right out of the sky. Wolf whistle out of the blue blue blue with a very fucking sudden flatulent CRUMP. Farmer Shitpile, a man outstanding in his field in his own lunchtime never knew what hit him. But there it was. There it still is. We can plant around it but it ain’t the same. No subsidy either. Out shooting rabbits — spotlights, jeeps. 12 bores, 12 good men this is true and a Bradley armoured fighting vehicle — found a load of them DRUIDS and DENTISTS wot moved out from the city DANCING round the bugger. Pan pipes, music, some without hats if you can believe that, rubber ducks stuck up their arses no doubt and all I shouldn 't wonder think. Won 't be trubblin us again.

Still there it is and there it was and the corn grows black around it and on warm nights the bats shun it and above it a sickle moon draws blood from the sky. No bloody subsidies. Lambs born dead a head at each end, turns crab apples into fisheries inspectors and the crows laugh. Could blame it on the nukes but I voted for them. I’m not daft. Hunt sabateurs are the best bet right now spoil it for everyone spongers never done a real day’s. Care more about animals than people would murder us all in our porridge oats just to save a ruddy hedgehog. Reminds me, like my badger hat? I know you don’t usually use the whole badger, but in this day and age it seems silly not to.

Sausages for tea.

Star date df4.tger7.df4

Cars

Cars! Loads of them everywhere. Wherever you look, cars! Makes me think that maybe someone somewhere is making them. Thousands of them every week. Maybe they have a factory which churns these things out on huge production lines. And maybe someone — maybe even the same person that’s making the cars — is making drivers too. Thousands, millions of drivers. As many drivers as there are cars in fact. One driver for each car! Imagine that. These drivers if they come off an assembly line are all identical: blank little stick men which they bolt to the driver’s seat. The workers point the cars out the factory gate, give them a push and off they go to run round and round the streets until they run out of gas or wear out or collide with something. Then the spent cars are taken to a yard and stacked high up, one on top of the other. I’ve seen the yards — piles of cars as far as the can see. But it has never occured to me before that the drivers are inside.

Day 123

Termites of Truth


There are towers over London, New York, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, Paris , Berlin ... Pure energy pointing right into the sky. The towers are flickering erratically like fluorescent tubes with faulty capacitors. They are like gods sustained by a collective act of faith. Even in these rational times, faith is an unlimited commodity. Rationality is faith and faith is an indefinitely large dirigible pig.


Yet questions will be asked despite an impressive array of prophylactic measures. Questions squeeze unbidden through the pores and the lines of our faces, between the classes at our schools and universities, from between words, through the sutures in our skulls. Questions like termites taking to the wind in summer, gathering in swarms and white clouds around lights or making for the moon. Men in noddy suits with tanks of insecticide on their backs feeding hoses, patrol and spray. The streets become thick carpets of dying, kicking insects but out of the black still they come. The Tokyo Metropolitan council at first denies responsibility, then recommends spraying the whole area from the air and gets on to the environment ministry since this is obviously their kind of job. Environment Ministry advises caution and an environmental impact study and since the termites are eating factories as well as homes the matter is passed to both the ministry of Surveys and the Ministry of Trade and Industry, who each, after long deliberations advise keeping an eye on the situation. The truth here is a matter that goes beyond issues of responsibility. The fact is, nobody has assigned a budget to deal with the problem and nobody wants to part with slices of their own pie when the Education Ministry is already doctoring text books to remove all mention of termites and generally tidy up the past to make a nice bed for the present.


In the end someone thinks to turn the tv on and we forget about the termites or the termites go away or the termites get on with their termiting or the termites get into watching tv too; it’s hard to tell through all this laughter. And on the tv we can all see how we are getting on with the important things how we are getting on with building the Utopialand they’ve promised us for next week and which we can see all mocked up in computer graphics.


Fifty-storey trade centres on every street corner point right at the future: there it is, its foundations burrowed through a history that’s ended up as a sea-reclamation project in the bay for another Portopia — engineers with megaphones line the shore and announce ‘We’ve come back for our land.’ Bailiffs tack eviction notices to the waves, the police wearing rubber rings line up behind them hopefully, and with a sigh the water parts. Council workmen go in first with sledge hammers and smash all the sea shells left behind and saw the legs off the sea bed to deny further use of them to anybody or anything. Then all the history excavated for the foundations of the future is dumped with lots of other used up junk into the space where the water used to be. On top of the junk we build towers with gaily coloured ironwork, we put fibreglass Goofeys, Minnies, Donalds, and especially Mickeys in the sculpted thirty-by-twenty natural parks with the skateboard ramps and the plastic ski slopes and we build a new airport to admit more money. And in the unuseful spaces we put unuseful people.

Sausages for tea.

October 31, 2002

A Letter to the Times

Dear The Times,
With regard to your unTimesly feature — carried not one Times, but two Times in your organ — 'Wriggling Embryos', which perchance refers to rumours of an unspecified but guessable event recently in the Far East somewhere, POINTED reference, I might add and will do, I the undersigned wish to nip in the bud. I also want to draw your attention while Miller, aka Dusty, the valet shuffles on all fours under your desk and over to the whisky cabinet.

Reminds me of a chap I met in Salerno in '43. Had all his skin burned off by some ghastly Nazi prototype napalm, unless it was the Americans. Lay on the beach — more a pile of pebbles, really, and barbed wire — mewling 'Mummy! Mummy!' red as a side of beef, curled up with the stump of his hand in his mouth. 'Ah ha! You must be one of those lefties. Sod off and bleed to death slowly and agonisingly in someone else's war confusing issues like right and wrong, good and evil, Yorkshire pudding and bratwurst,' I said to him just after putting him out of his misery with a high heel through the temple. Oddest thing, his intestines escaped, snaked leaving a slimy trail of black congealing blood on the rocks, right between my legs and beyond where the fast draining tentacle found purchase in a nearby faceless cadaver, where nestled in the mouth of the red nova of face I got the idea of some kind of placenta, umbilical, foetus set up and scarpered to find a Hun on whom I could vent my excitement.

I ask: Where was the 'Wriggling Embryos' report back when we needed it, back at the dawn of creation? Don't give me that 'but our hacks were just amoeba' crap, what about responsibility to your profession? God dammit, man, a chap can't walk the streets without having embryos burrowing their way into manly, rugby ball gonads better otherwise employed. The Somme, Flanders, Ypres — now that was war, killing them off sixty thousand a day. That's the way to do it! That's the way to do it!

I contend the war made us all soft — reports of unbridled sexual indulgence in your press. YOUR press, God damn you! And this brings me to the quivering point of my ire: gross dereliction of FACT in your worthy journal. Or is it a cunning smokescreen to hide reality from the masses, who have no business knowing at any rate. In case I am heaby blowing the gaff, I enclose a dotted line for you to snip along before publication to save you bother of arduous arduous censorship:
--------------------------------------------------
Wossallthisthen about the HMG's half brick and female circumcision programme? Do you think we are all daft? That was discontinued a long time ago, yonks, to be precise, when the link up between Union Carbide, British Nuclear Fuels and Zanussi was achieved with the express purpose of solving the human problem by less laborious means. Porton Down was turned into a kiddies theme park not simply as a response to Delors' Euro-Disneyism but because the corporate alliance obviated the need for its existence. So there.

And that neatly brings me to the real point of this letter. I need advice, dear The Times. What can a chap do about the glacier-sized accretions of grey substance that persist behind my ears no matter how fastidious my valet is about personal hygiene? I have my head steam cleaned every evening, yet the next morning there the vile stuff is again, coming off on my fingers like grease from a kebab. Your reply is desperately awaited.

Yours,
Sir Psilocybe P Pook (Lord)

 

Day one
July 28th, 2001

I came across a remarkable pebble today. Quite by chance.
Sausages for tea.

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