IT’S TWIXTMAS!

It’s Twixtmas, the bit in between 
When you don’t know what day it is
Let alone where you’ve been


It’s Twixtmas, the bit in between
When it’s hard to keep track of when is when
And every other day is like Boxing Day – again!


It’s Twixtmas, the bit in between
When the weekend starts on Happy Monday 
and ends on Black Friday
With the mother of all hangovers 
and an overdraft to die from


It’s Twixtmas, the bit in between
As the scary feeling of freedom fades, 
And you realise what day it is
And where you have to be tomorrow… FUCK


Remember, it’s still Twixtmas, the bit in between
Your chance to take back time
Five days to shake up your world OR

...go shopping.


Happy Twixtmas!

AUSTERiTY HAiKU

Taxes lie in paradise;
the homeless in doorways.

Keep on shopping.

 
You've read the poem. Join the movement.Deliberately obtuse arrant nonsense from the local capitalist press: "The shoe protest installation on Parker's Piece in Cambridge. It is unclear who is behind the installation, but it appears to throw criticism at tax avoiders and the Government."

NO SHIT SHERLOCK!


Images of Prime Minister Theresa May and the Queen and Prince Philip accompanied messages such as: "Taxes lie in paradise, the homeless in doorways".

LET'S PRETEND IT'S ALL SO DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND. COMPARE AND CONTRAST.

RICH = Bastards. How hard can it be?

RADIOGRAM

Radio one is Philips AE 1000 -  Wind-up  Anal. 2xAAs Dirty chrome AM (ex-FM)

 

Minus the sturdy double middle ll of the screwdriver inventor, but with enough Dutch street cred as to be credible to global capital, Philips is my constant companion. Too young to be vintage, yet far too battle-scarred not to be classically mid-life critical, he is remarkably functional - despite his emasculation during a pique of frustration against all things made from Chinese plastic.  
 

The twisted stumped remains of his once proud but fragile mantennacontinues to pick up frequencies, batteries or no batteries, static interplay or no. The absence of a modulated Radio 4 allows  ample bandwidth to accommodate nil-nil score-draws and low-level politico-media complexities. Philips can’t handle too much analysis. The constant adrenaline buzz of the bed under the traffic and weather makes him sweat. He’ll stay on absolute crap all day if I let him. No repeat guarantee, my rusty buttonhole.

Strengths: Tramp Camp on the North Norfolk Coast.

Weaknesses: Self-generator prone to abuse.

Opportunities: Spanish football commentary and Dutch adult-oriented rock.

Threats: Entropy, decay and lithium depletion.
 

Radio two is Boombeatz. 4xCs. White plastic. Bright LED halo around dial LW/AM (ex-FM)

Boombeatz, despite the funky zee, supplies Shipping Forecasts, Test Matches, Archers and Toadies in Parliament. She, non-binary be damned, as garish and grubby as Boycott’s bald pate after years at the crease, is my bit on the side: cheap, flashy and the ear plug socket no longer functions as a line out despite purchasing the very latest & finest in audio-sonic technology that £4 quid from ASDA can buy.

Decades of shoe-bombing legitimate targets has given way to an unlikely fondness for all things English and middle order. In a previous parallel, any wireless set within reach was fair game. At the very first beat of the Da-Dee-Da-Dee-Da that heralded the omnishambles of the wholesome rural melodramatists and their unlikely collection of dislocated regional accents, or else before the opening bars of the white soul limbo were able to announce that several privately-educated chaps whose names all ended in -ERS were on strike at the Wacka and the Gabba with or without Mr Packer, something inside would switch off.

These days, cricket chatter, posh-boy patter, tuffed-up Estuary banter and Northern natter all matter more than other things I could be doing, when I'm not doing much at all; the rhyming a distraction from the torturous tail end collapse and the mocking Australian question intonation. They really talk like that? Eh? No longer do I rail against class-based injustice at the merest hint of the words long and wave, now I celebrate as polite religious anoraks, cricket maniacs and shipping prognostications are spun around a tail wind of mini-interruptions for those whose radiograms are still polished on a Sunday, in a world where meat & three veg meets Yorkshires and the milk goes in first .... Whatever does or does not happen for the MCC on the BBC, like a cab driver at a free buffet, the threat of the shores of Anglesey becoming awash with ill-informed shipping, or worshipping Anglicans turning into nervous wrecks takes immediate precedent over all other frequency modulations.

The Church of England possesses authority still, mainly to move arses off sofas. On account of the irony and the static, getting radio two to actually get Radio 4 on FM has knocked whole hours off the end of my life. As for DAB, I’m off-grid and digital sucks like a plastic straw. Radio six lies askance in a drawer - only to be got out for extra special, such is the energy drain.

Strengths: Too crap to get stolen.

Weaknesses: Strong and stable government ideation.

Opportunities: Double-mono stereo effect in tandem with radio one.

Threats: Tesco, global domination by the casually evil and STI’s.

Radio three is Alcaltel. Mobile phone with FM radio. USB power source. Mini-speaker/headphones.

Alarming crystal hiss-free clarity. Short life-span. £10 Asda.

          SWOT analysis pending; results are held in a queue until further notice.

Radio four is Bush. A cassette player/radio. Chews tapes, refuses to acknowledge FM. Does AM.

#brandtoxic.

       Rapid SWOT TEAM response: name change highly recommended.

MONTEZUMA’S HUMANITARIAN INTERVENTION

In the aftermath
Even those not eligible

Receive treatment for free
 

Even those casualties

Whose disease

Fatal brutal and unrepentant

Is economic
 

Aztec wrath shifts tectonics

Fatefully, it is only an earthquake;

An attack of the appendix more atomic

To the un-moneyed and marginal 

At the pedicure of Jehovah

The faithful fall to praise the false prophet:

Profit  

In the very mean time

The faceless prey to the dollar

Thank the Gods

For another refreshing earthquake

THE FOOD BABY

They hadn't wanted all the fuss of a real baby. 
 
Andrea couldn't do cats on account of her allergies. And Billie Jean hated dogs, almost as much as misogyny.

So, when their Prussian friend Karl, who, having taken French leave of his duties as patriarch for another sentimental excursion [1], had taken to over-indulgence of all things alimentary [2], and had filled out a trifle, it appeared to have presented the newly liberated wedded sisters of the hood with a workable alternative to the usual atomic family breeding programme.

Given its lofty provenance from out of the eminent backside of the planet's foremost Hegelian, the remaining period of gestation (surely only a matter of days now!) and delivery of Trifle, as per the Food Baby's pre-selected unisex working title, might well turn out not to be as simple as anticipated. But that's a whole other gender performance, comrades.

As for Johanna Bertha Julie Jenny von Westphalen, hauling her impressive nomenclature around the European revolutionary diaspora had left her fairly bereft of puff. Having little energy to convert into time for anything other than keeping a roof over their heads, she occasionally lamented the fact that she had forsaken a life of leisure amongst the Prussian aristocracy in order that Karl, the patriarch and master of proletarian destiny, should be permitted to complete his great work of manifest importance - and, apparently, to impregnate the staff.

Still, no matter now, now it was bedtime for the eponymous Marxist with the sixty-six-pack and curiosity of a kitten. Pulling his magic cap down over his eyes and ears, Karl asked Billie Jean if she would read him a goodnight story [3] so as to keep out the monsters.

Having avoided the infantile disorder of the newly emerging kindergarten, that Andrea was constructing in non-binary yellow, despite its liberal subtext, Karl had set up his man cot on the authoritarian left of the bedroom, in amongst his footnotes... [Suggested Footnotes; 1. It is alleged that the father of political dialectic materialism engaged in an extended period of pining for Johanna Bertha Julie Jenny von Westphalen, sister of Ferdinand Otto Wilhelm Henning von Westphalen and Karl's school friend, Edgar Gerhard Julius Oscar Ludwig von Westphalen. 2. According to the semi-official record, compiled by Martian pot plant enthusiasts and the like, it is of further note that said romantic anxieties kept him from his quotidian compulsive dedication to the British Library Reading Room and its environs. 3. His favourite, of course, was The Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown of Napoleon Brumaire.] ...and annotated collection of nasal hair clippings.

Billie Jean was not his lover, yet had over-fed his ego and waistline to such out-sized proportions that even Marx thought them extreme. On request, she started reading to the surrogate father of her ersatz non-binary jelly baby.

By a coup de main, on the eve of December 24th-25th Bonaparte donned the robes of Saint Nicholas, the gifting Grand Daddy of the Patriarchy. To the proletariat and the barricade commanders, the task of reviving the insurrectionary spirit of the worker, which the bourgeoisie had sold out to the multinational corporations so unresistingly that, subsequently, Saint Bonaparte could disarm them by means of a widely dispersed seasonal jingle and a shot of warm ginger wine, fell to the wayside. The totalitarian monster of the false Jehovah turned the sneering motive of his fear towards the anarchists!

The deadening dullness of historical fiction in translation did its stuff. Within seconds of touching cloth, the Food Baby and his immense womb were away with the fairies.

However…

There was a low gear change: a gentle crunch, followed by a stirring.

The unconscionable rumble reminded Billie Jean of the whirr of the escalator at the library in the mall. An inexorable mechanical churning that you noticed intently when unexpectedly switched off.

Except this one had just started, she was sure. 

In the lower abdominal undergrowth of the hairy bearded belly of man, as binary as a bicycle, and as bloated as an immoderately wealthy plutocrat, the emergence of the congenital morass of mushy Marxian compost was nigh.

"Andrea…. Andrea! Come quick.....

Clean towels, boiling water and the biggest doggy bag we got, honey.

Reckon Trifle’s going to be family sized."