Necrotic Toxicity

Sunday, November 12, 2006

I promised service, once the man from NTL had reconnected my broadband. I should have said "time permitting". Time does not permit: it forbids. But there is a secret 25th hour in every day set aside for the reading of novels by French authors with loose morals, the commission of the sin of Onan, and the posting of material to one's second blog.

I have already committed the sin of Onan numberless times this afternoon, and my French is still not really up to getting the best out of Gide, so second-blogging it is. I thought I might start with a list of people who definitely, absolutely, no questions asked should be taken round the back of the septic tanks and shot in the head; but as we all know who they are, there doesn't really seem to be an awful lot of point.

A far more interesting problem is what to do with the ones who might, given a smart tweak of the nose and a guided tour of the facilities, be persuaded to see the error of their ways. I'd bet money on a really skilled operator's being able to effect the religious conversion of Richard Dawkins - to Rastafarianism, why not? - in under 48 hours, given the right combination of sleep deprivation, kazoo-and-swanee-whistle renditions of famous show-tunes, and a really menacing way with a small tortoise-shell comb. But would it take?

I imagine Richard Dawkins would make a pretty insufferable Rastafarian, rather like the sort of dread-toting white-middle-class Oxbridge student who dries out banana skins and tries to smoke them (ah, deathless vindictiveness! I love thee still!); and pretty much anything one can imagine Richard Dawkins being insufferable whilst doing seems a fair match for his overall personality, so the chances of success there seem fairly high. Somewhat more difficult to imagine is the conversion of Gillian McKeith into a nutrition scientist, or of any of the present Labour cabinet into a human being.

You could doubtless get Blair to sign up to - well, anything, really: illegal invasion of a foreign country, suspension of habeus corpus for brown-skinned people who look at us funny, on-the-spot fines for covering any part of your head with any sort of textile whatsoever (cowboy hats and Mark Knopfler head-bands exempted), city academies... - and he'd be perfectly sincere about it, only in that particular way he has of being sincere that makes you want to drag sincerity round the back of the septic tanks and shoot it in the head. We like a challenge at the Institute, not conniving teachers' pets. Curing Blunkett of his priapism (and associated truncheon fetish), or David Milliband of himself - that sort of thing.

Well, enough. I remain unsure of the purpose of this blog - it came into the world title-first, like many good things (and most heavy metal bands formed by teenage boys: I recall myself and an accomplice wanting to name ourselves SAM, for either Surface-to-Air-Missile or - wait for it - Sheer Animal Magnetism), and now demands egregious ransom; but my hour is up, and I must to bed. Later...


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