In Two Thousand One and Three a Cenobite I Should Turn to Be

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 20/06/2012

ndeed, I shall leave it a year. Watching the Olympics in a low key fashion might be rather difficult with nail and cheese wire impediments.

And then, in 2013, two thousand one and three, I shall seek out the Lament Configuration Puzzle Box and run inquisitive fingers over it's strange symbolic engravings, as the sky greys to black and sinisters coloured bolts of energy course along its structure.

And then, shall meddling open the box, and I will taken away from here, taken away from a world of drudgery and tedium, low paid humilation at the hand of low-bred in-breds, and taken to a world where “Pain and Pleasure are Combined”. My skin flayed, nails hacked out and my blood replaced by an agonising preserving re-animating fluid, full of parasites to perpetually stimulate the evil centre of my brain and eat away at the good.

And in a year, pvc clad and looking rather different of face and denture, I shall return and Lo! Shall all my life's irritants shall feel rusty chains rip through their plebeian flesh! But although, Cenobitically enhanced I may be, the more louche aspects of my ensavaged personality remain – and I shall drink Cuba Libras and Caparinhas with one hand, smoke Sobranie with the other into lungs pulled apart by rusty wire; all while kicking an enemy in the face with a spined boot, piercing cheek flesh again and again and again.

And then I shall listen to the Velvet Underground and crank out chirpy bon-mots such as “Your sole...my pleasure” and “The road of pain is a less travelled one, but as you can see the journey is worth it” to some dotty American 19 year old who repeatedly refuses to tell their arse from their elbow.

And I shall attract acolytes, and followers ignorant of the true extent of my powers, and so shall statues be made of me. Worship me if you will, but remember to always quake in fear.

My boots trample the still quivering dead. Is my life so far gone that this future seems preferable to anything else. I shall tell you later.

In two thousand one and three.

Soul-less Sci Fi

I hate CGI and shiny surfaces; films sculpted out a block of marbled perfection, road tested by preview audience robots.

This is not the sccience fiction creation I aspire to.

I like rubber and latex suits where you can see the zip up the back, I like models where you can see the dinky drilled holes and the hairdryer parts and cannibalised airfix model kits.

I like planets with stupid names and pinky orange matte painted skies; where the mad scientist holds court amidst the fearsome buzz of Tesla Coils and robots menace damsels with heads made of an anglepoise lamp. I like rubber rocks being thrown, I like the papery thwack of collapsing polystyrene sets.

I like spaceships that look like breasts or phalluses with a November 5th sparkler providing the propulsion; I like craft with pointless wings in the unforgiving vacuum of space that emit sounds that you shouldn't hear in the void.

I like creatures that are tentacled entities of frightening antipathy towards the human race; or the occasional interplanetary policeman telling us to stop fucking about with atomic weapons especially if they have massive foreheads and strange hair.

I like grit. I like dirt. I like being able to see the fucking join. I like mistakes, failure and fun. I like being entertained.

And in modern sci fi, I get dazzled. And more often than not, I get bored.

Hard On for Trailers

An obsession about trailers is the same as any other fetish really...

There is no difference between the fanboy sweating and getting hot at the latest Prometheus trailer and the man watching an amply sized woman crushing bananas down her cleavage. The kid looking for details upon Batman's new cape is the same as the man who peers intently at the speculumned delicates of his lady love as she rides a shiny set of medical stirrups.

I gave up on it. I got vaguely excited at the Prometheus trailers in a follow-the-herd sort of way, then after the first one wondered why I was bothering...if I want to see the film, I'll see the bloody film, not analyse frame frame by tedious frame some 60 second snippet of it product placing its way into your psyche.

I don't recall the Harry Potter books being read out on the radio, random page by random page, still less anyone getting excited about it. Watch the movies people, don't give in to the endless hype machine of squid-enema-medical-eyeball licking-furry playing trailer porn.

Its getting boring.