Bugger Christmas!

Arse, shit, bugger

Christmas comes but once a year. Sadly it lasts 6 months

I hate bloody Christmas. Goodwill to all men? They can bugger orf. Most folk are irksome and  don’t magically become less so because of some pagan Yuletide festival. Let me be to contemplate the injustice of an insensate uncaring universe in the comfort of my book bestrewn study. In quiet moments of despair, I can sit in a darkened corner, coiled in the foetal position, gently rocking.

Bah humbug

There is a special place in hell reserved for those who erect the Christmas tree and bedeck their hovels with decorations in November. My place of work placed a large tree in the foyer two weeks ago. Last year it got nicked. I'm hoping for a repeat performance.  

Yo, blood ho............

Did I ever tell you I'm a miserable old curmudgeon bastard?

Magpie

                                  Let them eat cak 

Have you ever had an irresistible urge to eat something you shouldn't. I'm not talking about that extra slice of chocolate cake or the 'Big Kak, Mega Lard Burger'. I'm thinking non-standard food items, such as paint, soil or animal faeces. If so, take heart, as you are not alone. The ingestion of non-nutritious and unusual items is part of a condition called, Pica.

Pica is fairly standard behaviour in some animals. Domestic dogs are not only fond of rolling in animal dung but are also known to ingest faeces, either their own or other animal faeces found, fortuitously. Why they do this is a mystery especially as the average domestic hound is adequately nourished. Must be something in their dark evolutionary past. Behaviour which seems inexplicable to us is explicable to nature.    

Young children are curious concerning the environment they inhabit. Left to their own devices the under two squad will sample the delights of their immediate vicinity with relish and aplomb (steady Flaxen). Thus, soil, sand and the local fauna will end up endlessly masticated by dirt besmirched jaws. Strictly, this is not a manifestation of Pica, just bad parenting.

Pregnant women are known to crave certain food items such as pickles, spicy food or ice cream. Sometimes the foods are combined into unusual associations not  considered normal culinary fare. Why pregnant women have these, often intense, cravings is not really known. Some doctors postulate that it is driven by lack of minerals or vitamins but the evidence is lacking. Perhaps it is related to the hormone helter-skelter women experience during pregnancy? The honest answer is that we just don't know. Generally this sort of behaviour is not harmful if not carried to excess. Problems occur when pregnant woman crave  non-food items. Strangely, the most common substances ingested are dirt, mortar, laundry starch and clay. Eating compounds such as dirt and mortar can erode teeth and cause periodontal disease. Ingesting, unsterilised soil, straight from the veggie patch, has the additional risk of parasite infection. Generally the cravings disappear once the brat has escaped the womb.

 Intractable Pica is for adults who should know better and are not mad; not mutually exclusive. That said, Pica has recently been described as a mental disorder. Anything these days can be described as a mental disorder as long as you can find 'none mad' advocates who need to fund a lavish life-style; ain't dat the sad truth. And of course, we need to exclude 'inappropriate ingestion/indigestion' due to cultural reasons. As an aside, cultural Pica often has a very practical application. The ingestion of clay by certain African tribes is prudent if a catholic diet of the prevailing fauna is a necessity. Clay adsorbs toxins present in plants and aids digestion; break out the bicarbonate of soda and bismuth. Charcoal serves a similar role, although carcinogenic, allegedly. When rooting for subsistence, cancer/chancre is the least of your worries.

So, the watchword(s) be: not eat shit (literally and metaphorically); don't get pregnant; do not undergo childhood, under any circumstances and don't become mad unless you are wealthy enough to afford a good psychiatrist like the good Professor, Mugumbo: 230 Guineas an hour, not including rest breaks. Arse akimbo.

Shiny things.....

Ten things you didn't know about Kim un Jong and didn't want to ask Mr Patel at the corner shop

Who ate all da pies?

We all know Kim un Jong as the loveable, affable, glorious leader of the Democratic Republic of North Korea. But what do we know about the prodigy himself, really?  Often as I leave the 'Scrofula Arms', Tipton, on a Saturday night imbued with 17 pints of Banks best bitter, I'm accosted by sundry revellers who regale me with their lamentable deformities and once satiated, and replete, vocalise, thusly: "Flaxen, you big hairy inebriate and ferret fancier of renown. Why don't you un-lift the veil of enigma and  trepidation which shrouds the glorious nation of North Korea, in a miasma of gross turpitude. But specifically, we want to know more about the god/man (more god than man, mayhap?) that bestrides the nation like a bespoke colossus".

Frankly, after much discussion with my psychiatrist, Professor Defacto Mugumbo, I have decided to unload my insistent knowledge gained when incarcerated, as a guest, in Ping Pong's Mental Health and Indoctrination Centre, North Chorea. So here, in no definable order, is Flaxen Saxon's insight into the life of Kim un Yong.

1. Kim un Jong's haircut has been adopted as the only official haircut endorsed in North Korea. Hence, it only takes 20 minutes to train the average barber with template.

2. Kim un Jong is 6 foot 3 inches tall, but to express solidarity with his well nourished and beloved people he has insisted that all photos of himself should be taken at a jaunty angle which shows him represented as 4 foot 9 inches, thus in accord with the prevailing height of the average Northern Korean.

3.  North Korea is all about being healthy, slim and fit. Obesity has been officially banned. Few edicts have been followed with such universal fixation and dare I say it, aplomb. Although the glorious leader is the exception which proves the rule. Also, he is an acknowledged breatharian with a glandular problem.

4. Kim un Jong was manufactured fully formed and did not undergo gestational restriction as mere mortals experience. Henceforth any representation of Kim un Jung's belly button is a mere figmentation (not a real word) of photoshop enthusiasts.

5. Kim un Jong has never endorsed a nuclear programme in glorious North Korea. North Korea is rich in plutonium isotopes and all citizens are encouraged, at the point of a bayonet, to visit all North Korea's non-radioactive facilities to achieve that all round healthy tan and that all too fashionable, and in vogue disease, leukaemia. Cough. 

6. Kim un Jong encourages animal rights and has a particular interest in young succulent dogs. In accord with his wishes, da Glorious Leader has set up a pound for itinerant hounds serendipitously housed next to 'Mr Kim ate Chow's slaughterhouse, cum restaurant for party members not on the latest list to be executed by anti-aircraft gun fire. 

7. The Leader eschews alcohol and drugs of any description/prescription. His favourite beverage is a rum vodka mix with a hint of angostura bitters. Because of his unearthly metabolism, before he quaffs said elixir, the concoction turns to the sweetest spa water.      

8. Kim un Jong's favourite sport is skiing. He is a frequent and notorious participant on the piste. In his finer moments, he has been described as a: 'Slope on the slope, pissed'.     

9. The Leader's education was prolific and swift. Indeed, his absorption of knowledge was unequalled by any previous scholar. It is prophesied on the wind, that he has gained several degrees in woodwork, geography, social studies and physical education.   

10. The Leader leads a simple life as only a man allowed access to a poor countries' resources can be. The simple people are devoted to Kim un Jong, as are the military elite. The 'Kim' brand has merit and should be continued until lack of issue or impending political collapse evokes change. Anyway, the Generals with the broad hats are expected to be watching China, closely.  

      

Arse, big fat, arse.

Ode to a Weta

Weta of Doom

O Weta, where is thy sting,

It is in my arm pumping poison, with alacrity and aplomb.

O Wetta, how can you sting me through my very thick sweater?

You don’t have a sting, neither. 

Commentary

You will have to forgive the 'double negative' in the last line and put it down to 'poetic license'. To be honest, I struggled with the metre and medication.

I thought it necessary to comment on my little ditty in order to deflect censure and to provide context. Wetas are insects indigenous to New Zealand. They are found in a range of habitats and comprise about 70 distinct species. They are large, nasty looking, and mimic the disconcerting habitus of a cockroach. They are bereft of sting, but the largest of the species can give a nasty nip. My ferret, Shagger, chomps on them with relish- at least it keeps him away from the native birds such as the Kiwi. "What's that, Shagger? You eat the Kiwis as well, but only when I'm distracted by shiny things". That will explain why I keep finding feathers in my duvet. Bad ferret! No small kibble for you tonight. Your punishment: I shall release you into the bush. There you can contemplate your folly and seek repentance. Also, I need a few more feathers for my pillow.  

Little known fact: In Maori, 'Weta' means- 'fat arsed cockroach'.       Arse

Schizophrenia

Homer's interpretation of the famous painting: 'The Meme"

Next week I'm giving a presentation to my peers, entitled: 'The Genetics of Schizophrenia'. The topic itself is fascinating to me and not only because of the scientific content. As you may know, there is a large heritable component to schizophrenia and as much as 80% of the liability contributing to the disorder is genetic. Schizophrenia segregates in my family. My mother has been afflicted with paranoid schizophrenia throughout most of her adult life. This has, and continues to have, a profound impact on her life. She has been sectioned on four occasions. The last time, two years ago, she spent 10 months in a secure mental health unit. I was aware of my mother's diagnosis from a relatively early age. My father, when alive, managed my mother's condition with skill and compassion. Only once during his watch was my mother incarcerated and that was when she was first diagnosed. 

Behavioural conditions are hard to define from a genetic perspective. Many interacting genes are involved and there is usually an environmental component or trigger. Furthermore, our response to environmental ‘factors’ is very much conditioned by our genetic makeup –thus adding another layer of complexity to an already labyrinthine situation. And then, there are epigenetic phenomena to contend with.......  

We are in our infancy concerning the genetic factors involved although several hundred genes have been implicated in schizophrenia. Furthermore, epigenetic changes are also involved. When I was at 'Big school' I was taught the 'Central Dogma Theory'. Basically, this states that genetic information flows in one direction only, from DNA, to RNA, to protein. This means that genetic changes are inviolate from environmental influence. To think otherwise was heretical and akin to the discarded theory of Lamarckism. I've added a link if you would like to know more about this fascinating pre-evolutionary theory. However, relatively recently it has been shown that environmental factors can influence gene expression by a mechanism called 'epigenetic transformation'. Thus, environmental insults can change gene expression, not by mutation within the gene, but by altering DNA conformation or by adding methyl groups to gene promoters. Thus, genes are ‘switched off or on’ according to environmental whim (not really). Clearly, the foetus, and especially the early gestational foetus, is highly responsive to environment changes mediated through the mother. Apart from this 'direct' influence, environmental changes can result in epigenetic changes which alter gene expression in the developing foetus. These changes can have profound affects on the developing baby which often continue to take hold throughout adult life. Moreover, once a ‘genetic imprint’ is achieved, it can be passed down the generations. Many of these changes we would consider maladaptive, especially when they are the consequence of extreme maternal stress or distress. Epigenetic changes, from an evolutionary perspective, are actually adaptive and enable organisms to cope with situations, which otherwise, might result in foetal demise.      

Being mad is not all bad news. It has been recognised for a long time that mental illness is associated with creativity and dare I say it, 'genius'. Aristotle, the famed ancient Greek philosopher of the 4th century BC had this to say: "Why is it that all those who have become preeminent in politics or poetry or art are clearly melancholics." But it is only in the past couple of years that we have been able to place this anecdotal observation on a firm scientific footing. Genetic factors predisposing to schizophrenia have been found to be enriched in folk of an 'artistic bent' compared to non-histrionic folk. And conversely, scientists have less of these predisposing factors compared to the general population. Make of this data, what you will.     

Schizophrenics, especially when in the throes of acute florid episodes are subject to delusions. During such periods my mother has several very strong delusions and often recurrent delusions. One delusion stands out. She believes that scientists are conducting experiments on her mind, remotely. When my mother is well all the delusions melt away, except one. We were chatting last week and during the conversation she casually announced: 'The Scientists' had been conducting experiments on her the previous night. Generally I don't comment. This delusion has been persistent for many years and no matter what I say, it remains undiminished. However, on this occasion I pointed out the obvious, as I've done many times, previously. She looked me straight in the eye and said: "But my dear Flaxen (not my real name) you would say that, wouldn't you? You are the 'Head Scientist' supervising the experiments".........             Arse

Pareidolia revisited

I see smelly people. No Flaxen, that's called synesthesia. Stop being a twat. 

My mind is particularly adept at recognising coherent patterns in stuff. Tis a gift and a curse and most distracting when I'm trying to do sensible shit, and stuff. If you say, God then the education system has failed you, woefully.

Apparently this is a horse after its hind end got stuck in a meat grinder. Wings obviously got caught as well. If you look carefully you can see the trail of intestines, blood and gore.

Regard and see an infarct in the brain stem- honestly tis not my nan. Mayhap an aberration in the cerebral cortex. Arse.

No points for picking out Mother Teresa from amongst da craters.

Yep, he gets everywhere. He is omnisausage, after all.

Da Poppa practising for da after life. It only hurts until the nerves burn away. After that, it is all about the muscle contractures- ask the monks.

I see ferrets, everywhere.........

Prince Shagger is not amused

'Shagger the ferret' dressing up as Prinz Barrington

Wonderful emancipating news emanating from the be-speckled bestrewn, charming metropolitan district of North Tipton. It has just been announced that Prince Barry and his delightful consort, Princess Kylie, will make their inaugural visit to Tipton town next Michaelmas Eve. The incumbent Mayor, Baby, Baby Doc Vowel, is said to be beside himself with rapture and has commemorated the impending event by drawing a horsey in crayon, festooned and resplendent with a jauntily placed crown.

The royal doublet will be protected throughout the visit by the depleted Tipton police force armed with sticks with a nail through the end. Special force sniffer ferrets will ferret through the impending venues with suitable aplomb. Police Commissioner, Mr Officious Mugumbo, had this to say when sober : “It is incumbent on me as the Police Commissioner of this prestigious and well-appointed community to ensure that the royal heirs are afforded protection as befits my station as they gaily enjoy unfettered, and in the case of Princess Kylie, unbridled access to our urbane  sprawl.”

There is mounting concern that the royal visit may spark an outrage from various disgruntled fraternal organisations, such as the aptly named, Tipton Sewing Circle (TSC) and the North Dudley Organisation for the Advancement of Crochet (NDOAC). Both organisations feel slighted as their recent applications for a ‘Royal Charter’ have been rejected on the gainsay of Prince Barry. There is no love lost between these respective organisations either. It is only a decade ago that the TSC and NDOAC vied for control of the lucrative bodkin outlets. Many  TSC members were stitched up, ‘like a kipper’. Others were rushed to Tipton Royal Infirmary suffering from a severe case of the ‘vapours’ after having their bustles and gussets ruffled by rival seamstresses.

During their visit, the royal duo will sample all the delights Tipton has to offer. The itinerary includes a  tour of the glue factory followed by a saunter to the adjacent and strategically placed home for knackered nags. Princess Kylie has a particular interest in the welfare of our equine friends as she has an uncanny resemblance to a haggard old hinny. The culmination of the trip will involve the couplet being whisked orf in a private jet generously provided for by the tax burdened burghers of Tipton. Arse crinkle.

On hearing of the impending visit Mrs Ida Giveafuck, had this to say: “Why don’t they just fuck off and visit Dudley instead.

Wise words Mrs Giveafuck, wise words, indeed……       

Mrs Giveafuck