Tor and Cease

Ever had that feeling? You know, the one you get when someone tells you it’s raining but the flow seems altogether too warm, uni-directional and targeted to be a natural phenomenon? I get that feeling a lot these days, and no more so than when I exited the train on the commute home this evening. The Arriva trains snacks and refreshments trolley was positioned just opposite the door and my desire to purloin a bag of peanuts and make good my escape was derailed not so much by the sudden appearance of a member of staff but by the sign that hung from it. The lofty injunction on it read ‘Give peas a chance’, and after a brief pause to emit a derisory snort I disembarked thinking “Honestly, what’s an opportunist thief supposed to do these days?”

I have a cast iron stomach, but even so I walked away feeling a little bit queasy. Prompt action was required to save the day, so I girded my loins and headed straight for the nearest purveyor of tuna and jalapeno pizza.

It was absolutely delicious and worked like a charm! How I summoned up the will power to save a slice for breakfast I’ll never know. Anyway, now that my belly is full it occurs to me that I’ve heard this ‘Give peas a chance’ mantra somewhere before.

Yep, that moment in your relationship when you realise that staying together forever might not be such a good idea after all. You know, when it’s all been said before and passing comment on your partner’s culinary proficiency (or lack thereof) is as good as it gets.

Heard it somewhere else too. Back in 2003 at the Jessica Hyde Park anti-war rally, when his Reverence Michael Jackson took to the stage.

His attempt to rouse the audience to join him in a ‘Give peas a chance’ enchantation met with a lukewarm response. It was altogether too queasy for the British palate. A slice or two of Americana is one thing, an eXisTenz diet of the stuff quite another. The simple fact of the matter is this: if you want a really good slice of cheese pizza then you’ve really gotta go see the Italian.

That pistol reminds me of my original point.

Meanwhile, let’s not forget that Reverence Jackson is blowing bubbles under the sea.

Better to give than receive? I reckon so. Here’s a suggestion for a future touch-teaching t.A.T.u.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m really not interested in what the ‘us’ has to offer provided it accepts that the ‘I’ has slightly different appetites.

Some ‘random’ snippets flayed back to me by the walking-talking surveillance units passing as my ‘colleagues’.

I wanna create a program that stays the same and sorts its own problems out.
I printed it back off its own copy.
It depends which program you’re in, because they all behave differently.
We’re running the project and we can’t see any of our own documents.
I deleted my account and created a new one because it seemed to be in some kind of loop.
The machine they’re using for the catalogue…
He won’t want to keep it, will he?

I can add to that this mornings instruction to the bio-robots (issued by a local radio station) to call in all sightings of ‘the story writing thing’, under the pretext of reporting traffic problems to the Colossus of Randy Rhodes. Again I ask: what’s the point?

I fucked up? Really? Mike wasn’t quite so smug once he finally woke up to legal’s behind-the-scenes shenanigans, was he?

I’ve had enough of your money, Senator. Leave me be. Leave Wales be.

Fucking Blade Runner and VALIS.

He’s worked out there’s nothing in this for him…

We seemed to have moved into the realm of solids. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of a sing-song round the campfire?

Wow, who’d have guessed?

Final surveillance recording replayed through the mouth of an avatar shortly before clocking off today. The context was a discussion about parent-child relationships in a database.

The sequel is shit.

Here’s why.

This person doesn’t need a parent. They ended up being the parent of themselves.