Missing in Action - A.W.O.L - Vamoosed!

Another protracted absence from these virtual walls! And what excuses are to be offered this time for the s T o n E D h o L y B L o G G e R  posting AWOL? What are to be the mitigating circumstances that shall absolve this latest dereliction of my blogging duty?

Gouranga, my arse!

I could have, like Muddy Waters before me, found religion : only to lose it again after these few short months of handclaps and fingerbells as I ambled, sandal-shod, with my happy cohort of robe wearing fellow-believers, along a host of miserable and financially exhausted British High Streets. Could anything else, I ask you, scotch the fires of religious devotion and dampen the spirits of proselytising zeal more quickly than trudging through the rain soaked, pedestrianised main drags of 'Broken Britain' - filled, as they are, with fat people in sportswear eating hamburgers and tangerine coloured young ladies clutching Primark bags! Indeed, what other salutary lesson could convince you that it was, indeed, exactly how the Black Atheists have been saying all along - a Vast Godless Universe! Oh, such such humdrum emptiness! Or, perhaps, it occurs to me, that if a Supreme Creator was to be conceded, he could in no way be counted as benevolent! It could be contested that the Supreme Transmuter of Air into Dust & Fire into Water had simply forgotten all about us. Perhaps we were one of his early works, created in his world forming apprenticeship, wholly lacking the finesse and elegance of later worlds he called forth from the cosmic maelstrom! Sadly, it's not ours to know...but meanwhile the smell of chicken goujons and the promise of a few moments more of diversion tempts many a wearisome shopper to dig into their pockets and put such considerations to the back of their spongy uninformed minds!

Hup 2-3-4...you 'orrible bunch of poofters!

Perhaps it is I could have enlisted. Popped the flamboyant Stoned Holy Autograph (which, if there was but a scrap of justice in this Pop Slop World, I should have been scrawling on the eagerly presented, heaving bosoms of Divine Pop Poppettes) on the dotted line and took the King's Shilling!  As you mugs have laboured long these past months at your soul sapping job or frittered away precious hours buffing the bonnets and endlessly valeting the interiors of your little metal boxes on rubber wheels, I have been forging bonds, real bonds, manly bonds, with my tattooed bunch of Boneheads, Bruisers, Blockheads & Bampots!!  We have yomped together. Crawled through shit together. We have pulled latrine duty together. We have stuck out our chests and pretended we were hard men. We have lied about the birds we have been with. To plug the want of a meaningful or rewarding relationship in our lives, we have substituted the emotionally stunted world of the playground bully and banter, liberally laced with epithets belittling men & denigrating women! We have marched as one up then down then round the parade square as the R.S.M called us a bunch of Cock-Guzzling Sissies & Mummy's Boys! We have retreated to the barracks to polish things that were already shining brightly. And later we have consumed shit lager till we puked and then drank some more! If you have dreamed recently of breaking free of computer porn, endless hours of 'Call of Duty' and eating cold pizza for breakfast whilst watching 'Homes Under the Hammer', and this litany of stunted macho pretence appeals, then the s t O n E D H o L y b L O g g E R says get your wobbling bubble butt out of that reclining armchair and haul it down to the nearest recruiting office! But look not for the S T O n E d H O L y b L O G G e R , for, verily, he shall not be there. Not today. Not Never!
For the  S T o N e D h o l Y B l o g G E r is still a snarling Punk Rock Dog who remembers well the febrile energy of Crass at the Sheffield Leadmill shouting 'Fight War, Not Wars' and The Plastic Ono Band saying 'I Don't Wanna Be A Soldier, Mama. I Don't Wanna Die'. So enjoy yir 'Hup-2-3-4' but count me out!

So, perchance it is that I have joined the Freemasons and eschewed social interactions with any but my apron wearing brethren. Improbable, yes, yet l have stood like a total fukn eejit with my left nipple exposed and one trouser leg rolled up listening to pseudo-religious gibberish and reciting mumbo-jumbo just so l can enjoy a subsidised bar bill and intimate conversations with my bank manager. To be fair, l have now skirted the periphery of several conversations involving members of the Royal Family and some senior coppers! I now know who allowed the cigar puffing, shell-suited Golem that was Jimmy fukn Saville to podger his way through several hospital wards and spend the occasional hour or two entertaining himself in the morgue! And, oh yes, I also now know the whereabouts of Geoffrey Dickens' Paedophile Dossier that was, oops, mislaid by top Thatcherite bumsniffer Leon Britten! On the other hand, those tete-a-tetes with my bank manager mentioned earlier are as dull as dirty dish water...and I don't really care for golf! And so, though the appeal of wearing a sash, an apron and white gloves whilst you fuck goats is obvious, I have not passed through the delphic portals of the Lodge. Nor have I stuck my todger in a dead pig's mouth. But, hey....never say never!

such a colourful bunch of characters!

No, friends, the real reason l have been remiss in posting on these Virtual Walls is 'ah couldnae really be fussed.' I have been compelled to issue forth from the House of Worship that is StonedHolyHQ to earn a crust by means of brain & brawn and returned to drink porter and watch Scandi-Noir. The scant days have fallen like grains of granulated sugar through the pudgy fingers of an overweight diabetic. Or, if you prefer, like time-worn parchment in the witless and brutish hands of a future race of proto-simians which shall rise from the shitpile of civilisation as we know it, once we've allowed the A-Grade morons who control us to finally flush us all down the stinking toiletbowl of history!

Hell, I know it's only Rawk n Roll

...but I like it! 

See yuz soon, you miserable lot! 

Toxic Emissions & Tragic Erections!!

Perchance, in one of these Parallel Universes that we are informed could be out there, I am currently in the company of a voluptuous lady with corkscrew curls who rehabilitates orphaned dolphins and we are planning our 'togetherness ceremony' in the Maldives! Or, perchance in another my musical strivings have, not only been recognised, but validated too and I am currently recording my fifteenth studio album - a celebration of the 13th Floor Elevators using only baroque instrumentation!

Sadly, in the miserable, Pile-Of-Keek Universe I actually get to drag my sorry Stoned Holy Derriere around in, neither of the above are true! Consequently, I am forced to do other things to escape the Hellhound on ma Trail. And so it was I found myself reading the newspaper. For one such as the S T O n E d h o L y b L o g g e R and his sense of moral repugnance and righteous indignation with so much of the sorrowful doings of much of his brethren, this is always a mistake! Spare me the cack-psychology ; of course I know I do it deliberately! In the want of something real in my failed pop-slop life I have no option but to touch the burning coals or stir up some gut-churning bout of dyspepsia to distract me from my own lamentable failure to prosper in the world!

And thus it was I read of one Gideon George Osbourne, our soullessly dogmatic and mathematically inept Chancellor of the Exchequer. A man, who, it must be seen, has 'done no' too bad' in this world! Of course, he did have a rather privileged headstart on the rest of us...but Daddy must be so proud!

But, Oh, Brave New World, that has such people in it!! Just where do you start with a disgusting little shadow of a man like Osborne?! "Britain' according to this pitifully malformed excuse for a human being 'has got its mojo back" after bombing Syria!!

Leaving aside the ridiculous idea that this fucking abortion thinks he can, or could ever, speak for Britain, someone needs to tell him that Britain is an abstract noun and doesn't actually exist...except in the minds of men. Men like him! Men like him, emotionally wounded in childhood. Men like him who were schooled by a crippling and deforming lack of love and affection. Men like him who are sociopaths and don't know how to feel, don't know how to empathise, can't begin to imagine what it must be like for death and terror to fall out of the sky and destroy your family, your home, your community. your world, your life!! No, Mr. Osborne, Britain does not, cannot possibly have, a mojo, or anyfuckingthing else for that matter, because Britain is a WORD!! A word used by grotesque little creeps like YOU and those like you to aggrandise the sordid little schemes and constructs they fill their time with. Why, oh why, can these twisted, failed human mutants simply not FUCK OFF and leave the rest of us alone??!! Why can't Osborne take his wallpaper millions and piss off to somewhere in the world where he can debase himself?  He must, after all, have some seriously debased sexual fantasies swirling around in the oozing putrescence that passes for a brain inside his skull seeing as he's so clearly turned on by the thoughts of Britain's big powerful bombs doing damage in Syria! You can perfectly imagine the shrivelled little Osborne root stirring itself into life at the thought of those bombs dropping. British bombs! Precision bombs! His bombs! Mojo bombs...oh, yeah, baby!!

And, another thing, where the fuck does this nauseating walking turd of a man get off using words like 'mojo', anyway?!  Let's get this straight, it would not have mattered what words he used because what he said was despicable, hateful, pompous, glib & perverted....but to use the language of voodoo and the blues??!! Puh-leeeze!! It sent a distinctly icy shiver down the Stoned Holy Spinebone! The language of Lightning Hopkins & Muddy Waters does not fit easily into the mouth of some Eton educated posh boy glorying in death & destruction!! Mr.Osborne, I'll wager, couldn't tell you what a mojo was in a month of Sundays....or the time it takes a plane to cover the distance between Britain and Syria!

Enough! Man, this vitriol is eating me up....ah need the healing power of Blues to lift my weary, troubled soul! Maybeez ah'll go down to Louisiana and get myself a Mojo-Hand...gonna put some Black Cat Bone and some John the Conquer Root into my Trick-Bag.......douse the lot in Van Van Oil.....got me some Graveyard Dirt and some Goofer Dust.... and now ahm gonna start pushin' pins into a little wax maquette of Gideon George Osborne!!!