The Man Who Murdered God

Inspiration can strike at the most unexpected times. Today I woke up with a most peculiar thought. I’m not sure if it was a residual echo from a forgotten dream or simply the result of my atheist brain. Whatever the case, here’s the thought I couldn’t seem to shake:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him.

You may disagree, but I think that sounds like a really juicy opening line to a novel. And given that the thought keeps pestering me, prodding and poking my brain like an attention starved child, I’ve decided to nurture it. Yes, I’m going to attempt to write a novel about murdering God. This may very well be a total waste of time; a self indulgent exercise by yet another aspiring novelist. However, there’s a chance – an infinitesimally slim chance, yes, but don’t stop me ‘cos I’m on a roll! - that it could be the best opener to a book since Tolkien scribbled the words “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit”.

Tolkien, of course, had no idea what the sentence meant. He had never heard of “hobbits” and hadn’t the foggiest idea what a hobbit was. And yet it spawned the greatest mythology of all time. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, right?

So, here’s my opening paragraph. Let me know what you think:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him. And before you accuse me of plagiarising Friedrich ‘God is dead’ Nietzsche, let me make myself crystal clear: I stabbed God in the chest with a kitchen knife. I heard the last breath come wheezing from His punctured lung.

The Beauty Of Bordeom

I’m bored. So very bored. A profound existential boredom that’s corroding my very soul. The monotony, the routine, the grey calendar of existence, the blah blah blah more boring words, BORED!

I’d like to share a quote - taken from The Dice Man - that captures exactly how I feel:

Life is islands of ecstasy in an ocean of ennui, and after the age of thirty land is seldom seen. At best we wander from one much-worn sandbar to the next, soon familiar with each grain of sand we see.

I’m drowning in an ocean of ennui. And the closest I’ve come to a cure is HBO. Yes, Home Box Office, the American cable network. HBO offers some of the highest quality escapism there is. The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Boardwalk Empire, Band Of Brothers – in other words some of the best TV ever made. All wonderful, all offering momentary respite from the grinding reality of life. But once you’re done watching The Pacific DVD boxset, what then?

What other brightly coloured baubles are there to distract us from our slow inevitable slide into the grave? Books, movies, sex, food, videogames, holidays, porn, booze, music, clubs, work, facebook, youtube, twitter, blogs, stupid pointless blogs that no fucker wants to read, especially when that blog pisses and moans about what is possibly the most boring subject known to man: BOREDOM.

Maddening circularity. Familiarity that breeds contempt. Knowing too, that others have articulated this age old battle with boredom better than I ever could - Nietzsche, Camus, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, to name a few. The helpless realisation that the more you learn, the more aware you are of your own ignorance, and the equally sickening epiphany that life is simply too short to do much about it, to even scratch the surface.

Knowing that there’ll always be someone better than you, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you sweat and toil and fret over a personal undertaking, there’ll always be someone who’ll undermine your effort.

And secretly, perversely, enjoying the fucked-up pointlessness of it all. The helpless frustration, the ridiculous unbearable boredom. Somehow there’s a freedom in it.

And that is why I am lost.

Mid Morning Matters with Alan Partridge

Can someone please tell me why Alan Partridge's Mid Morning Matters is sponsered by Fosters? Everyone knows it should have been Tonic Water...with some ice...and a segment of lemon...and topped up with some Gordon's Gin. Followed by a pint of lager and a shot of Baileys. Ah, Ladyboys.

Frankie Boyle On Bromley

Just finished reading Frankie Boyle's autobiography, My Shit Life So Far. Yes I know, only cunts read the autobiographies of panel show contestants, a point Frankie himself raises in the Introduction.

Anyway, in his book Frankie describes the time he spent in Bromley. This struck a chord with me because I've lived in Bromley all my life.

Basically, if you ever have to go there and you really can't get out of it, kill yourself. I'd kill myself if I had to change trains there. Nobody between the ages of 18 and 30 lives there; only the occasional acid casualty living with their parents will have failed to get the fuck out at the first opportunity. It's so incredibly nondescript that I would feel foolish trying to describe it. Avoid.

He's right too. Steer well clear.

Andy Milonakis - Gazpacho EP Mixtape

How John Steinbeck Inspired Bill Hicks

Like all devoted followers of Hicks, I'm constantly on the lookout for titbits of information that’ll help shed light on the man behind the stand up. To date, Love All The People – a comprehensive collection of Bill Hicks’ letters, lyrics and stand up routines – is the closest I’ve come to viewing the world through his eyes.

After I’d watched his entire DVD collection, listened to all his albums and trawled Youtube for obscure interviews and club performances, I stopped looking. Surely there was nothing left to discover. And then along came American – The Bill Hicks Story.

It's worth buying the DVD for the bonus content alone. The extensive interviews with Bill's family and friends are both sweet and insightful. Did you know, for example, that Bill's last ever written words were inspired by John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath? No, me niether.

It's Bill's favourite book. Compelled by a voyeurisitc urge to crawl inside Bill's brain, I too read the book. I wanted to see if I could locate the exact passage that Bill Hicks fell in love with.

And, by golly, I think I found it…

I left in love, in laughter, and in truth and wherever truth, love and laughter abide, I am there in spirit.
Bill Hicks' last written words

I'll be ever'where - wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there ... I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an' - I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build - why, I'll be there.
Tom Joad - The Grapes Of Wrath

Parky’s Petulant Shit-flinging

Sir Michael Parkinson, CBE. What a sanctimonious old tit.

The silver haired misery guts decided to get all huffy about Russell Brand’s sashgate ‘scandal’ a full two years after the incident actually took place. His sulky disapproval was made public in his appearance on Paul O’Grady’s chat show. Russell Brand, also a guest on the show, was accused by Parkinson of having acted ‘daft’. Like an angry headmaster scolding a child he demanded to know ‘what’s funny about it?’

Parky’s petulant shit-flinging continued with his appearance on Five Live where he labelled Brand ‘pointless, artless, unfunny and creatively dull’. By aligning himself with the joyless, hate-fuelled Daily Mail mob, Parky has nailed his colours to the mast.

What really makes my cock weep blood is how the retired chat show host never misses an opportunity to remind us of his journalistic roots. Objectivity, detachment, research – all the hallmarks of good traditional journalism and all completely ignored by Parkinson in his dogged quest to slur Brand. Perhaps if Parky were to remove his head from his arse and venture outside his opulent palace of splendour from time to time he’d notice that Brand is one of the most unique and gifted comedians this country has ever produced.

The sickly sweet sycophancy that characterised Parkinson’s interviews became increasingly contrived and unpalatable as the years passed by. Thankfully they are no more. Less to be thankful about is Parkinson’s lack of direction. Without an endless supply of celebrity colon to climb up Parky has resorted to petty name calling. For Christ’s sake someone give the man another chat show, some grotty cable channel will suffice, if only to keep his clumsy mouth occupied. Senility will take care of the rest.