Monday, June 30, 2008

a mice slate ard ri: literary dogging and BB

Hacks being appalled at the Taste their rivals display, was de rigeur online last week, and guardian books bloke editor...brave chief literary dogger Claire Armistead, a deluded mother of two, gave a heartfelt plea and plammy dressing down to all the anonymous ppl who say appalling things, trying to convince this misty fictional bunch paranoia creates, to change their ways, and stop saying stuff they

...know in their heart of hearts they shouldn't"

her neo communist convictions and brave handling of a persecution complex, affiliating in plastic tenors with -- what used to be called -- the working Class: and this is the dizzy moo'er and intellectual demonstrating her tragically genuine proofs of not being the brightest; not like if

"you're a number on a Home Office deportation list it isn't. Not if you're waiting to be allocated a council house." like me yah, or rather, my cleaner who i am basing my next volume of poems around, speaking, if not her voice, using the experience of being privileged enough to have Magztanyah working for me...and when i say working, that makes it sound as if i am a typical lower to mid middle Class, status, pecking order, rep, slot and Honour, award, prize, Judge obsessed grader of others not *we* Royal wannabes more than creative writer, and mother expectant of bauble, cbe, and oh, not having any real exciting mental activity going on in my own head, go for the second hand approach, of speaking up on behalf of the oppressed people, for you my Public audience.

Before i started working on the blokes bog, in sacred pooh HQ, for the GU lagtic federation of untalented fabstazi broods of foaming vixens, who speak up on behalf of they who need humanitarian and civilising verbal assistance in order to make me feel good about myself -- in the absence of real Intellectual fireworks and any long term Poetic critical construction, framework on, from and within which a writer can pontificate, appalled at the Taste of others...

...recently Armistead revealed she targeted an anonymous writer who contributed to an in house (failed) publication on the hell of being a mum to teenagers, by checking what info she had against maps of and narrowing down the mother of nightmare teens the Guardian love to fpcus on so the leader writers can strike the fuax marxist pose in print, detach for a day of ranting the world to rights...and the literary editor armistead, set about trying to physically locate her, wanting only to speak to this total stranger (who it turned out had made up her diary, sensationalised her account) face to face...which in another context, fellow doggers at the lamp post, can contextualise, as stalking -- appallingly tacky and seemingly ignorant of all irony her Taste displays --- and with no fundamental grasp of reality, this trash lit bore's never gonna staple on...i fear.

Read yah, her type of finkin, their commentator's truth, adepts in a Higher intellectual Artistic stazi of disgruntled rich idlers,

" know, it is all very well and good ranting, on what one perceives as injustices -- in the case of this lightweight thinker's immensely convoluted metaphors reliant on ephemeral knowledge of fleeting pointless fellow colleague-ranters' names, pointless fellow shoe ins on the bb, from common room to idle dogging on the blogg, as part of a brave new deluded class of pretend Intellectuals, who are only truly interesting, when not competing in the good aul jolly dogging.

Shirley Dent, Toynbee, Fiona Looney, Carol Malone, Anne Robinson, Hell Clinton, all Woman i do not need to read to know, are overpaid gobs spouting negative bollix, and after yrs of daily practice telling their silent void what is good for it, the polly Public which exists in one hack head alone, and prior to the net, not a voice of reason, but a singular human being, with an opinion on everything, often vicious, like the two H's younger and elder, both horrid, whingey gits, what do they do? are they fortune tellers, what's their track record as a prophet?

Public, thats Us ppl, each Unique and the gift of the net, one can learn in a way unique and in which one need not sacrifice the s/he principle, that We are all single Minds, alone and it is Hope which leads to optimism, which leads to confidence, which leads to belief, freedom democracy, all the Good civilisation...

...but ranting away as this, is a self fulfilling prophecy. If a writer only ever moans in print, after a few yrs, well, peter hitch, any number of vicious vixens, the Malones, the horrid totally bad natured cackler in the irish (yah) daily Mail whose mugshot alone tells us she revels in being a vicious, trully disgruntled professional Mum, dogging trash lit Opinion, bunches of ppl who all have good jobs that pay very well and take expensive jaunts, travel around the place in nice motors, and moan about everything in their life..

i live in a bedsit and am very very happy, on state bens, and i do not moan with the bile and bitterness these broomstick users hagging in print's dead easy, write unhappy, stay unhappy, write happy, get happier until you are so far above the whiner/s one can but dance in comedic light and Human warmth, the quality s/he can aim for, as equal as s/he can go for the absence of it, fifty fifty, our Will controls what appears in print and if it is always about how Bad the world is coz some middle aged looks obsessed dreary Woman as professional construct

s/he trapped in female flesh, rants how some millionaire younger rival in the physical appearance dept, should be gassed and tortured for setting the wrong example to the bitter old bags parish of *young* ppl, as if s/he the Looney, Fiona doing all but showing her nickers and stripping off in rage, is the worlds foremost expert on everything from celebrity shopping and regular first class travel and holidaying advice, to going totally green in that particular kind of hack way, which says, do as i say, not as i do, as i am more humanly Important than ooh yah you, graded intellectually by an overpaid droning blokey pro career Woman in psychic drag...

utter trolls,

gra agus Pax dans siochainn

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