Bitch on the Blog

May 22, 2018

Clive, well known

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,Communication,HumoUr — bitchontheblog @ 09:49
Tags: , , ,

And I thought I’d finally been able to put my Alternative Comment Box to rest. Alas those who complain about me the loudest and give me no room at their assorted blogging inns are the very ones who’ll keep it alive, come peace or high water. I suppose entertainment comes in many guises.

Yesterday, in one of my idle water cooler moments, I strolled over to spineless Nick’s blog. He proudly claims, what a man, that I do give his blog “a wide berth”. As achievements go I wouldn’t spout it from the roof tops, Nick. Doesn’t look good on your blogging CV.

On the whole I can take any blemish in anyone but backbone is a basic requirement to keep my interest afloat. Yes, so berth or not, my sail took me into Nick’s still backwater. To be fair, his blog does have some use. Mainly to amuse me for all the wrong reasons. And I wasn’t disappointed. Among comments left in reply to his last post you will find the following nugget:

“… PS one final remark – I’m only here because I picked up on some bizarre drama around a person with mental health issues on a bullying campaign to you and various other bloggers mainly from UK. I’ve had a good mooch around and all I can find is a wind-up fake account channeling through the title bitch on the blog. Which I think is being put out by a man called Clive who is well known and across the www for identical scam / troll like activities….”

So far so funny. Call me Clive. Well known. And beware; considering my “mental health issues” that some bloggers are so eager to speculate about, nay diagnose long distance, I’d be careful: Ever thought about which place offers itself to bury the hatchet some think I carry? 🙂 Don’t worry. There are limits as to what I sacrifice to low life. Time, yes. Prison and my conscience plaguing me? No. Instead I leave members of my fan club to shooting themselves in the foot. That’s why they barely have a leg left to stand on.

So, there I was, caged in by my mental health issues, trying to locate the hatchet so I can bury it, chuckling away at that priceless comment, the suspense of waiting for spineless Nick’s reply to the above comment sweetly killing me.

I made a bet with myself since there were only three ways it could go: Either Nick would take the comment seriously and agree, take the comment seriously and defend my honour, or take it for what I believe it to be, namely a bit of fun. My money was on Nick taking the comment seriously – because his imagination does have narrow limits, yet, despite his spinelessness, putting up some defense for me. Good job I kept my stake low. I lost. He took it seriously and gravely concurred, other than to the my being a man bit.

Oh, Nick. I know you aren’t the youngest chop on the blog but you really don’t get it, do you. Think about it: Someone posting under “Anonymous” (no blog), signing off with “John” satirizing my persona as perceived in the starved of wit Outer Siberia of Blogland. And both you and glitzy Bijou fell for it.

And no, Anon John wasn’t me though I wish it were because the idea and execution rather brilliant. I have a good inkling who is behind the joke but that is for me to cherish and for you to guess.

Hugs and hisses,

Call me Clive

 

 

 

Advertisements

May 17, 2018

Coincidence?

This post is dedicated to Ramana who is a great fan of synchronicity, mentioning it often. Call it synchronicity, call it coincidence, call it what you like … but here, dearest Ramana, is one to trump them all. Spooky …

A few weeks ago we had a spot of flash flooding at midnight coming through the ceiling.  I don’t want to relive the experience. Let’s just say there was a lot of water – not least in my study. A frog and a goldfish would have been very happy.

Water and paper only mix in as far as they bond like glue. My idea of a marriage made in hell. I did what I do best: Limit the damage. I even managed (don’t be sad) to avoid electrocuting myself as water trickling into extensions leads and their sockets sizzled, giving off ominous smoke signals. If there is one thing I am proud of  in myself it’s how I manage a crisis, any crisis. Methodically. Stay calm now, go into (after) shock, if necessary, later. So, yes, switched off the electrics at the mains, did my salvage work in the romantic glow of an industrial strength torch.

So where does synchronicity come into it? Simple. In the aftermaths of Noah’s Ark I have been reorganizing my study, boxes of photos, all my papers, not least letters. Letters which I have kept from the day dot. All sorted by sender/addressee. Yesterday afternoon I re-read those written by my father. I nearly didn’t because they were strong tobacco at the time (twenty/thirty years ago), nothing to revisit in a hurry unless you want to upset yourself. I don’t know what came over me. I steeled myself and read. Holy shit.

And here it is: My father and I haven’t had any contact for about nine months. None. And I wasn’t going to ever instigate any again till he bloody well himself picks up the phone or writes or something. Which,  my mother once said to me, “he won’t”. Well, fine. So be it. Why is it always me doing the running? Enough.

Remember, I re-read his correspondence yesterday afternoon. Four hours later, as if by magic, my father sends me a tentative email asking for renewed contact. If that isn’t synchronicity then I don’t know what is. And the only reason I didn’t fall off my chair in wonderment is because a) my sense of balance is superb and b) I was standing.

Awaiting a round of awe and applause,

U

May 9, 2018

Opposites and their attractions

What do you do if you want to go wean yourself off something – can be anything, not just hard core addiction? Say, for instance, and I know why my father pops into my mind this minute, you were addicted to being obsessively tidy – would you be able to leave alone for a week, not to say a WEAK, and see where it leads? Would you? Or would you just procrastinate?

I am a going-cold-turkey type of person: Just do it. And a procrastinator.

Cold Turkey and Procrastinator: The combo from hell. My Procrastinator (Motto: Tomorrow) being top dog, Cold Turkey (Motto: NOW, and determined) being strung along for the ride. Myself? I am in the fascinating grip of conflicting interests wrestling it out.

Around New Year 2017/18 I decided, for mostly rational and many valid ones too, to give blogging a miss. And what a fine mess my Procrastinator made of it, Cold Turkey (amply supported by the Angel who thinks blogging a waste of time) being on the loosing wicket. A fly caught in a sticky spider’s web has nothing on me.

So, what do you do when you feel you need to break a habit that brings you nothing but joy?

U

 

May 5, 2018

Debt to pleasure

Conceited bastard that I am I rarely quote anyone, preferring to make up my own “shit” (reference John’s assessment of my merits). There are exceptions to my rule and here is one, courtesy of Frederic Mistral:

“Aioli epitomises the heat, the power and the joy of Provencal sun, but it has another virtue – it drives away flies.”

Made me think of the limitations of communicating in the virtual world: How not so much DRIVE away flies as not to ATTRACT them in the first place. Or, worse, not to BECOME a pesky fly yourself.

On this happy note I am certain the aioli I am just about to make won’t curdle.

U

 

May 4, 2018

Wittgenstein’s Poker

Pope said “a little learning is a dangerous thing”. Depends how you define dangerous. I am more interested where little learning leaves the learner and their audience.

Yes, I know I currently do my blog’s name honour by succumbing to anything that lends itself to bitch about. There is a blogger who, some months ago, signed up for a dilettante’s course in philosophy. Better late than never. Definition of dilettante: “A person who dabbles in a subject for enjoyment but without serious study”.  That’s great. Not that she enjoys her course.

Dabble for enjoyment? I once grew horseradish for enjoyment. Little did I know that some years later some pompous old fart (one of his “friends” words not mine) would come along and take offence (to the point of, yes, deleting my comment), that I bloody recognized the flowers horseradish produces when POF (pompous old fart) had predicted that he’d be 99 % certain that NO one would guess his “guess the flower” competition. I didn’t even guess. I KNEW. It was bad enough that his 99 % certainty was shattered; far worse that it was me, of all people, who did so. Anyway, POF edited all comments so that it appears that I am a cheat who pipped one of his worshippers to the post. I have little hope of them getting over it.

Yes, back to the subject. Dilettantes. As it happens the person I pipped to the post also happens to be the one who took up said philosophy class. In my late teens and early twenties, indeed to this day, I have seen people sweat, weep and generally die in increments trying to get to grips with Wittgenstein. Not this little beauty of a dilettante. She read Wittgenstein’s biography in two days or so flat and now is an authority on Wittgenstein’s take on the world. Not that that makes her dangerous (see above). It just makes her look somewhat … What? You decide …

It gave me great joy that one of her blogging “friends” (the Sculptor if you must know) picked her up on her hyperbole. Say what you like about the Sculptor but when he is in fine form he is in fine form. He was in such fine form that our Wittgenstein expert didn’t actually pick up on his subtly ridiculing her.

Today, her blog entry is on Bertrand Russell. I have no info as to how long it took her to read HIS autobiography (let’s say a week, max, Speedy Gonzales she is) but rest assured she now knows all there is to know about Bertrand Russell. Not least how often he was married. That’s it: If you want to know about someone’s mindset delve into their love life.

On a point of housekeeping: For every post I publish I have written at least twenty – too risque to see the day of light. This can’t go on. I need to find a new patch with a more benign blog name to divert my attention from the vacuous. I don’t know: White Noise?

U

May 2, 2018

The long and short of it

One of the most outstanding examples of humble bragging ever, a reader in reply to a blogger who can’t resist a selfie whenever she’s been to the hairdresser:

“You look gorgeous. I did a double take when I saw your photo. We could be sisters.”

U

 

April 2, 2018

Alternative Comment Box – Nick

If I were a teacher having to face class every day I’d be both overjoyed (facing class) and in despair (when marking their work).

Dear Ramana, on his blog, writes a heart warming “first page”, in response to which Nick – who appears to be incapable of talking about anything other than himself – writes, and touching it is:

“The first page of my novel would be rather too long to reproduce here. The first sentence maybe. Someone else has already used “It was a dark and stormy night”, so I’ll have to think of something else. “I was born in one of the coldest winters of the century, when strict rationing was still in force a year after the end of the second world war.”

To which I replied, and I am aware of how cruel yet instructive my comment is:

“You need an editor, Nick:

The Allies and their enemies had bombed the shit out of each other. To little gain. As is my wont, I was born in March – an unusually unwelcoming one. Strict rationing in full swing, my mother wasn’t able to nourish me to full potential. The year was 1946.

U”

If my father taught me one thing it’s that “dog bites man” does NOT make a headline. “Man bites dog”? Yup. In the meantime just keep barking.

Belated Happy Birthday, Nick. And don’t worry about the dog. Rarely, though occasionally, even I don’t expect an old one to learn anything new.

U

 

March 27, 2018

Alternative Comment Box – Health Warning

There are two types of pain; the inflicted and the self inflicted. Sometimes the two overlap. Band aids on request (I don’t do stitches unless you want me to knit you a scarf).

One cool cucumber of a commentator, on the blog of many as yet to be deleted expletives spewed in my direction, evoked the spectacular of Karma for sins I stand accused of having committed in John’s comment box; something along the lines of her ardent wish for Karma to bite my behind. Unfortunately, there is a fault in her thinking. A mistake easily made: When you wish someone bad Karma what you are doing is wishing bad Karma onto yourself.

I repeat: When you wish someone bad Karma what you are doing is wishing bad Karma onto yourself. As the Angel astutely observed the other day: “If one lived with the ‘eye for an eye’ maxim, when would it end? Never.” I dare say, lame and blind – that’s where it would end: Limp and in the dark. Fighting windmills. So, those lovely creatures out there so enchanted with your barely audible brain exhalations, be careful what you wish onto others.

If my above take on Karma is wrong I will stand corrected. Over to you.

U

March 18, 2018

Writing on the Wall

I have just eaten an apple. It’s what I do in my spare time.

The apple was fairy tale red, crunchy to the point of hard. I am inconsolable to report that unlike Snow White no piece of apple lodged in my throat. I am alive and typing. I do appreciate the grief this will cause some inhabitants of blogland. Imagine I’d fallen asleep for one hundred years.  The good news that no prince is required to kiss me back into full bloom.

I eat my apples, always have, core and all, right down to the woody bit which even I find unappealing. In pensive moments one of my mother’s more dire warnings – about how best to avoid misfortune – pops into my mind. Namely, that if you eat and swallow an apple’s pips they either (depending on her mindset on the day) log into one of your organs and you’ll have to have your appendix out (don’t say my dear sweet mother didn’t approach her teachings in a scientific way) or, and this was and still is, more disconcerting, those pips will take root and you have apple tree shoots coming out of all your face’s orifices; your mouth and ears, she never mentioned my nose (she did have limits; I do need to breathe), for all the world to see that you have eaten, despite stern advice against the practice, apple pips. Who needs a vengeful all seeing god when all you need are pips?

Do my readers have their own little attempts at pulling the wool over our big eyes to share, not least those which left you feeling exposed to forces of nature you weren’t able to fight when a child – other than, obviously, NOT swallowing apple pips.

Sunday greetings,

U

 

March 15, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, The Long View – Congestion

John, miserable Joy and charmless Sculptor, do not fear: I haven’t forgotten you. If you were baked to my heart you couldn’t be closer to me during my waking moments. Once you’ll infiltrate my nightmares I will throw in the towel. Three, actually. Freshly washed.

It’s fun, isn’t it, Sweethearts, when the delete button isn’t yours to press. When you can’t edit your blogging life’s and comment boxes’ narrative. When someone can say anything they like about you to their heart’s content. Taking the piss. You do have my sympathy.

Please do bear with me. This morning’s missive the longest post ever. Not yet sent as life has a way of distracting me from the least important. Pity, since the post so awfully long, and so awful, twelve hours on I have to crank myself up to read it over, before pressing “publish”, the editor having clocked off early.

In further good news, I know I promised only thirteen (in words: 13) entries to The Alternative Comment Box. Alas, not all promises can be kept – being of a generous nature I dare say, rough guess, you can look forward to a few more before the finals.

Hugs, hisses, lots of fresh air, as ever,

U

 

 

 

Next Page »

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.