Why?

Why does this blog exist? Paradox wants to test himself, that why.

Always up for a challenge, he has wryly observed rising former sparring partners, college contempories and even (occasional) drinking buddies.

Some write extremely well, others churn out the usual cliched tripe. The latter category often parroting "left must adapt" - vainly blinded to their own pre-historicicity: Maintaining into middle age that mascarade of world weariness thinly veiling their unmatured late adolocescent pseudo ironic sarcastic fossilised philosophy. How can they maintain such unaffected vacuity into middle age? Strange... did they live?

Two noble columnistic giants set the bar very high, one living... one dead. Fine prose indeed!

So, how do they do it? Can one compose a page of interesting prose? A page a day, a generally consumed diary.

Lord Gnome hires Polly Filla. Manchester Graundiad uses her namesake. Others recruit Copian Pastit or play gerismo whilst twiddling thumbs.

Paradox knows no such devices. Promising to think till it hurts here will posit spewed vocab.

Sometimes pure shit, maybe just the once something worth reading. Read on...dear reader, read on.

Paradox is a happy pessimist pondering plying prayful affiliation.

Which religion will he choose? Lets explore this tomorrow.

In the meantime, some homework - Paradox on Jesus (scroll down to see).

Handover

How was it for you?

Pleased it is over?

Or want it to go on and on?

Did you even notice it has gone?

Do you know what's going on?

(I know what's going on. I'm going on - Paradox courtesy of Harold Wilson)

Reflection on blighty past and present. Read it aloud:

Those were the days, those excellent eighties.

Extremes. Exciting pain.

War on home front.

"The Enemy Within"

Thatcher phenomenon: Polarised years. Polaroid photos. Polarised speeches. Picket line pictures. Touremburg conferences. Something else.

Yuppies too. London abuzz, housing bubbles, champagne bottles, City City bang bang. Rich and happy.

Eighties yuppies ideologically sharp. Storm troopers. Change crusade.

Yes, lets argue. Nasty is the new nice. Yes, lets think. Come over here and say that.

Yes, lets talk. Why fence sit and pierce your slit?

Don't fence sit - find camp, wallow in it.

Property sales, poll tax, miners axed, people sacked, many react. Ska attack.

Specials Jam Clash. Energy bash.

Gunpowder plotting, aiding, abetting. Cumplice to revolt.

Discuss within, argue without. Hegemony shifting under your feet.

Watch out! Ideas about.

Wow - what a decade!

...

Change of pace now, slowing down, dumbing down.

Down in the dumbed down noughties. Celebrity this, celebrity that and celebrity nothing. Cotton wool music, value-less dross.

Fence gone. One big pasture. What are you eating? Candy floss.

Population out to pasture under the sun. Diet of suntan and syrup.

Pasture in the peat bog. Sinking sands. Dragged deep down in the peat bog down, lowest common downominator.

Ideological lobotomy. Lazy lazy thinking, languid use of terms. Brainwashed into believing all you need is to believe. Live the dream. Want, borrow have. All works out in the end. Fingers crossed, lottery crossed, red lines crossed, cheques crossed.

Can we can have it all? Yes, and at no expense to your brain cells. Cheap at the price.

Thinking. Whats that? How does it work? Sounds painful? Don't do it.

Faria Alam: - "everyone deserves a second chance." First chance: Screw Sven. Second chance: Celebrity BB. Nuff said.

Dumbed right down. Panorama moved, meetings moved, its different now, modern now, easy now.

No thinking now, low interest now, full employment now. Alton Towers now, all happy now, New Labour now.

Why now? Why suddenly? What's new?

Sssshhhh don't think. You will wake the kids up.

BUT - actually, the biggest political demonstration in the history of the UK happened during the noughties.

I will say that again. THE LARGEST POLITICAL DEMONSTRATION IN THE TWO THOUSAND YEAR HISTORY OF BRITAIN TOOK PLACE DURING THE NOUGHTIES.

Reflect on that fact...

Reflect some more...

What does that mean? Was it the Indian summer? The final encore?

We went home. The smug cheshire cat carried on. Regardless.

And they wander why people have lost faith in politicians?

Why bother thinking when the biggest ever manifestion of collective praxis is so lightly tossed aside?

Its getting very near the end.

The eighties - best of times, the worst of times. We all had a ball.

The noughties - a vacuum of times. Perenial mush and and soft landing playgrounds. Nobody gets hurt. Emotion demotion slow motion promotion?

Who stole the passion? Where did it go?

It was all sucked up in credit card craze.

Globetrotting holidays, premier league glory days. Houses up anyways, can't go wrong with propertays.

From cool Brittania to smug Brittania.

Mark my weards, it will all end in tears.

All all our trousers will soon be Brown's.

THE END
...

Dear reader, a reading list will follow...

Dennis Watts - man of the eighties

Maputo

The best time of year. Razor sharp diurnal light. Blossoms out. Fresh morning edge obliges jacket and bica. And in case you have ever suffered here - God knows plenty have - remember tudo vale a pena se a alma não é pequena...

Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal
São lágrimas de Portugal!
Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram,
Quantos filhos em vão rezaram!

Quantas noivas ficaram por casar
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!
Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena
Se a alma não é pequena.

Quem quere passar além do Bojador
Tem que passar além da dor.
Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu,
Mas nele é que espelhou o céu.

by Fernando Pessoa

Lugar do xirico cantador