The Compostual Existentialist

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Surnames

For some time now I have been fascinated by the origins of surnames (or last names if you want to be all modern and right on). My own surname Gnomepants stems from the Greek Gnomos Pantalonkikos which is a trade that was popular in ancient Greece. People would flock to ancient Athens and Crete to visit the numerous Gnomos Pantalonkikos and inspect their handicrafts. I think Plato said “My Gods! The Gnomos Pantalonkikos in my street is the best!”. At one time one of my ancestors would have been a Gnomos Pantalonkikos and we all know how important they were to the development of civilisation.

Butcher

Butcher (n) – to be a butcher

Heaton-Harris (n) - Wanksplat

Heaton-Harris (n) old Swahili – Wanksplat

So likewise when I come across unusual names I like to look them up (on google & wikipedia) in an effort to locate their origins. Today, I was dealing with a person that goes by the name of Spink. Now Spink is an unusual name from my perspective. I don’t know you might know lots of Spinks, in which case it won’t be all that unusual to you. I know several people called Grobinglops which is quite common though some would argue that they don’t know anyone called Grobinglops and they might find the name Grobinglops unusual. But anyway….that’s by the by. So I look them up and I think “oooh I wonder what their ancestors must have done. So for example someone called Colin Computersalesman would obviously have descended from a prominent Barrel maker. Likewise David Butcher would have been descended from a butcher, Barry Bumscrape – a tramp and Simon Quantumphysicist would most likely have been a quantity surveyor. You get the idea don’t you. Maybe you have a occupational surname too….I know that the likes of Sean Bean would be descended from a bean (maybe he was planted and grew) and Gordon Honeycomb would more than likely have been related to some ancient piece of a bee hive or something.

You get what I’m on about. So I looked up Spink on Wikipedia and I learnt a new thing. So I thought I would share that with you. According to Wikipedia (and yes I know that contrary to popular belief Wikipedia is not 100% reliable) a spink is the formal name for human meat! So at one time this Spink person would have come from a family of food. I can imagine them sitting in the tribal village during the harsh winter months.

Mr Chieftan – We’re so cold. All the meat and food has been eaten. What shall we do?
Mr Advisor – Well why not have a reserve of meat in the village. Fresh meat. How about that family over there? They worked hard in the fields this summer so they’re all nice and muscley. No sinew or fat on them. We could eat them!
Mr Chieftan – Who the Spinks? Well yes! I don’t like the way they look at me anyway

And so it happened, the villagers were eaten and a name gained a meaning.

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Making the world a better place – Part one

Love you Jim xx

Bloody hippy!

Bloody hippies. Sitting there in their kaftans with their long hair and beards, weaving yogurts and floating vaginas. Why can’t they be pissed off and angry like everyone else.

Yes. Why not? I mean its such a lovely world isn’t it. People hating each other, blaming each other, being nasty to each other and complaining about anything to anybody who will listen and then complaining further when people don’t listen.

We have just had elections. Elections where every person who is angry with the current state of affairs in Europe and the UK took out their frustrations on the government by either not voting or by voting for far right loons. Great job! I’m sure we’ll laugh about it when jackbooted fucktards come a knocking to evict us from our homes for none compliance.

 

empty vessels

Some noisy things

Of course there is a saying. Empty vessels make the most noise. Indeed,  this saying when applied to the current political landscape seems to ring true. Furthermore, this saying applies across all aspects of society. Just look at any newspaper (or news website) and you’ll read about how bad things are. How people in power are horrid. How people who do things do things selfishly or for the rubbing of their own ego, gain and gratification.

But what’s the one thing you don’t read about?

Nice people.

People doing good things.

Years ago, and I think I’ve already written about this before, people with lots and lots of money would look about and say:

“Fuck me, I have so much money from building railways/transporting slaves/eating jam <delete as applicable> I don’t know what to do with it!”

Then, armed with wads of cash they would do good things like building churches, hospitals, libraries, club houses or starting mutual societies and cooperatives. Benevolence. Generosity. All for eternal recognition.

 

This was actually built in memory of some bloke who died during a fox hunt.

A monument

In the UK at least, one only has to take a trip into their nearest town and find monuments to people who have donated or sacrificed something for the benefit of others. Did people moan about that then I wonder? Did the newspapers of the time bemoan the fact that some great benefactor donated land for use as a municipal park? Did people tut and mutter about it? Surely that land would be better used as a factory? Maybe? Who knows? I can’t be arsed to do the research but I imagine it wasn’t like that.

These days, being nasty gets you fame. Being awful and frightful gets you instant celebrity status, or so it seems. To me it seems that being awful and frightful is de rigueur . Think about it, companies don’t have compliments departments do they? Why is this? It is because there is more benefit in providing a shit service and employing people who spend all their day depleting their self-worth levels by listening to people blame them personally for the lack of service or whatever. I know, I used to be one of those employees.

So how can we turn the world into a better place? How can I get people to be nicer to each other? How can I get recognition for good deeds done to humanity?

 

You’ll just have to come back later and read all about it.


They’re all out to get me

Sometimes I can’t help feeling singled out.

Of course I know it’s nonsense but I like to think that the reason some things happen is because of a greater conspiracy. One involving the “Powers that be” be that the illuminati, the Government, MI5, Tescos, the man in the post office that looked like Elvis or whom-so-ever is in favour this week and Me. Of course, if you know me well you’ll know I really dont believe half the shit I spout but I gain great pleasure from trying to convince people that the fruits of my overactive imagination are real. Again those that know me well join in and make even more outlandish suggestions. Those that don’t look at me bewildered, confused and even concerned for my mental well being. But I assure you as I said, most of the conspiracy stuff is utter bollocks and I know it.

Anyway, today I mentioned in a comment on one of poggs‘ posts about buses how whenever I’m waiting for a bus none will show yet when Im not you cant move for the buggers. Which made me think. I’ve never really written about this side to me. Ok some people love it. Of course others hate it (probably because they think I really do believe the shite I spout) some even become hostile, which I find sad.

So. After that windfilled explanation on with the show….Here for your delight and mind to chew over, are how they are trying to undermine me….why? I haven’t a clue….possibly because Im the real heir to the throne….

IMG_0441

Comes in threes

1. When I’m waiting for a bus or train :-

  • a) millions of buses or trains that I can’t get will sail past empty yet mine will always be chockablock and infrequent.
  • b) The bus or train I want will only come every 3 years even though
  • c) The line of buses I cant get will go so far down the road from the bus stop that the bus I want cant see me and will go sailing past on its merry way.
  • d) Some old myopic biddy (who is of course a secret agent for the sinister organisation) will flag my bus down and then wave it on because she doesn’t want it (without ANY consideration for others that may be waiting for it)

2. I’ll find some food/hair product I really like. Then mysteriously (like almost over night) it will disappear from the shop shelves. An example of this is Heinz Pepperoni Pizza. Yumtastic. Now you cant find them for love nor money.

3. I’ll find a restaurant that does really good quality food with really excellent service. When I take others to impress them the service is shite, the food substandard or its closed or changed management.

4. When in a rush I’ll always end up behind Mr “Slow and considerate” and in front of Mr “Im in a rush get a move on you twat”

5. Some fucker will go into my bag and discharge the battery on my MP3 Player the day I need to listen to it. The same fucker will do the same to my mobile phone when I’ve not got my charger.

6. Whenever I’m waiting for an important piece of mail. The postman (who is in the employ of the “sinister” organisation behind my persecution) will hold on to the post or accidently lose it on purpose.

Phone box Post box

People phone me

7. If I get excited over a particular TV listing, like so excited I cant wait and am bubbling with anticipation like a bottle of Grand Prix Mumm

  • Some fucker will call on the phone when its on
  • Some fucker will call round when its on
  • Some famous fucker will die and it will be rescheduled (or delayed thus fucking up any video settings)
  • Some fucker will do something tasteless and the program/film will be indefinitely postponed on the grounds of taste

8. If I get into a TV serial:-

  • Be assured that someone will distract me and drag me away during a crucial moment
  • I will forget (due to the mind rays that they beam at me) and miss key episodes
  • It will be rescheduled to a time
    • – when I cant be bothered to stay up
    • – thats abhorrent to God
    • – when I’m at work
    • – when I’m otherwise occupied

9. When I really fancy a cup of tea, a bowl of cornflakes or something milk involved, sinister agents raid my fridge or turn any milk in it sour.

10. The expensive electrical gadget I covet for months turns out to be a turkey when I finally get the thing. Either that or I’ll buy it and a week later it’ll be like 50p for 3.

There are more….but they’ve turned the brain rays onto me again and I can’t remember what they are….

This post originally appeared in May 2005 on Livejournal. It has been reposted here for new audiences. When they arrive. One day….perhaps….


Fault Queue

Coffee anyone?

If you know me you’ll know, despite internal ragings, I have the patience of a saint. I haven’t given it back yet because he hasn’t asked for it, but none the less, I have their patience. So perhaps this is why what I am about to relate to you happens to me with alarming frequency.

I’ve noticed it happen a lot lately. It happens in a variety of places be it in shops, offices or on the street. It doesn’t appear to happen to anyone else but I’m sure it does. What is it? Well, it hasn’t got a name. It is more of an occurrence than a thing.

Let’s say I’m queuing for a cup of coffee. There are 4 people in front of me. Each of the 4 get served speedily and without issue. But then it’s my turn.

 

 

 

stegzy – Hello please may I ha….
Barista #1 – Oh sorry love hang on
Barista #2 – ‘ere Barista #1, was it beans on the jacket potato or was it tuna?
Barista #1 – Oh you daft bugger, it was tuna and gravy with meaty chunks, did you get the gravel out of the fridge?
Barista #2 – No but I left the intricate lace work doillies in the sink
Barista #1moving away from the counter to go behind the scenes won’t be a minute love
An age passes
Barista #1 – Sorry love what was it?
stegzy – Please may I have a coffee?
Barista #1 – yes hang on
Barista #1 goes through motions of making coffee
Barista #2 comes out from back room
Barista #2 – I can’t find the Rabbit and beef in jelly
Barista #1 – They’re under the sink
Barista #2 – Can you show me?
Exunt Barista #1 & Barista #2
Two minutes pass
Barista #1 returning from back room Sorry love, what was it?
stegzy – I’ve forgotten

The same happens in shops, petrol stations and bars. Different staff. Totally unrelated incidents. Similar events. What’s worse is, while all this is going on there is a queue of people growing behind me tutting and sighing at me. As if it is MY fault. Of course, long term Flisters will know that it is, of course, my fault. Everything is my fault. Germany invading Poland? That was me. Twin towers? Me too. Krakatoa? Yup….my fault.

Anyway, as if this wasn’t some sort of global shop keeping conspiracy, the same happens when I’m driving. I’ll queue at a give way sign. The cars in front have no problem getting out of the junction. Some go straight out. But when it gets to me, it’s like all the travellers in the world have to use that road. Worse, some don’t use their indicators. Or when one direction clears, everyone coming from the other direction decides they want to come past or turn right into the road I’m turning right out of.

Then, there’s the drivers that go reeeeeeeeeeeeeally slow. They pull out in front of you from some give way junction because they are clearly in a hurry, but then proceed to stick to 20 mph when you can’t over take them, and when it’s over take time, the fuckers speed up….I mean what’s going on there?!

It’s hard not to think it is just me. It’s harder not to think that this is all some sort of conspiracy against me. So because of this difficulty….that is what it must be. It is a global conspiracy. Against me. A global penance for everything being MY fault.


Scandalous Village Gossip

The horse in the field behind Gnomepants Manor died last week. It was quite sudden.

G the Human Dog told me that he suspects foul play. No. He was sure it was foul play. In that some third party, notably a shifty chap that holds a grudge against the people that now live in the house at the end of “The lane with no name” who own the field, had on numerous occasions left the gate open and, in one final act of revenge, fed the horse poison. The motive, is as yet, unclear. But G is adamant that this unscrupulous character had committed the act.

Of course G has no proof to support these claims. It could just be that the horse has eaten something that didn’t agree with it. But village gossip being what it is, such a scandal as a equine poisoner at large, will no doubt keep tongues wagging for some time.


Dog’s dinner.

Caught the bus into Uni this morning with the intent of having a few pints after classes this afternoon. When you catch the peasant wagon not only are you crammed into a oblong metal box with the great unwashed, but you get to hear the various conversations that go on around. They’re like social snap shots at times.

This morning I was torn between two gents discussing their various civil penalties (magistrate court fines, community service etc) and a group of girls bitching about some Cassanova who has been putting it about unbeknownst to his current squeeze.

However, as usual the best conversation is always left until last.

**phone rings**
Girl One Hiya…….yeah….no I’ll be there in two minutes. Am just on the bus….ok see you in a bit **hangs up phone** Fucking two faced bitch
Girl Two No. That was two faced.
Girl Three LOLZ0RZZZ


Conspiracy

I have a theory.

As some may know I love a good conspiracy theory. Sometimes I’m spot on other times I’m waaaaaaay off the mark. But recently I’ve thought of nothing else so I guess I’ll share it here.

Let me begin by outlining two “issues” in Britainland ™ today.

Firstly, there is a housing shortage. Allegedly there are too few houses in Britain for all the new comers (immigrants and those reaching adulthood) to live in. As a result house prices in some areas are through the roof. Twenty years ago a house in my mum and dad’s road would have set you back a princely £60k now you’d be lucky if you could get change from £250k. The solution? Well instead of arranging a mass cull to reduce the population, the government cries “Let’s build more houses!”. Because more houses means jobs in the construction industry, money for those supplying materials to such industries and miles and miles of paper work for the plethora of solicitors & accountants and stacks of wedge for your chaps in the mortgage and loan industries. Money = Jobs and Jobs = wealth. Capitalism at its best.

One problem though is Britainland ™ is very small. Compared to vast super countries like the USA where to go from coast to coast in a day is kind of optimistic, in Britainland ™ you could do it in a couple of hours, weather and traffic permitting. Fear not though! Britainland ™ has a wealth of old unused ex-industrial land or Brownfield. With me so far? Good. So there we are building houses in places where once was industry and in someplaces where there was destitution, poverty and unemployment because the industries have all fucked off to China or India where labour is cheaper leaving behind handy plots of land. Unfortunately, this land is rapidly running out and people are starting to realise that cheap housing usually means it’s in Chav central or built on an old toxic waste dump.

Secondly, we have had several really bad “agricultural” disasters. First there was the price of fuel. “If the price of fuel goes up how can we power our 4x4s tractors and combine harvesters?” cried the farmers. So they blockaded the oil terminals and managed to bring our attention to the shockingly high fuel prices. Then, within a year Britainland was closed. Closed to visitors. Why? After several years of Mad Cows disease, foot and Mouth disease had reappeared. , farmers cried “Oh woe is me! All those animals I’ve bred for you to eat have had to be culled because they are infected. How am I going to afford to feed my children?”.

Some livestock farmers saw the light and switched to growing crops. “Ha! I’m not going to let some livestock lurgy spoil my childrens Christmas” they said in a similar manner to those that said “She’s Unsinkable” about the Titanic. 2007 was the wettest year on record. Flash floods and torrential rains brought many crop growing farmers to their knees as entire fields were laid waste with fields polluted or washed away by the waters. Catastrophy! Then, just as you though it was safe to go back into livestock farming BAM! Foot and mouth (albeit a governmental laboratory version of it) strikes again, this time with BLUETOUNGE from Europe! Will the torment never end?

So, congratulations if you’ve spotted where I’m going with this, farmers are on the bones of their arses. Supermarkets paying shit money to buy their scran, Disease and floods. Today is not a good day to go into farming and with many farming families calling it a day, sons of farmers giving their father’s career choice a miss for better paid city jobs and the man on the Clapham Omnibus too content with his 4 bedroom house and shiney car in suburbia to swap it all for a life of early mornings and hard physical graft, farming, once the choice of the workproud, is waning.

But fear not! Help is at hand! Britainland ™ needs your land! Mr Farmer, sell us your land, we’ll give you a princely sum and all you have to do is sit in your farm house and enjoy your new Land Rover. Problem solved. Planning restrictions? Fuck them, they went out of the window in July (sorry were you not paying attention?). Greenfield sites you say? No! They are agricultural industry land perfect for building houses on.

Not enough land available to buy? Oh dear looks like we’ll have to make a few more farmers destitute then. Let’s have another “leak” of infected water from our laboratories, or how about a spot of flooding? Turn on the Weather control machine (yes there is one, it was developed by the American Government along with the Seismic weapon) Sorry we can’t afford flood defences. That’ll teach you for bringing the country to a stand still in 1999. Ha! Ha! Bit too devastating for the people that make money out of tourism of the countryside? OK let’s have a bit more Bluetongue, that way we can blame the midgies and gnats.

So remember this. Remember that Britainland was once known as a green and pleasant land. As well as a nation of shop keepers we were a proud agricultural nation. The birthplace of the agricultural revolution, crop rotation, seed drills, Turnip Townsend, Jethro Tull (not the progrock band though I think Ian Anderson is British) Now? We live in a time of rapid change and no doubt I’ll be telling my grandchildren how I do remember when all this were fields; how there was a colour other than brick orange and that the green grass of the lawn is nowhere near as vivid as a field of turnips, the yellow of daffodils dulled by the bright colour of Oilseed Rape, the beige of emulsion paint artificial compared to brown of ripeining barley and wheat. The smell of Widnes The smell of rotting garden compost less fresh than silage spread on fields. The low monotone of new music fainted by the dull distant purr of a combine harvester.

Next time you see a field, take a good look, because next time it could have houses on it.

Just like this one in front of my house. Well…the one behind that garage thing.