CHAOS BEFORE PREDICTABILITY

People are going nutbar on plagiarism and piracy right now, with disclaimers and neat little © symbols popping up everywhere but the thin air. If people don’t want their stuff ripped off, it’s fair enough – I wouldn’t either. But they’re not the biggest victim.

If anything, having someone steal your words is a complement. Whatever it is you wrote down was clearly deemed so good, someone wanted it for themselves. This is cheap, yes. Lazy? Pretty much. But also testament to the quality of your work that someone likes it so much they want it to be associated with themselves.

The moment they put finger to CTRL-C, all they’re really doing is giving another blow to their own creativity. Damaging their imagination one copy and paste at a time.

So, if someone does choose to rip you off, don’t get too angry. Just acknowledge the fact that essentially what they’ve done is told you you’re better than they can be bothered to be. A victim of their own idleness. Feel free to twat them with a spade though, too.

As we know, Hollywood ran out of ideas quite a while ago. This has led to a stream of unnecessary remakes and a never ending stream of superhero cartoon, comic book and video game adaptations. But why has it not happened with the childhood favourite Bananaman?

Quite simply, there can be no love interest. And if there’s one thing Hollywood can’t cope with, it’s making a film without a love connection. Spiderman had Mary-Jane; Bruce Wayne had that woman last played by Maggie Gyllenhaal; even Hellboy had a lady, but unfortunately for Bananaman, it’s a no go area.

Why? Because whatever reporter or lawyer he happens to pick up will wake in the morning next to Eric Wimp – a school boy. Alarm bells are ringing and so are sirens. So perhaps Eric gets a girl his own age. Fair enough, until he munches on a banana and then things get twisted again. He just can’t win.

Maybe when Eric Wimp gets a little older, he might be bundled and bungled into some 90 minute big-screen debacle. Until then, let’s just wait until this spoon gets its own film.

After the British Library announced it would be making 65,000 works of 19th C fiction available for free as eBooks, I did momentarily succumb to the lure of virtual reading material. However, it has occurred to me there is one thing that they will never replace, whatever fancy technological wizardry Apple, Amazon or Sony throws at me.

That’s the feeling as the pages build up one after the other in your left hand, as they rapidly decline in your right. In a way, this simple detail provides a satisfying sense of progress – a physical indication of where I am in the story. It’s a small issue, though it feels important.

In a way, whilst scrolling through page after page, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m engaged in deciphering the world’s longest SMS. And even after 400 pages, my hands will know no difference from the first, other than perhaps a slight tiredness of having held up the device a number of hours.

This obviously isn’t the only aspect that can’t be imitated, obviously. Such as the feel and smell of paper, the space-munching book collection and so on. But, it’s something I wouldn’t want to be without. Like missing a toe or having no ketchup.

It doesn’t mean I won’t be trying them out though. Especially to take advantage of the first editions. But whilst reading, my mind will be fantasising about the more fulfilling allure of a papery touch.

“What the fuck is that?” is the very phrase then ran through my head many, many times today whilst cleaning a house that harboured decades of dirt and decadence. Complete with spider webs that were probably older than myself and dust that clung to the wall for dear life, I was regretting the three hours sleep I’d had prior to the task.

Just when I thought I’d finished room number one I found the door (largely due to the fact I had to go through it to leave said room). Now, I was pretty sure this door was meant to be white, but it wasn’t.

That was fine though. That was merely dirt’s nameless henchmen. The true horror lay in wait in the bathroom. It was a family holiday for filth; even the third cousins were there.

Enter the harbinger of doom: me. Now, it may have laughed in the face in my cloth, warm water and branded spray stuff, but this bottle of thick bleach was ready to ruin its day. And hour and a half later, and I’d not only got all up in its grill, but I’d beaten it to death with it and taken its sandwich.

I’ll leave you with this: don’t underestimate how much fun a cobweb brush is.

To paraphrase Kaiser Soze / Baudelaire, the greatest trick Bromley ever pulled was to convince the world it didn’t exist. And in the minds of many, it doesn’t. After all, neighbouring Croydon distracts much of the attention. This wouldn’t matter, were it not for the fact that it is the forgotten tenth circle of hell.

Fans of Dante may begin to question this theory. Of course, he only notes nine – but then if he had noted a tenth, it wouldn’t be particularly forgotten. The fact is that BR1 (Bromley) is so painfully lacking in anything note worthy that Dante felt it would slow down the pace of his wee masterpiece.

But looking closely there is a small, grey, damp gap between Lust and Gluttony. This is Bromley. It’s sin: Mediocrity. Just as Dante boards the boat, passengers jump upon the 358 and as they pass from BR3 to BR1, their life-force is devoured instantaneously – and with bizarre effects.

All of a sudden, masses are convinced that a beer and what claims to be burger for £3.99 in Lloyds is some kind of gift from God. They hoard into The Glades shopping centre, hoping they’ll find that little thing inside of them that feels missing, all the while not knowing it’s been sucked into the very heart of the town itself.

Just look at H.G Wells. Where else would have got the idea for such works as The Island of Doctor Moreau that the Romero-esque suburb he was born. He took one look around Bromley and discovered all the beast-folk her required.

But it’s not the fault of the inhabitants. After all, I myself am one. It is the creator. Whilst the rest of the world could be said to have been created by an architect (even though we can largely agree it was actually a large explosion acting as a catalyst, etc.) Bromley was designed by his/her intern. The one who thinks Pi is a short-crust treat and still uses scissors from playdough.

So, on your way to Gluttony, why not stop off at Primark and get yourself some cheap socks.

In light of the PPC deciding to back down against Jan Moir, Daily Mail crayon-monkey, I feel it’s time to reveal something about this infamous reptilian reporter. Sphincter in one hand and stomach in the other, she distributes bile and excrement in equal portions onto the pages of an already filth infested rag. This we all know. And to some degree, agree on. What isn’t so widely known is her deep secret that has been hidden from public minds for decades.

Now, there is something about eels that has mystified the natural world. We known their life cycle and we know they are born and die in the ocean. However, spawning has never been witnessed. Why? Because Jan Moir is their spawning ground.

Every full moon, this red-top pen scribbler leaves a hollow shell in her office to act as a decoy. It’s cold and vacant, so no one knows the difference. The creature from inside then makes its way to the deep blue oceans. Eels wait in the meeting spot, deploying their eggs in abundance. When Moir-beast arrives, she then assimilates the spawn through osmosis.

Now safely in their dark nest, the eggs incubate and gradually begin to hatch. Meanwhile, the Moir-beast begins to grow larger and larger, sucking in plankton to provide sustenance for the little’uns.

When these hatch, they burst at force from every orifice their nest contains. Causing immense discomfort to the Moir-beast, it fills her with rage, hate and inaccuracies. When back on dry land and in her shell, this pain comes with her and pours out onto the keyboard.

That, in short, is the only logical explanation for writing such utter cack in her Daily Mail column.

With ‘Shove Tuesday’ staring me hard in the face, I feel almost compelled to eat pancakes. This is without regard for whether I even want them. Tradition has knocked at the door and demanded I pick up the fork and get flipping. But there is one small flaw: I want waffles.

As much as I respect all forms pancakes, including crêpes and the small Scottish ones, I have to come clean and say waffles are better. My only problem is the monopoly pancakes have over this very specific Tuesday. Is there a punishment for defecting to the waffle iron? I just don’t know. What’s more, I’m not sure I want to find out.

In childhood, I remember being relatively excited about this day. Much like any small person does when they see bubbles or find a reasonably large box. However, now that I can reach the table top I feel I can make my own decision. And it doesn’t involve pancakes.

Unlike most things we’re discouraged to do as a child, where something horrendous and often involving fire will happen to you, there is little in the way of legend when it comes to Shove Tuesday. Nor does it have its Michael Myres of Jason Voorhees. So perhaps it’s perfectly acceptable to opt for an alternative.

Or maybe, just maybe, such a radical decision has never been made. Or if it has, no one has quite lived to tell the tale. So as I sit here contemplating wacking out the waffle iron (or just getting the ones you toast) I’m stuck with the very (un)real possibility that some supernatural behemoth may come to smite me.

If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know my suspicions were true. Either that or the waffles have made my fingers too fat to type.

The table wobbles a hell of a lot, but it’s ok. We’re in the Green Dragon (myself and captain Halliday, of south-London label Audio Anti-Hero) waiting for Superman Revenge Squad to deliver a dose of linguistic piracy. Sharp as a cutlass, he cut the air with perfectly placed swipes at the world around him.

Half of the underground phenomenon Nosferatu D2, this renegade of rhetoric – code name Ben Parker – has been doing the round around folk-town. With a string of EPs and die hard fans, he’s frequently proclaimed as a name to watch. So there I was, watching him for the second time. And it was good, as expected.

As one act did a Shergar, there were just two performers until it was time for SRQ to take the stage at the pub’s Freedom of Expression Night (free).

The first act was largely missed by an overly interesting monochrome beverage. Though, I’m pretty sure he played the same song twice. The second however, caught my ear. I believe the name was Frivolous Laura. Her real name, I cannot be sure. But with a hint of Amanda Palmer or Regina Spektor, as she sang serenely over minimalistic and at times dark piano playing, it was a nice surprise. After all, I’d largely come to hear why Ben was ever so slightly spontaneous in a crisis.

I got my answer to this shortly after, along with several others. And if you’ve ever wondered what’s going through the man of an old man reading porn, go and see him too.

With percussive and understated guitar work as his platform, SRQ employed a unique and almost spoken word style to make sure every one of his words were heard. They’re worth hearing. Go HERE to hear them for yourself and get a slice of Croydon life.

You can also purchase a copy of his album in former guise Nosferatu D2 HERE. Posthumously released by Audio Anti-Hero, it provides an added bite to his lyrics through raw drumming and guitars.

The first time the concept of an eReader was explained to me, I was cynical. I admit it. It was a brief for copy that would accompany the release of Sony’s version and all I could think was what’s wrong with a book?

Paper-like screen? So what? I have paper like paper. Take as many books as I like on holiday? It’s not like I go away for months at a time and I only take one on the train, which fits nicely in a jacket. But then I look at the news this morning and the British Museum has hit me with its rhythm stick.

It announced that it will be making 65,000 works of 19th century literature available on eBook – and for free. They’re all first editions and will come complete with original script and images. Among these gems will be the likes of Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens, among some less reputable names.

So for the first time, I’ll be able to take these books home with me for keeps, to read, share and enjoy and it won’t cost me any more than a travel card. Now I can fill up an eReader without emptying my account.

Of course it won’t happen right away, as they haven’t yet released them, but at least we know it’s going to happen. And when it does you can be almost certain I’ll jump on the eReader wagon. And who knows, once I have one, maybe I’ll splash out on some fine online fiction (I probably will).

But if paper is what’s wanted, don’t worry. They claim these books – though I assume not all 65,000 – will appear on Amazon in actual book form, paper and all.

Sometimes a headline just catches your eye. Today it lurked on The Telegraph’s pages announcing ‘amorous ducks’ could endanger a small town’s tourism. As amusing as this was if that’s their biggest worry, they’re pretty well off.

Perhaps they might take a night out in Croydon on a Friday night. After all, blood, beer and vomit is nothing compared to the horrors of duck poo. Ever sat in that stuff? You’ll have to wash your jeans one whole time. And as for an over zealous mating season: the sparkling streets and bars of Croydonia are in mating season 365 days a year.

What’s more, I’d bet an under-sexed, over inebriated lad would pose more of a problem than a horny duck. Unless you’ve really got a real thing for eating your crusts. But as they say in the article “The law forbids us from shooting them or anything like that”. I guess this goes for both parties – as does the “wild mob-handed mating technique”.

So how about killing two ducks with one stone (no, RSPB, not literally) and start putting ponds into clubs. The quackers will be free to go about their business, whilst the clubbers should be distracted enough by the surreal water-feature to cool their pants down – at least for a minute.

According to German power metal band, Primal Fear, yes. An interesting theory. But what is they’re right? Hundreds of years of philosophical thought could have missed this entirely vital proclamation. Perhaps there is no afterlife, no elysian fields or hell – just metal.

Now for some, that is hell. However, that’s only some. Perhaps Primal Fear is trying to tell us something, other than the fact he was unable to get into Judas Priest. To quote: “Metal is forever in every single matter. Metal is forever. Nations come together.” Other than the almost poetic virtuosity of these lyrics, an apparent revelation is made. They say God is all matter…but what if it’s metal?

That sofa over there is metal; that crow or the window sill, also metal. Maybe when the apocalypse has come and gone there will be nothing but an infinite stream of thrash blasting its way through the darkness.

And “nations come together”. Humans have tried war, they’ve tried shaking hands, hugging and giving each other little gifts, but have they ever all gone to see Cannibal Corpse together? Maybe that’s what they need. If Gordon Brown just took Al Qaeda to a showing of Spinal Tap, maybe all differences could be set aside.

On the flip side, it might just be a terrible song with no real scientific or sociological backing. They don’t even specify which metal. All kinds? Or just the old stuff? Where does technical jazz metal come into it? I don’t think they thought this through. Better stick with Judas Priest.

So you’ve gone to Primark and bought some socks. Fine. You couldn’t help it, they had the days of the week on the side. Who could resist? But remember, you could bring reality as we know it tumbling down.

That’s right, you could destroy the world. Is that what you want? Because that’s what you’re heading towards with those socks for this simple reason: if, by some freak accident, you put on a pair of those socks on a non-concurrent day, you will alter time.

Say it’s Tuesday (even though today is Wednesday) and you feel frivolous. You put on a pair of FRIDAY socks. Wow, you’re crazy. Yes, yes you are. Because BAM, you’ve just ruined time. All those people, eating their sandwich and pickle in that café, they’re no longer there. They’re fast-forwarded three days ahead and are now in a meeting. None of them know what they’re doing there and no one knows what to say.

Do you see how awkward that would be? They were meant to have three days to plan for that meeting and you’ve just whisked it away from them due to careless sock choice.

Now, when it comes to odd socks, we’re really looking through the mirror. There is a legend which states there was such a man mad enough to put on a Tuesday sock on his left foot and a Thursday sock on his right. A new trend, he thought. But no, what he in-fact did was create the leap year.

Every step he took pushed time further. Reality couldn’t keep up with what day it should be. Left, right, left, right. In the end it just gave up and totally ruined February.

So remember, the next time you go to buy some new socks, put some thought into it. Unless you’re an evil genius, you probably don’t want to break the fabric of time. Get those ones with Peter Griffin on that you thought were humorous instead. After all, everyone likes to laugh when they see peoples’ feet.