THIS YEAR CAN GO FUCK ITSELF

No, I'm not going to go into Why; but I'd really love it if New Year could, just once, stop being a lesson in Pain. Either pain of the unbearable, or the unbearable loss of that which made other pains more bearable. I'm a bit tired. 
But, but, but... I am not flooded, or displaced, or coerced. And I have many blessings. We all do. For a start, I have the most amazing friends who overwhelm me at times with their love and kindness. I don't always tell them how much they mean to me. For example (this is an edit, you see): I just posted the link to this blog not three minutes ago, and one person has already looked at it and given it a like. I love that he cared enough to do that. Thank you, you big fat bastard. I love you.
There. Buck the fuck up, Mu.

Instead, here's one of my favourite blog posts from earlier in the year. Read it - it's cheerful and sweary and there are cookies and scraped knees in it. Good things.

Here also is a list of good causes, which I support but whether you choose to is your business. 
PAPYRUS Prevention of young suicide Donate here
MIND Mental health charity Donate here
RICE Research Institute for Care of the Elderly Donate here
WIKIPEDIA helping the ill-informed since 2001 DONATE £10 NOW

Finally here is a random screen grab from my Instagram account, containing a reasonable snapshot of How Things Are, or Were, or Would Be If, or Never Will. 
And a poem I wrote. Happy New Year.

What was the other thing? Oh, yes, I'm closing the year with a DJ slot at the GUILTY PLEASURES GRAND MASQUERADE BALL tonight at Frome's Silk Mill. It will be a spectacular mix of masks, fireworks, guest DJs, Bowieoke, street food, the filthiest mix of guilty music joy you can imagine. Find out more here and come join in.

Love you.
Mu.

DON'T TAKE YOUR LIPS AWAY. I HAVEN'T FINISHED

Before I begin, this:

"You kiss like I built you myself."

That's mine. I own it. I own it because someone gave it to me. Bear it in mind; if our lips should ever meet.

An Instagram friend shared this yesterday. I say 'friend'; I like to think we are friends. Unlike most of my IG followers, we have actually met and enjoyed each other's company. That was some eighteen months ago, and I am very glad that we keep in touch quite regularly. It's modern, but it is the way of things these days. Anyway, he shared this. The words aren't his - he isn't sure whose, so if anyone recognises the author, do let me know. 

Beautiful. Anyone would long for it. No comment to make, I just loved it and I thought you might, too. Only...
Only... It needed a woman's perspective. We can make magic too, you know.
I wrote this, and I sent it to him for his approval. Then I committed it to its destiny.
Kissing is the most amazing thing in the world. Do it now. Do it a lot.

'I'm not in love with you. But by the end of this kiss, I could be.'

- Lip Goals.

WROTE IT FOR NATIONAL POETRY DAY. AND DIDN'T

It's still National Poetry Day. Just. 

I'm in my kitchen, making a fuck-off massive pan of bolognese sauce which I'll freeze in little pots to feed my family when I remember to get the little pots back out of the freezer, which will be never. But I like crushing garlic and grinding peppercorns in a mortar and pestle. So there's that.

So, yeah, Poetry. Amazing things happen when you expose people to it. Pretty much every poet you care to think of is better at it than I am, so I'm not going to go on at length about its benefits and how it crosses boundaries and baba baba baba baba baba. Personally speaking, and I know there is no other way I can speak, there's no better place to start than Dr Seuss; I've been reading Chinese poetry recently and it's a gift; I also love Scroobius Pip, Dizraeli, Eminem and Doc Brown. But I love Rizzle Kicks too. Iron Maiden's 'Hallowed Be Thy Name' is written in iambic pentameter. Never say you don't like Poetry.  Byron isn't the only Boy on the Block.

Here's the one I wrote this morning at four a.m. And here's what I'm listening to just now.   
Happy Day.  Go Rhyme Shit Up.

YES. I DID SAY THAT

I post pithy remarks on Instagram because I like to imagine that people find me witty and interesting. There's usually a link to my blog despite there never being anything relevant on it whatsoever. 
To remedy that, here are some things I've said. Filth, mostly. But I'm looking forward to seeing seeing them attributed to Marilyn Monroe, Abraham Lincoln, and Buddha, any time soon. 
Yes, that was an Oxford comma. I fucking love an Oxford comma, sometimes. 

*I'm pretty sure the Muon one was me. I certainly say it when I'm cross. 

They Laughed At Semmelweiss Too, You Know

I made this, because it was funny. But to prove I actually thought about it, here is an explanation.
Admittedly, I didn't think about it very hard. But I did try, a little. Then I posted it on Instagram and only about three people liked it. No-one on Twitter or Facebook gave a flying fuck - except Trevor. Trevor understands me. So, this explanation is for his benefit and mine. Bollocks to the lot of you.

Clearly, this element was just begging for discovery. Fortunately, Professor Mu works long into the night, burning the candle at both ends, but always grasping it firmly in the middle; and thus I bring you Bellendium. The 120th element in the great Mendeleev's periodic table (you may recall my other discoveries*, elements 114-119 - each of which turned out to be essential to the effective practice of Periodic Swears), its properties are as yet not fully understood; however in its inert state it has so far been found to be pretty fucking useless.
*Working with my esteemed colleague, Professor W. Wankblot

Anyway. I thought you might be interested to know how I discovered its stable isotopes - that's those numbers down the right-hand side, for anyone whose knowledge of the periodic table is - well, about the same as mine, really.
Without spelling it out and ruining the poetry of the moment (and you'd be amazed at where I get my thrills, you would,  truly) - I'll just leave this here.

PS: I just took the Sprigs to see As You Like It at the Globe. Wonderful as always, and with the added pleasure of seeing some of our Globe favourites like Arngeir, Michelle Terry and of course, James Garnon as Jacques. He singled out my very own "whining schoolboy" with "shining morning face", and I swelled with pride.

Wait - maybe that's one of the properties of -

- Never mind.

TEARS FOR EVERYONE'S GRANDMOTHER

This is a terrible picture of an excellent cup of coffee. I bought it at The River House in Frome. (They also serve the most delicious food, and they do milkshakes. I can't stand places that don't do milkshakes. When you have children, sometimes milkshake is as essential as the wet wipes which will inevitably follow. But this post is not about children, or coffee, or milkshake, or isn't-Frome-lovely.)
As I waited for my coffee, an old lady came in. She had a walking stick tucked under her arm and she was trying to manage her purse without dropping it, or the stick. She was doing well; she'd done it before. She tapped her way to the counter with tiny little steps and placed her order. She was all cheerful and her eyes were bright, though her old frame was delicate. When she turned to sit down, I pulled out her chair for her, and warned her that it was a bit wobbly because of the uneven floor. She squeezed my arm and thanked me as she sat down. Then my coffee was ready and I took it and said goodbye. She thanked me again; so did her son,  who had joined her.
It would be stupid to try to use great strings of heavy words to describe the looks on their faces. They each expressed a different kind of gratitude. Let me leave it at that.
I left with tears pouring down my face. Tears for my Grandmother.

I've written this on my phone, in the cattle market yard, crying. Sorry for the mistakes which I can't see.

SCREAMING AT THE UNIVERSE

I made this the other night when someone said 'Bastard' before the watershed.

Go on, fuck off. I've barely seen Eastenders since the days of Den and Angie, but I'm pretty sure Ange was fairly liberal with her language. It's hard to believe we were less uptight thirty years ago... actually no, it's obvious; but that's another story. In the meantime, fuck off with your faux outrage.  Sunday Fucking Express! Isn't it owned by a porn magnate?  It bloody is. I've forgotten his name, the massive c*nty hypocrite, and I can't be arsed to look it up. 

Anyway, here's the sky, because it's brilliant. Someone introduced me to Google Sky Maps, and I love him for it. Get it on your phone and point it at the sky. Then point it at your kitchen floor and get a funny feeling in your tummy.

I'm doing this on my phone, so I can't rotate the picture or anything. And it's like three in the morning, for fuck's sake. I'm just trying to feel better about the Universe, because somewhere, between here and the second picture, is a place where society has moved on from the absurdities pointed out in the first picture. 

I'm hopeful.