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.

A legitimate comment on rape fantasy. Also, baking

The Mirror (a poor quality UK tabloid) (as if there were a good quality UK tabloid) ran a story about the boyfriend of Natalie Bennett (leader of the Green Party) and his 'X-rated rants'. Turns out that what they mean is, he used to write a blog in which he addressed some controversial subjects without shying away from more unsavoury sides of whatever argument he chose. MAN HAS OPINION - NEWS!
Oh dear. What a good thing I am neither standing as a parliamentary candidate, nor married to anyone who is. I'll show them a X-rated rant. He dealt with - 'He'. I can't even remember his name. What was it? Help me out here, hive mind - Jepps, I think that was it, Jepps - he dealt with subjects like rape fantasy and paedophilia, in a thought-provoking way. Controversial, yes, and I cannot say that I agree with everything he said. But I take particular exception to the way the Mirror handled what they considered the most outrageous of his comments (I'm that stupid. I object so strongly to something the Mirror said that I feel compelled to blog about it. Thank fuck I never pick up the Sun. Not that I picked up the Mirror. Facebook delivered it into my lap. Fuck off, Facebook. I've had enough of you. More of that later.

To return to my point: he said this, according to the Mirror.
If I could be arsed I'd dig out my copy of Nancy Friday in which she said the same thing but forty years ago. Was it okay for her because she's a woman? An academic? Or because she said it discreetly between the covers of a book and she isn't married to a parliamentary candidate? Or because she said it at least a generation ago when - somehow - it was less controversial than it is today, which I cannot believe? Just to be clear, Nancy Friday's research included the fact (which some may find uncomfortable, but please let's not forget she was talking to real people - real women - whilst conducting her research) that some women fantasise about rape scenarios. The important point to remember here is FANTASISE. People fantasise about all kinds of hyper-real situations and activities. That does not in any way suggest that they wish to make it reality. At all.

This is a non-story. Like all the other smear-type stories in the run-up to the general election. Grow up, media, and focus on fucking policies. Though of course I recognise it isn't just the media who are responsible for this sort of shite.  Look what a hatchet job the Tories managed to do on themselves with this bit of spinny-platery. Twats.

Of course people are interested in lurid details. This is because, when you get right down to it, everyone is twelve. We all are. The honest among us think nob jokes, Your Mum and pull-my-finger are the funniest things in the world. Unsophisticated, yes; but Puerile just never stops being funny. The less honest pretend to be too mature to laugh whenever anyone says 'bellend' or 'titwank', but they're pretty much all still pruriently obsessed with the private lives of others. Maybe the reason for this obsession is a refusal to accept what Nancy Friday pointed out in the first place. Not even in the first place - Kinsey was there first, I think, in the fifties. See? Sex was not invented in 1963. 

The honest among us are more likely to read a blog like that and say, Okay, let's talk about it. Or if some parliamentary candidate or other enjoys being spanked on the weekend, we truly don't give a fuck because it's their business. I hate - and I mean I really HATE - to agree with Max Mosley on this, but I do. 
As for the spanky candidate, I object to his public conduct far more than his private conduct. He's a UKIP candidate. Now, there's offensive. Ha - spanked on the weekend? I'd much rather be spanked on the -

Never mind.

What did I allude to before? Yes - Facebook. I've given it up. To be precise: I haven't deactivated my account; I still have Messenger, I may occasionally update my fanpages, and Instatwit still auto-feeds to my timeline. But for a while I need to remember what it was like when I didn't have humanity at its most repulsive, plopped straight into my lap. Actually, that's not even fair.  My Facebook friends are lovely.  I received very little in the way of unpleasant stories and blind ignorance - not to say it wasn't there but it could have been far worse.  My greatest irritation was - is - the propensity to share improbable 'news' stories without checking facts first. Does anyone seriously think that's what a sheep looks like after it's been shorn? Fuck's sake, people. 
No, I just - I just need a break. That's all. Stick around, though, hey? All, I don't know, three of you who are reading this? I'll say this: nothing like giving up Facebook to remind you that nobody is listening.

Anyway, here's another thing. My son and I were reading Harry Potter together the other night when he suddenly turned his face to me and said, Mum - what's a c**t?
I felt an unexpected mix of shock and glee. I put my hand over my mouth and snorted as if I were - well, as if I were twelve. See? Told you.
- Did you just say what's a c**t? 
- Yes. 
- Where did you hear that word? Don't let it be from me, don't let it be from me, don't let it be from me...  
- The bike track. Phew. And it's in that book you gave me. 
- I don't think it is. 
- No, it is. 
- No, it isn't. It can't be. I know it's got 'slut' in it, but it can't possibly have c**t in it. 
- So tell me what it means?
So I explained about Anglo Saxon words, and Norman invaders, and taboo words, and the difference between internal and external genitalia, and the mystery of the female body, and the fear of it, and witchcraft, and the subjugation of women, and feminism, and shock value, and slang, and social context. We talked about words for the male organ being used as pejoratives too. He looked half terrified, half delighted.
I explained all this. Then I added,
- And if I ever hear you say it, I'll knock your fucking block off.
- Mum! Stop swearing!
- I love you, Son.
- Love you more, no returns.

No words.

And finally, here's one more thing. This happened.

Then this happened, and he was satisfied.

So I made these, because he was brave.

BUT I also made something else, which I didn't take a picture of because they all got ate up in like three minutes. But here's the recipe, because one day when I publish a collection of my incredible creations this will be among them.

BACON MOTHERFUCKING COOKIES
1. Make cookie dough. The big soft melty kind. I've told you how to do that before, and I'm not giving it all away that easily
2. Fry six rashers of smoked bacon, cut up small, with two teaspoons of cinnamon, one dessertspoon of cocoa and a tablespoon of sugar
3. Add the bacony bits to the cookie dough with half a bag of dark chocolate chips. I don't know how much that is. Half a small bag. It's up to you, it's cookies, not thermite*.
4, Bake those motherfuckers until they're golden. Golden, I tell you. Then use them as bait to catch attractive bearded tattooed hipsters. Works like a fucking charm.

I'm guessing.

*Now, THIS is thermite. Booom!

I'M NOT LITTLE. BUT I AM FIERCE

Right. Um, Easter Rant. Her Royal Popelyness speaks to the Nation. Largely the Nation ignores me, so I will just carry on and say whatever I like. There¹.

Today is Easter Saturday (or it was when I began writing), as that Great British Authority, the 'Radio Times' calls it, or, to the rest of us, Saturday.
I'm going to try not to get all ranty about things I've seen lately on social media. Anyone would think I didn't have a life, if I were to carry on about sexist babygros or the colour of dresses. Both of those, incidentally, I will choose to file under ''Things About Which I Literally Can't Even''.

Really. I just can't. 

 Maybe I ought to rant about Religion. It's just the time of year, of course. The trouble with that is that there are plenty of other pithy bloggers out there, any of whom will destroy Christianity for the mythology-stealing cult-that-got-lucky that it is. You know, according to some. It's easy enough to take it apart piece by piece: nothing that illogical can survive the application of - well, of Logic.
The problem is that People have to Believe In Something. This is true for most, though not for all of us. I don't believe in anything. Why should I? If something is real, I don't need to believe in it, because it will exist whether I believe in it or not.  And if something is not real, why, what sort of blinking idiot believes in things that aren't real?
I don't believe in anything. But some people need to. So I propose this. If one cannot take away a belief system in case it leaves a hollow, empty void into which anything may be poured (and think how unsuitable that could be, I mean they might discover they like Art, or Music, or Theatre, or Sex, or other horribly imaginative and/or unsuitable activities) - replace it with another belief system. Replace it with Shakespeare.
Okay. I was wrong. I do believe in something.  I believe that William Shakespeare wrote the plays of William Shakespeare.  This is a good thing to believe - ticking, as it does, all the necessary boxes for Belief, being as there is sufficient doubt surrounding the idea for some quite scholarly people to refute it.  Narcolepsy. I do not know why I wrote that. I fell asleep and when I woke up, I saw I'd written 'Nar' and I'd forgotten why. I fell asleep, mid-word. That's well funny, that is.
Also, many people don't like Shakespeare, and think he's boring, probably without ever having read or seen any, but having been forced to do it at school. So you see, my idea has that in common with Religion, too.
The crucial difference is this. No-one ever killed anyone in the name of Shakespeare. Okay, I'm sure someone has done so, somewhere, some time, in a fit of theatrical passion. But no nation ever went to war over Hamlet. No despot ever tortured a minority group because William said it was meet and right so to do. No-one ever claimed that Titus Andronicus was carrying out God's work.

From an article originally in the Times

All of humanity is in Shakespeare: Good, Evil, Love, Hate, Passion, Murder, Virtue, Sin, Beauty, Horror, Wisdom, Folly. And language - oh, Language. Wild and whirling words. Like the Bible, Shakespeare may be interpreted in myriad ways. Unlike the Bible, that's absolutely fine. How refreshing.
So if you must ask for guidance in time of need; if you seek succour in your melancholy; relief from your pain; balm for a wounded heart; strength when in doubt; by all means, turn to The Good Book. Just make sure it's the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

And what of Worship? Worship. What a singularly odd thing to do. I can remember going to church as a very small child, and hearing the liturgy - blah blah blah, "we are not worthy so much as to pick up the crumbs beneath your table..." - and thinking, with eight-year-old child-logic, "well, I am."

No need to worship The Bard. Though, you could, if you liked; if by 'worship' you meant 'go to the theatre'. Or 'go to the theatre and see something besides the Phantom of the fucking Opera³, for fuck's sake⁴'.

The Globe would become my Church, and I would go every Sunday. Religiously.

¹I take that back.  Someone did ask for a 'hot cross bun' on Friday - but I had to disappoint him². Sunday is my Ass-Selfie day.

²Who am I kidding? Of course I didn't. It's on Instagram.

³I had to Google top London musicals because I didn't know any.

⁴Look at that. I almost made it to the end without letting one slip. Or two.