|Posted by jez on November 8, 2010 at 6:00 AM|
…shaved the leg of a sozzled Rastafarian after a night in the Cavern club in a place called the Grassmarket. Jack downed a tab, about an hour later he suddenly started experiencing god like sensations, so when this god had made up his mind that he was going to stroll happily and slap through a rowdy group of short sleeved, tight braced, white shirted skinheads slamming their juiced heads about like there was no tomorrow, there had to be absolutely no hesitation. It did not take a place called Greendykes tattooed in the usual Indian ink indelibly etched with a rusty needle across the forehead to deduce that there was a distinct possibility of a jolly good doing on the cards in that copped out crowd, though a synonymous loss of both pseudo and non-pseudo consciousness to boot did. It didn’t take five aces to deduce that, but Jack had ‘em all so he went ahead and did it regardless of the aforementioned clap. The idea would be to take them all by surprise before they could come to what might be left of their silly senses and before they spontaneously tore Jack’s confident little drug induced walkabout to shreds. Instead they all stopped as Jack passed through the Milky way like a galaxy colliding with a solid assembly of stars. Then life-changingly post an evil smelling gob smacked pause, the bovver boys carried on prancing, almost mindlessly, as if the unwarranted intrusion was no big deal, and nothing, no nothing, bar decidedly blinkered walkabouts, possible Buddhist monks bursting into flames, or a call for last orders was going to slow that delightfully diabolical dance. Of the, searing and obviously startling subject of bursting into flames, skinheads with future potentials to throw a less obvious though actually totally feasible lot into the building of a Buddhist monastery, the politics of immolation, not to be confused with spontaneous human combustion, does beg immediate mention at this turn due to the questionably “preponderant evidence” of a pretentious proselyte, self professed enlightened one and born again drunk that starry, starry night, or I should say early, early morning who was suggesting that advice best be sought should one come to the cocked up conclusion he was going to set himself on fire. The actual words… “You’ve got to know what you’re doing.” Really…!! Well holy bonfire night Batman I hadn’t thought of that, maybe next time I burn myself to death I’ll come to you for advice. Probably a bucket of water or a phone at hand and not a copy of the very, very dry P.D. Ouspensky’s ‘In search of the miraculous’ would be the best remedy should the unbelievable urge when it was far too late to change one’s mind that the notion of an unlikely world changing event ever happening all because of some imbecilic act of roasting oneself alive in the far-out twenty first century might not have been such a good and far out idea after all. As for unlocking the less obvious arithmetical nuances of the skinhead kingdom and while totally under the influence of a single docile downer; lets ponder Postman Pat, hundreds of letterboxes in say one Niddrie block East of Westerhailes alone. Of course Niddrie’s East of nowhere, but only because one might implicitly perceive that God wants nothing to do with the spiritless place, which is of course crap of course, because of course He does. However, that is one block alone, at first glance insurmountable, but when you have lifts as well as stairs and you divide the posting by days, the enormity of it might seem easier to swallow. No, it isn’t, it is a purgatorial prison and an exhausting nightmare, although it would be better than living in say somewhere like “Kahr-Dro-Na” East of Peebles. Just imagine what it must be like living in a place like that, someone has to. People counting on their giros day in day out, depending on the day of the week their giros fell. Once upon a time giros all arrived on a Saturday with no exception, now they‘re quite rare. But that is where God is, those are His people and His people who see it are there too, that‘s them, they‘re the ones who are the world changers, they are the heaven headers. Anyway getting back to downers and the politics of cheating. One might as well hand one’s best buddy the score sheet when the teacher’s back is turned, or openly refuse to give a really unique urine sample at say the Olympics for the purpose of a testing, in view of possible testosterone fuelled suspicions afoot. All of this unholy crap just really goes to show that the pupil nor the athlete can ever turn their back on the true teacher, and that is - the teacher of the soul of course. I’ll tell you what, if I was the jolly judge, they’d all be barred.
Joseph M. Ippolito.