tartan bunker

I am not a scientist though some of the boss’s good friends etc… but I am concerned about Cern. I understand the odd sentence of explanation about what’s going on but join them all up and I don’t. So if the Big Bang is being replicated within the next few months, I fail to understand how sheets of metal and a few magnets can contain such a force.  I’m going to celebrate Xmas early, in October. 

They’re back. The missing decorators. Unwitting tormentors of MacMog. And me, too. No time to think. An entire day clearing out rooms, and the lad’s on spitting terms. And if I didnae suffer already with a back, I would by now. Dekaydence R&D are working on virtual home makeovers. I cannae wait: missing decorators returning only for a wee dram instead of chaos and MacMog gets to live his eight lives in purrfect peace. 

The number of cobblers in our lives is rocketing. And I’m not talking of the skilled repairers of boots and shoes, now in decline thanks to cheap footware made by enslaved infants for less than a pittance. No, these cobblers are of an official ilk, and include in their number a health and safety inspector who visited the school where a friend teaches. All went well - maybe too well for statistical purposes- until this Official Cobbler espied two boxes on top of a cupboard. “They’re a safety hazard,” said the OC. “They’re there in case we have to return the computer and the printer. And they’re empty,” said Friend. “But should the cupboard topple …” said the OC. “The cupboard is fixed securely to the wall with strong brackets and has been for more than the 30 years I’ve been at the school. Never once has it never fallen over or shown any inclination to so do, “ said Friend. “I’ll take down the boxes so you can tick your box. When you’ve left, I’ll put them back up again.” At least the OC had the decency to smile and nod sympathetically.  But in a few years, with more droned OCs . . .  

Imagine everyone involved in the production of food (excepting grains) was dying and couldn’t be replaced. The consequence? A global bare larder within a few years. A plug for the latest Dekaydence horror movie? No, ma friends, this is no fairytale, this is our world now: our food producers, the humble pollinating bees, are facing extinction – for varied, some unknown, reasons but which could include a virus and the intensive farming of bees. So, not because ma wee lavender bush attracted 27 bees last year, and this year, three alone; nor because Einstein may/or not have said that if bees go the planet’s got four years: The bottom line appears to be that the extinction of the humble bee could cause a global tsunami of food loss. I’d say it’s time for intensive investment in intensive research. Maybe also an intensive rethink on how we co-exist with nature. So, bee active: campaign now. Dekaydence is.

Thoughtlessness in society today involves chemical and germ warfare. Last week, my goddaughter, playing tennis with friends on an indoor court, had to change ends simply to avoid breathing in the pungent fumes from an over-scented moron, obviously of the same mind-set as the women who attend the gym in perfume and full make-up. At the weekend, the same goddaughter was at a bbq. Here, in a tight scrum against the rain, a smiley, fey mother - the type which brings me out in a rash - held a wilting youngster who she’d “never seen so poorly as she was last night.”  I’m not attempting to join up the dots for legal proceedings but it is a fact that the goddaughter is now laid low with a chest infection, affecting work, play, and her own disability. Don’t fret about weapons of mass destruction, only the increasing army of the thoughtless. 

A Black Tartan Guard fell down a hole in the park last week. He’s still recovering. Mind, it wasn’t any Alice in Wonderland hole; just your average wee hole, left by a large stake, and someone who couldn’t be a**’d to fill in. Hence my lad, on a regular run to keep fit, was felled. Couldn’t stand for a good wee while. How he made it back to barracks, I do not know. Likewise, there’s a pathway in town. It’s awash always wi’  broken glass, spittle etc. . . . I wonder the people who do this. Even if they have no thought of others do they feel they’re immune from such ‘accidents’ happening to themselves?  Or are they just thick? Whatevva, they should be made to understand how and what might happen to them if they continue to behave in this way.  You see, I wish for us all to Have a nice Dekaydence day.

Unlike WC Fields who said he liked children but couldn’t eat a whole one, I don’t but I reckon I could. Not because they’re tasty ( I wouldna’ have a clue about that) but because it appears it might be the only way to get rid of them when they’re being a bloody nuisance. Like bawling non-stop for two hours in a restaurant. And the parents do nothing. Ok, ok, to be fair, make the parents the main course. And I thought once that piped Sassenach music in a restaurant was the ultimate turn-off.

Shirts. How, and why, did they evolve? More to the point, how best to iron the blighters, given that the material from which they’re often made behaves like a contortionist with arthritis. I was taught to iron first that long thin bit above the shoulders, below the collar – there’s always wee bits which pucker and crinkle like the flowers flown thousand o’miles to your local garage which wither and die the moment they scent a vase. Sleeves have the same mentality, and why are they bicycle-pumped into gross shapelessness. Mebbe it’s a case of a good ironing board, to stretch out the thing on a rack from the Spanish Inquisition, so mebbe I’ll have a rummage in the Professor’s old R&D cupboard at Dekaydence. You never know what you might find there.  

I’ve made some big mistakes in my life but I reckon the biggest one was being born into this cruel world. Overdue, longer than most library books, I clung on in there. Eventually, they had to come in and get me. And on the way out, my mother told me, I bit the doctor and poked a wee finger into his eye. He got just that bit too close. No one gets too close to me. Only ma animals. Like wee MacMog. Now he has got some crazy left hook paw. Takes the top of a milk bottle in a flash or a layer of skin off the milkman if he’s a tad late. But I feel guilty sometimes: We take lone animals and herd animals and cosify up to them. Turn them into loners, such as me. At least I have my Tartan Guards and Dekaydence. What do the animals have?

We’re in London during the week, in ma wee flat above the shop at Dekaydence hq. Catflaps back and front so MacMog comes and goes as he pleases: I ask no questions; MacMog tells me no lies. But this past few weeks, he’s been tearing back in as though all four horsemen of the Apocalypse and Lassie are after him. The reason? Squawking robins at the back, assuming he’s after their young; and likewise, at the front, dive-bombing blackbirds. How come they don’t they realise that MacMog is well passed fighting for a mcmorsel of fledgeling and prefers chilling out in the sunshine? I see a lot of unnecessary creature stress and wonder who’s implementing God’s plan? Now, if Dekaydence got control . . .