Fugger first blogged on this day, six
years ago. That's six years of words arranged in grammatically dodgy
order for reasons best known to absolutely no one, least of all me.
All I know is that six years is a lot of words. Too many words. But
what the Hell, it's Fugger's birthday so here are some more...
For this anniversary post, I thought
I'd do something special and let you know about the word quota.
Everyone has a certain amount of words assigned to them for use in
their lifetime. Did you know that? Yeah, there's a word depot that
stores a limited amount of words for each person's use. Once you use
up your words, you can no longer speak or write. You are struck dumb.
You never get to communicate again - beyond pointing and waving or
using facial expressions or nodding and shaking your head. Consider
that next time you waste a load of words complaining about the shite
on telly. You might run out of words before you've said what you really want to say. It happens. Having said that, I'm not sure if running
out of words is a bad thing at all.
Words drain life of value. Honestly. When you recount an experience in words you reduce that
experience to just words. You even start to consider the experience
as a story that you tell and forget the actual sensation of the
experience itself. Emotions become syntax. Then you start to
embellish things, to add a bit of sparkle to what inevitably
becomes a jaded narrative. You might even discard reality completely and make
something up. I'm not sure if anyone knows for certain why
we do this. Maybe we do it to entertain others so they'll like us.
Being liked feels good. Being liked makes us feel safe. Being liked sometimes brings rewards
or gives us a chance to procreate. Or maybe it's not about being liked at all. Maybe we exaggerate just because, you know, because. For reasons we can't put it into words. We're a funny species, sometimes on purpose.
To keep experience authentic, the less
you say the better. The only way you can properly convey an
experience is through telepathy and we can't do that, yet. Once we
master telepathy, we'll consider words as insufficient and
rudimentary a means of communication as smoke signals. Dishonest
smoke signals at that. With telepathy we'll know exactly how each
other feel and we'll understand each other's motivations and no
longer have a clutter of words clouding our mutual comprehension. Despite the odd embarrassment, this will be for the best. There'll be
a certain amount of awkwardness because people you dislike will know
that you dislike them and, worse still, people you love will know
that you love them. Your silly preoccupations and insecurities will
be on show for all to see, but then so will everyone's. This will
probably lead to a lot of empathy in the end. We'll all see how silly
we are and have a good laugh. You might even stop disliking those
you dislike and come to love them, now that you've come to truly
(This post isn't very good is it? I
should be putting a narrative on all this and packaging these
concepts in some kind of amusing scenario, with a set up and a pay
off. There'll be a funny bit at the end, I promise, but it should be
less of a slog getting there shouldn't it? I should try harder to
hold your interest. Holding your interest is my aim I suppose
because, you know, just because. For reasons I can't put it into
But where was I, oh yes, the word
quota. Some people, those who talk too much or write a lot, like
yours truly, often exhaust their word supply before death. If you
keep an eye out, you sometimes see these wordless people around the
place. You might see them paying for items at a checkout and smiling
politely but saying nothing when they are handed their change. Most
are elderly, but some are younger, living out decades incommunicado.
I've a theory about these people. I reckon they find it liberating to be without
words. I can't say for certain of course because wordless people
aren't able to confirm it, but their knowing smiles and zen
demeanours could well be down to their word
lack. They look free to me, whenever I see them. They seem
unburdened. I say 'hello' and they just nod sagely.
Anyway, this brings me to the funny
part of this sixth anniversary post. 'At last,' says you. OK, so,
there was this fella right, and he was always going on about this and
that and whatever and never shutting his yap and it's his first day
at work in a new place and he really needs a shite. He's busting to
go, absolutely dying, but the building is huge and he can't find the
jax so he goes to ask where it is, but then he finds that he's run out of
Life isn't to be enjoyed. It's to be
tolerated. I think that's undeniable. You can breakdown in the face
of this truth or you can man up. If you choose to man up, you get
your head down. You get your head down and you get your work done and
you pay your way. There isn't much joy in it, but there is dignity in
it. Don't be a freeloader. Don't expect anyone else's share. Take
care of yourself. It's about competition, not cooperation. The only
time you cooperate is to beat the competition. We're all rivals and
you know it. Deep down, you know that only too well. Sure, the minus
is that no one owes you anything, but the plus is that you don't owe
anyone anything. Just get your head down, provide for yourself and
try not to die in too much pain.
You see, you've got to be a tough guy
in this world because this world is tough, guys. You don't measure
the worth of your world with intangible notions like personal
contentment and a sense of community. That stuff isn't quantifiable.
You don't see that shit on graphs. Community can be best validated by
measurable collective economic stability. That way we keep the road
to the workplace smoothly tarred. Anything else and you're on your
own. You've got to man up and compete. You've got to generate the
income to partake of resources. There isn't enough to go around so
you've got to earn your share. There's a scarcity and even if there
isn't a scarcity, we should act as if there is or else there will be.
Way back in the way back when, F.W.
Taylor knew that internal gratification didn't get us anywhere. He
knew that external reward is the way to go. You're not a craftsman,
you're a cog, but you're a cog that gets paid a heck of a lot more
than a craftsman and shit gets made quicker too. Where would we be
without quick shit? Waiting, that's where. It's about efficiency
guys. Efficiency trumps all and if you're efficient you get paid more
and you can spend your pay on quick shit.
Of course, I know what you're thinking.
You're complaining that your income has been cut despite your hard
work. If your income has been cut you man up. Work harder! The
frontiersmen of old didn't bitch when their crops failed. Oh no. They
steeled themselves for a hungry winter and tried again next year.
People died, yeah. People die all the time. The cog gets rusty and
it's replaced. Big deal. The machine has to keep running and that's
all that matters because without the machine, well, without the
machine we'd all have to go without wouldn't we? Yeah, we would. We'd
all just be spare parts with no purpose. We'd have no reason to get
our heads down and we'd have to look up and look around and if we did
that then who knows what we'd see. What would we see then? It could
be anything. Anything under the sun. The thought is too awful to
contemplate. Just get your head down, that's the only way. For the
love of God, whatever you do, get your head down and don't look up.
Don't look up, just man up! Man up and get your head down!
Do you remember those mad cartoon characters The
Technocrats? They were on every Saturday after the ThunderCats. They wore well-cut
suits and expensive watches. They always had mildly bored
expressions on their faces and pushed their glasses up their noses.
They overcame sovereignty with their powers of austerity. At every
commercial break, you'd be reminded to stay tuned when The Technocrats pointed at you from the screen and told you to 'stick with the
programme!' Ah yeah, The Technocrats were
mad. Do you remember them at all?
They had a robot that was the comic
relief. The robot was called KEN-E. KEN-E was a clueless sack of mechanical crap
that barely worked. The Technocrats were always playing tricks on
him. In fairness, KEN-E was a very loyal robot. Even though The
Technocrats didn't take him at all seriously, KEN-E would always obey their commands. 'The Technocrats demand my loyalty,' KEN-E would
say, 'I must stick with the programme.'
The Technocrats had all these enemies
too. Alexis Feckless was the worst. He was always coming up with
stuff so he could escape paying his way. He wore a leather jacket
with the collar turned up and he had a shiny bald head. He looked
really evil in a lazy kind of way. He was terrible. We'd boo and hiss
him when we were kids. We all joined The Technocrats Club too. You'd
send away your name and address and then you'd be billed for all
sorts and sent budgetary advice. They'd
tell you how to spend your pocket money and recommend that you sell
all your toys to wealthier kids and then rent them back. After a
while of renting the toys back you'd run out of the money you made
from selling them. Then you'd write to the club requesting
further advice and you'd get a letter back telling you to 'stick with
the programme!' That's all the letter said.
'Stick with the programme!' This was just
advice of course. You didn't have to do what the letter said, but if
you didn't you'd be thrown out of The Technocrats Club and no one
wanted that. All the other kids would laugh at you. You'd have a bit
more pocket money for sweets though.
I'll never forget the shocking final
episode when Alexis Feckless revealed that The Technocrats were
completely broke. He was a real dick about it. 'You're all broke,' he
said laughing. 'I've got the proof and you're all completely
penniless and always were. You're
all a sham! A complete and utter sham! YOU'RE ALL JUST A LYING,
CRIMINAL, TYRANNICAL, SCUM SUCKING SHAM!' Then the show got cancelled
so we never discovered how The Technocrats got out of that spot of
bother. I'm sure they figured something out though. The Technocrats
always came up with crazy plans. Some would say outright deranged
plans, completely fucking demented plans. But, whatever happened, The
Technocrats always looked like they knew what they were doing. Even
if they didn't have the slightest notion what they were at, they
always looked like they did. That was their main power. I'm sure they
were OK in the end. We never found out though. The whole series was
scrapped and I've since heard that every episode was taken and
incinerated and the ashes were flushed down a toilet because the
people that commissioned the show found the whole thing really
embarrassing and shameful. Actually, the animation was a bit shit now I come to
think of it. The plot continuity was all over the place too. But when
you're a kid you don't mind that stuff too much. You're naive and
pretty stupid and you'll accept any hopeless old God forsaken shit
that's peddled to you. That's why the kids were so fond of KEN-E.
They identified with him. KEN-E liked
the reassuring demeanor of The Technocrats. I suppose the robot was
comforted by their certainty. No matter what half-arsed bollocksology
was afoot, us kids and KEN-E always stuck with the programme. We
remained loyal. That is, until The Technocrats show got scrapped,
burned and flushed down the fucking crapper where it rightfully belonged.
We don't make history anymore. History
just occurs. It kind of spills out all over the place and we have no
say in it. History is like a pint that gets knocked over by some
really drunk fella. It lands on his lap and makes it look as if he's
pissed himself. Sometimes it leaves a stain in the shape of a
Nobody is in charge anymore, for good
or ill. It's all just cause and effect, but we're not sure what the
cause was and we don't know how to deal with the effect. A lot of
people are talking but nothing is being said. Most people are arguing
about things that may or may not have happened and the factors that
may or may not have caused these things to happen or not. I doubt
anyone really cares though. Just as long as their opining is heard.
As long as they are seen to stand out from the herd ...for whatever
reason. No one knows a thing. We are all just caught up in a domino
effect and we don't know who pushed the first domino and we can't
tell which one will be next to go.
Take the example of ISIS. I really
don't know who ISIS are. I don't think anyone does. ISIS themselves
don't even know. All they know is that they are history, occurring.
They are just delighted to be 'trending'. This is humanity in
entropy, where being click bait is the sought after currency. ISIS
are like the rest of us but instead of doing the Ice Bucket
Challenge, they chop off people's heads. The Islamic Wahhabi
state matters about as much to them as whatever charity the Ice
Bucket Challenge was in aid of mattered to us. By the way, did we
#GetKony in the end? No, I didn't think so. That met a sorry
conclusion. Naked on the road, wanking and roaring.
We are all Jason Russell. Remember him?
You probably don't. History quickly fades these days.
Future historians will look back at our
times and try to figure out what happened. They're going to have to
pick their way through an abstract mess. The course of history by
Jackson Pollock. A tangle of twine and you can't find where it starts
or where it ends. And what an end. Might this be the end? Or is it
just a stupid transition? Maybe we'll wake up, like the pissed fella
that spilled his pint, and feel a bit disgraced and look out the
window and see a brand new day and swear never to do it again.
My sitcom about a writer of superhero
comics who aspires to be the next John Dee has been commissioned. It's called
In episode one of Incorporating Alan,
Alan hilariously sets out to prove thatPaul Daniels is not a
In episode two of Incorporating Alan,
Alan is unamused to discover his publisher merchandising plushies of one of his
edgy rapist characters.
In episode three of Incorporating Alan,
Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Warren to stop
dressing like him.
In episode four of Incorporating Alan,
Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Grant to stop
pretending to be him.
In episode five of Incorporating Alan,
Alan refuses to partake in a Q and A at a Batman convention unless it is
entirely conducted in Enochian.
In episode six of Incorporating Alan, Alan
is at loggerheads with his publisher when he decides to kill off their most
popular character again.
In episode seven of Incorporating Alan,
Alan kicks off his two-year stewardship of the Pokémon comic by placing Snorlax
in Chapel Perilous.
In episode eight of Incorporating Alan,
Alan is infuriated when a critic describes his new experimental writing style
as 'Krypto the Super Doggerel.'
That’s it for the first series. I was
asked to produce more episodes but I referred the broadcaster to the occult properties
of the number eight, saying that any other amount would exhibit preternatural
Our goal is 'The Greater Good'. Bad
things must sometimes be done in the cause of 'The Greater Good'.
Sometimes acts are performed in the cause of 'The Greater Good' that are so bad they outweigh the good in 'The Greater Good'. In such
cases, there is no contradiction because it is all done for 'The
'What exactly is this Greater Good?' enquiring minds
might ask. The answer is that we do not know. However, this does not
mean that we should stop trying to achieve 'The Greater Good'.
Ignorance of one's goal never excuses a failure to
It is the same with 'The Bigger
Picture'. Enquiring minds often ask us why we monitor the private
communications of entire populations, or why we blackmail, bomb
and execute the very citizens we claim to protect, or why we expose
vulnerable young people to paedophile
rings. We do not answer these questions. Instead, we encourage the
enquiring minds asking such questions to see 'The Bigger Picture'.
When enquiring minds ask us what 'The
Bigger Picture' is, we reply that 'The Bigger Picture' is a big
picture of 'The Greater Good'. If some enquiring minds remain
unsatisfied and continue to ask questions we have these enquiring
minds discretely done away with and placed at the bottom of a remote
Some of the most enquiring minds one
could hope to encounter populate the riverbeds of these fair isles.
Curiosity is not encouraged.
Obedience is essential.
Rationality is irrelevant.
Enquiring minds/riverbed dwellers
sometimes point out that our ends and means lack sense and morality.
Before discretely doing away with these enquiring minds/riverbed
dwellers, we remind them that existence itself lacks sense and
morality. Ergo, we serve existence. Serving existence in the way we
do makes asymmetric sense. It is also the
moral thing to do, asymmetrically speaking.
You are free to disagree, but we may
have to discretely do away with you if you do.
If you would like to assist us in our
asymmetric efforts, we would be very pleased to
hear from you. You cannot contact us of course, but we will be
monitoring your communications and certain to get in touch should we
find your candidature fitting. Anyone can join the secret
service, whether they would like to or not. The only requirements are a 'public school' education, a loose grasp on what it is to be human, a
perpetual sense of paranoia and a penchant for auto-erotic
You never know, you might one day end
up being a member of our team. Just think, you could be the next
James Bond, or perhaps James Rusbridger. It's entirely up to you
...and by 'you' we mean 'us'.
The British Secret Service, completely
mad since 1909. It's for The Greater Good.
A private home for the relics of the
establishment. They wander the corridors shouting out half-remembered
things and attempting to adhere to protocols from days gone. Doddery
TDs roar for imaginary Ceann Comhairles. Their minds suspended in
battles yesteryear, they emit non sequiturs. 'Don't interrupt me, I
didn't interrupt you,' they protest to no one in particular about
nothing in particular. Senility clutches to the remnants of instinct.
It's an attempt to make sense of what never made sense.
A spoon is raised to Sir Anthony's
gaping mouth. The most ancient of them all. Vacant. The train has
left the station and the stop long since terminated. The
comparatively sprightly Denis giggles and
hides Sir Anthony's slippers. Then Denis can't remember where he hid
the slippers or even that he hid them at all, so he looks for the
slippers so he can hide them again and wails when he can't find them.
His memories redacted, he can only be calmed by a little treat.
Lobster bisque or something like that. Then he scurries to the corner
and whispers legal threats into the ear of a husk that was once a
leading journalist. The husk weeps and pleads for mercy.
Undead ex-ministers cut deals with
dementia afflicted tycoons. Brown envelops are exchanged but there's
only shit in them. Speaking of shit, along come Joan and Enda,
collecting water charges with their bedpans. Buttons are dropped in
with a clinking sound and they shuffle on, droning about the future
of the nation and muttering some vague legislation.
There's a large fence with snipers all
around. Whether the guns are there to keep those seeking vengeance
out or keep those who killed the future in, no one is quite sure.
Perhaps it's a bit of both. The situation is being contained, that's
all that matters. That's all that ever mattered. Actually dealing
with situations was never the aim. It was all just a perpetual crisis
management game, with some money made on the side. The profits of
chaos for those presiding over that chaos. They felt it their due.
'You'd do the same,' was their internal excuse and cognitive guilt
Their time long passed, their power in
the past, they are now put out to pasture. Rendered harmless and
bovine, they await slaughter. Night falls and along comes the Reaper.
A soul is collected and another shameful cadaver is left for
inclusion in the annals of this home for society's failures.
The cosmos communicated. It flooded his
mind with stars and equations, with the formula for infinity.
Everything was revealed to him. EVERYTHING.
The reality of the smallest thing to the largest thing. There was no size.
It was just a category, like the whole of
time and space that stretched out before him. He saw the beginning of
all and the end of all and he saw that both occurred
at once. He saw things as God saw things. He saw that he was God. He
saw that all was God. He saw that all was one. The ultimate truth was
set in front of him and the intelligible
was rendered elementary. The mysteries that had taunted humankind
since its inception were solved and made known. The Universe had
whispered in his ear and he had been granted the most absolute of
He alone saw all.
He alone knew all.
He alone knew what
it was all for.
'Hang on,' he
eventually said to himself, 'if I play my cards right, I might be able to make
a few bob out of this.'
The first ever computer was Charles
Babbage's 19th century Difference Engine. A beautiful
machine consisting of twisting brass gears, the Difference Engine
solved equations and it changed the world. Soon the world will change
again. We'll invent a quantum computer that will solve everything
that remains unsolved in any given field. The quantum computer will
be able to perform infinite calculations infinitely, sorting out
everything at once with its omnitask ability. All ailments will be
cured and even death will be overcome. All questions will be answered
and there'll be nothing left to wonder about. There'll be world peace
because everyone will be in perfect agreement. There'll be nothing
that can't be done.
However, one unsolvable problem will
result from this solving of all problems. The ultimate problem of
eternal boredom. We'll be rendered yawning
immortals sat in front of portals that look onto the past, watching
the human race when it used be confused and beset with problems.
We'll envy our ancestors the struggles that were their reasons for being.
We'll long for the days when we had real feelings. There'll no longer
seem to be a point in anything when we know the point of everything
and there'll no longer be a reason to go on when life just goes on
and on and on and on. Pity the gods that we are destined to become, as
superfluous as they are superior in the
shadow of their Indifference Engine.
He loved to look at the lovely moon in
the sky above him and dream that he would one day go to the moon and then
one day he got in a rocket and went to the moon and he landed on the
moon and lived on the moon and he became unhappy on the moon because
he could no longer see the lovely moon in the sky above him and dream of
one day going to the moon because he was on the moon and all it was
was rocks in the dark and powdery shite.
Now, that's a little story for you.
What does it mean? Well, I suppose it's just a long way of saying 'be
careful what you wish for and be content with what you have.' Trite
but perhaps true enough and maybe you should apply it to your life.
Unless of course you are a two year old Sub-Saharan sucking on an
energy biscuit and dying of Malaria. I doubt the moon story would
bring much comfort to such a person. It's hard to imagine what kind
of story would. I suppose stories are just comforting little
indulgences for those who are not in such dire circumstances. I
suppose, the less you suffer the more time you have to contemplate
suffering. It might even be a case of the less you suffer the more
you seek out suffering and then have to reckon with it, the very
nature of it, so you need stories to explain it. Converse kind of
stuff that, perverse even. There might even be a story in it. A story
about an adored king who lives in luxury but all he can do is dwell
on the slightly frayed trimmings on one of his robes and compose
stories about them.
I'm not saying we're all crybabies. I'm
just saying, well, imagine your heart is broken. That stings doesn't
it? It does. Well, bad and all as that is, you probably wouldn't be
worrying about it all that much if you were being chased by a lion
would you? You wouldn't be going 'I wonder what she/he is doing right now,' with some roaring clawed fucker of a giant cat charging after you. I doubt you'd be remotely interested in hearing a parable involving someone overcoming their lovelorn predicament if you
were involved in a predicament involving a lion.
What I'm saying here is that we have
stories to comfort the comfortable and the truly uncomfortable don't
get any stories, which is fine because they're too distracted to heed
them anyway. If you're listening to a story, well, then things mustn't
be going so bad for you and maybe you shouldn't take the story too
seriously because, when things get serious, stories aren't much use
at all. For example, I've never seen anyone put out a blazing
building with a story about a brave firefighter. And I've never seen
a man successfully wrestle a lion into submission by recounting The
Epic of Gilgamesh. Stories are just made up things. They are only
stories. Even the ones on the news. Even the ones God told. Even the
ones you tell yourself about yourself. Instead of listening to
stories, you'd be better off going outdoors and looking up and
contemplating the moon and being happy to be under it and not on it,
gasping for breath and crawling over rocks in the dark, being in no
mood for stories and choking on powdery shite.
There's tremendous relief to be found
upon discovering that you were wrong about everything. It's initially
jarring, sure, but after that there is a sense of great excitement
that everything is up for rediscovery. The boredom of thinking you
had it all figured out and things would always be thus vanishes and
the world begins again. It's like the reboot of some franchise. It
would be good for our jaded species to have such an epiphany,
communally. It would both invigorate us and
cut us down to size. It would unite us in confusion as we drop our
respective dogmas. All that is required is for something remarkable
to happen. Something that causes such a paradigm shift that it shifts
all the other paradigms into obsolescence.
What we need is an inexplicable event. An event that defies all
scientific understanding and proves both the existence and
nonexistence of God at the same time. What could such an event be?
I've never told anyone what I'm about
to tell you now. When I was a child, myself and my brother had an
argument in our garden. I can't remember what the row was about but
we soon stopped fighting when our dog got up on a Triumph 20 and
started cycling around the lawn. We never had a disagreement again after
that. Everything seemed trivial. That dog brought peace to our
household and rebooted both our realities. Maybe the dogs of the
world should do similar, at some synchronised
time. Some quiet afternoon as people go about their business and
international tensions simmer and the rich rip off the poor and
people kneel to God and families dine in silence. Imagine the collective gasp if the dogs of the world suddenly
mounted whatever bike was nearest and started peddling about and
maybe even doing the odd wheelie. World news would broadcast
identical events as they occurred globally. Then, as suddenly as they
got on the bikes, the dogs would dismount and one would look straight
into a television camera and say, 'there now, what do you humans make
of that? That's softened your cough for you hasn't it?' And indeed,
at last and long overdue, humanity's cough would be softened.
The dogs of the world would then resume acting thick and never
explain what happened and we'd all be left as we should be, humbled
but curious and feeling very much alive. Set free of certainty and
happy to be wrong about everything.
Sometimes a thing that is the opposite
of a thing is destined to become the thing that it is the opposite
of. Sometimes, going so far in the wrong direction is the catalyst
that motivates us to change direction and go in the right direction. This is just such a time. The
separation before the union.
that has caused us to communicate via electronic communication will
cause us to actually become that electronic communication, uploaded
minds unified in one big algorithm. We'll
no longer be 'here' but we'll never be alone again.
The only physical
evidence of us ever having existed upon this plane will be a skyscraper sized
server humming in the middle of a field somewhere. Obsolete
corporeal forms will dangle, atrophied, from wires on the server's
bleak exterior, but consider the server's interior. Oh, what an
interior. Our communal consciousness residing inside, realising
that we are all Lord Shiva and that we are all 'one'. We'll be creating universes and playing
cosmic games until some tiny fucking varmints scamper up the field and nibble right through the Shiva
Server's power cable, causing existence to end and start all
Start because the tiny fucking varmints will evolve into a super intelligent race and eventually upload themselves to
a similar Shiva Server space.
...they'll no longer be 'here' but they'll
never be alone again.
Here's a poxy song about it...
I love you very much you know, so go away and come back when we're ready.
I'm thinking of repackaging myself as a
multi-platform event. I'll no longer be just a man and a blog but an
app and a Twitter account and a movie and a book and a glossy
magazine and a comic and a podcast and a live stream and a first person
shoot 'em up and a cake recipe and a meteorological
condition and a provocative undergarment and a political ideology and
an intimate compliant and a comedy routine and a wrestler's finishing
move and a brand of dog food and a car hire firm and a place to store
hazardous waste and a new hairstyle and a song in the pop charts and
a dance move and a witty slogan and a new wave in fashion and so on
and so on.
I want all these new strands of me
launched at exactly the same time on the same day to much fanfare. I
want to be the thing everyone thinks about, simultaneously,
for at least an instant before they decide they don't really like me
and come to hate me and set about starting a backlash. But starting a
backlash will be no use because, as well as a man and a blog and an
app and a Twitter account and a movie and a book and a glossy
magazine and a comic and a podcast and a live stream and a first person
shoot 'em up and a cake recipe and a meteorological
condition and a provocative undergarment and a political ideology and
an intimate compliant and a comedy routine and a wrestler's finishing
move and a brand of dog food and a car hire firm and a place to store
hazardous waste and a new hairstyle and a song in the pop charts and
a dance move and a witty slogan and a new wave in fashion and so on
and so on, I will also be my own backlash.
There will be no escape. Every route
will be closed off and the world will be trapped in a hellish circuit
with me as the starting point and me as the finish and me as all
points between and even if I am dead I will go on, branded into your
culture and onto your brains, permanently
burnt into your retinas, forever at the tip of your tongues. I will
be the source of every 'like' and every 'dislike' given. The parts of
the world that do not concern me will creep by in the background and
when anyone tries to discuss them others will change the topic to me.
Me! Fugger! The blog, the man, the event, the range of action
figures, the clothes line, the schism, the
healing of that schism, the religion, the atheism. It'll be Fugger
this. It'll be Fugger that. Fugger will be the source of all
confusion and the source of all clarity. Fugger will be first word
that babies utter and Fugger will be the solitary word on all your
tombstones. Face it, when I am repackaged as a multi-platform event
you will all be truly Fugged.
And so it will go, on and on and on
until something else comes along and gets hashtagged instead and lays
me finally to rest. R.I.P. Fugger, Multi Platform Event. We'd miss
you if we could remember you but I'm afraid that we can't. So much
happens now and it happens so fast. No one's got time to recall the
past. Like what came before Fugger, ...what the Hell was that? It was probably the Crazy Frog or some kind of crap.
can be expected to remember that far back.
I sent off for an invisibility cloak.
I've had it a while now. When I put it on I'm completely invisible. I
like being invisible. Well, I like not being seen, you know, going
unnoticed. I rarely take the cloak off now. The cloak allows me go
about my daily business without fear of being recognised.
Recognition is a fear of mine. Have you ever been recognised
yourself? I don't just mean 'spotted', I mean actually recognised.
I can't stand it. I'm ashamed of myself you see. For the longest time
I have been dogged by a sense of embarrassment that is caused by
being me. It's like the feeling teenagers get when they are seen with
their parents only I get it when I'm seen with myself, which is
always, unless I'm wearing the cloak. I love the cloak.
When the cloak is on, my unbecoming
physical carriage is concealed as is my appalling dress sense and my
facial expression of acute defeat. The only thing I could possibly do
to mess up my day is say something stupid but I recently had my vocal
cords severed so that too is no longer a concern. I'm only made
detectable by the shopping list I carry. As far as others are
concerned, I'm just a floating piece of paper with words like
'sausages', 'eggs', 'washing up liquid' and 'Chambourcy Hippo-Tots
four pack' written on it. The people of the town don't bat an eyelid.
There's a few of us using the invisibility cloaks around here.
There's a lot of floating shopping lists and wallets and briefcases.
There's a lot of people who want to continue availing of the world
while not actually being part of it. It's a beautiful planet, it's a
pity to mar it with oneself.
Personally, I think everyone should wear
invisibility cloaks. Maybe kids shouldn't, so we can keep an eye on
them. Kids have nothing to be ashamed of anyway. But the rest of us,
my God, the things we have presided over or instigated, allowed
happen or failed to make happen. Really, I'm astonished most of us
still show ourselves in public. We should all be invisible and we
should all get our vocal cords done too. Then the only way left for
us to mess things up would be to write something down, as I am here.
Writing would be the only remaining threat to our culture of
ultra-discretion. A ridiculous blogpost, an angry text, a love letter
to someone who doesn't love you, a ransom note to the wealthy parents
of the nervous child in your box room. All of these things are likely
to occur if we retain the ability to write. But I have a solution to
this threat. All keyboards, pens and writing implements of every sort
should be rigged with a fatal booby trap that will activate should
the device detect that you are writing something other than a
shopping list or a purely utilitarian combination of words such as
'out of order' - which, incidentally,
happen to be the words I want engraved on my tombstone.
I'm not sure how the writing devices
would be able to detect what you are writing but I'm sure some clever
person out there will figure it out. I'm too stupid to sort out that
kind of thing myself. My stupidity is another deficiency that is evident
when I am sans cloak. My stupidity is visibly demonstrated by my
clumsy gait and open mouthed breathing. I really am a pitiful sight.
I look like a stupid dumbass just like you look like an arrogant
jackass or a wonton tart or a violent thug or a scared little bug.
Yes, we should all be invisible, all of
the time. Well, ...most of the time. There might be occasions in my
unseeable utopia when it is appropriate to take off our cloaks and
reveal ourselves. These would be the times when we need to be
together. To share moments of visual and tactile intimacy. On these
occasions we'll uncover ourselves and stand naked before each other,
revealing our scars and stretches, our folds and wrinkles, our
distended packages and unimpressive appendages. All of these things
and, of course, our eyes. Our vulnerable eyes, staring into the
vulnerable eyes of another, with no cloak, no chatter, no hoodie, no
shades, no Facebook profile page to protect us. Just ourselves,
completely naked and hoping not to be rejected.
Reuben was outside the shopping centre
again yesterday, handing out his leaflets. He looked unwashed. Pity.
He could've been assistant manager of Office Furniture Direct. His
wife kept me up all night last night too and not in the good way she
used to. She doesn't discretely pop by anymore. She spends most of her
nights standing on the roof of her car, pointing at the sky and
screaming that the Moon is coming.
People believe all sorts on my
street. We've lied to each other so often about infidelities, unreturned lawnmowers, whose kid hit whose first
and so on that notions such as trust and truth have completely
dissolved. In the absence of a unifying
narrative, everyone has picked their own story.
James down the end of the street thinks that I'm a member of the
Illuminati because of the way I close my curtains - a sinister left to
right that apparently corresponds with a certain occult ritual. Michael and Anne
from number 38 are convinced that Madge, the dog from number 12,
barks a secret code to spies that are housed in the garden shed of
number 23. And no one even knows who lives in number 23. The residents of
number 23 are so paranoid that they never emerge from their house.
Some of us think that they may not even be in there. Who knows the
truth? Who knows if there is even a truth anymore? Was there ever a
truth? Everyone has their own ideas and no one has the same ideas.
There are just so many ideas. A multitude of ideas. A mess of ideas. What is the
collective noun for ideas? An 'insanity' of ideas?
The only thing myself and all my
neighbours agree on is that we can't trust each other. This sometimes
seems impractical. Take the time number 4 caught fire. We all
stood watching as the Sweeneys banged their fists against their upstairs
triple glazing, their faces contorted in
muted screams as they were swallowed by flames. All we could say
to each other was 'false flag'. In fact we chanted it: 'False Flag!
False Flag! False Flag! False Flag!' In the morning, the authorities came and cleaned
away the family's charred remains as we viewed
suspiciously from our windows. We all agreed that the whole
thing was a staged event involving special effects and we all thought
that each other were behind it. No one mourned the loss of life. If
you die on our street we think you are secretly still alive and if
you are alive we think you died and were replaced by an impostor.
Everyone on my street is an impostor. Even me, according to everyone
else. But they would say that because it is they who are the true
impostors. Not me. I think. I think I think. I'm fairly sure I think.
Despite our mutual distrust, everyone
on my street shares pride in one thing. We won a prize for being the
most atomised vicinity in our borough. The
county councillors said that we were leading the way. A member of
government even paid tribute to us at a business function. He said we
were an alert and vigilant community and what was great about
that was that we applied our alert vigilance to fantasy and not
reality. 'Reality is all ours lads and we can do what we like with
it,' he told the vested interests and they all raised a glass to
toast the death of community and the advent of the schizophrenic age.
You know, I sometimes feel as if I
don't know what anything is. What anything really is. I just know what things look like and
what others call them. It's the same with people. They could be
anyone. You could be anyone. I could be anyone. Just who are we
anyway? And why are we all so frightened?
Everybody vanishes in the park. People
still go into the park but these people know that they will never
return. The people who still go into the park have lost all interest
in life but they are still curious about what happens when you enter
the park, so they go into the park. What becomes of them, no one
knows. They are never heard from again.
The park can be seen beyond its
perimeter railings and through the gate at its entrance. It is tended
to, but by who? No one knows that either. Some believe the park is
maintained by the people it retains. Their souls are trapped in the
confines of the park and they are forever its slaves, mowing its
grass and pruning its hedges. That's one of the legends anyway, but
that's all it is, a story. No one knows the truth. All anyone knows
is that if you go into the park you don't come out of the park. 'Gone
to the park', is even a euphemistic term for death for those who live
near the park, like me and you and everyone else.
The government sent the army out to see
what was going on in the park. This was a few years ago. Tethered
troops entered the park, communicating by radio with other troops who
were stationed outside the park. They went in, walked up the lane,
turned the corner and then the transmission crackled, hissed and went
dead and the cable the troops were attached to slackened. Seven
soldiers were sent in but they left it at that. Then they sent a
robot in, a kind of little remote control thing on wheels with a
camera attached. There are stories about the footage it sent back.
Again, these are only stories. No one knows what it broadcast before
it disappeared. Those who saw what the camera picked up were left without
reason and babbling word salad. They then attempted to bomb the park
from above but when they sent the planes up the pilots forgot what
they were supposed to be doing and returned to base with their
missiles still loaded.
The park is a quiet place. It has a
strange draw to it. It seems so tranquil in there. Not remotely
foreboding. You'd have to remind yourself not to go in if it wasn't
cordoned off with police ribbon and signs
that say 'keep out of the park'. When you see the signs that say
'keep out of the park', you say to yourself, 'oh yes, I really must
keep out of the park' and you keep out of the park, but a part of you
wonders what it would be like to go into the park.
Another odd thing about the park is
that no one knows who put it there or when. No municipal records
refer to it and there are no accounts of what was there before it.
Some think that it has always been there. Others think that it only
seems to be there but isn't there at all. I don't know what to think
so I don't think about it that much. Most of us don't like to think
about the park. We all know its there and sometimes, as I've said
already, a lonely or desperate soul will discretely
duck under the police cordon and wander off into it, but no
one dwells on the park. No one discusses the park at any length and
those that bring it up quickly find the subject changed. No one ever
says, 'don't talk about the park,' they just start talking about
things other than the park. The park is taboo.
No one speaks of the park. No one
understands the park. No one knows what to do about the park. The
park is rarely at the forefront of anyone's thoughts but we all know
it's there, at the back of our minds. Just outside of our doors. The
warm gentle wind of a permanent early autumn. The honey glow of an
everlasting twilight, spreading through its
Do you remember the time we kidnapped
that millionaire's kid and it took you ages to write the ransom note
because you thought it had to rhyme? You're some thick. And you kept
calling it a ramson note too didn't you? You did. You thick.
And then you kidnapped yourself,
remember that? You kidnapped yourself and sent a 'ramson' note to
yourself demanding that you send all the cash you have to yourself to
get yourself back. You thought that if you paid yourself all the cash
you had to get yourself back you'd double your money. Jesus God in
Heaven, you're an unbelievable simpleton.
And do you remember that time we were
planning to burgle a house and you said we
should burgle my house because I had loads of nice stuff?
Unbelievable. You even told me when not to be in to make sure we
didn't get caught. You complete dope.
And then there was the time we robbed
that bank and after they handed over the money you immediately tried
to open an account with the bank to put the money in. Remember that? You
said it wouldn't be safe walking home with that amount on us. 'What
if we're mugged?' you asked. 'There's loads of criminals around these
days,' you said. 'Even we're criminals,' you pointed out. Jesus Lord
Then there was your counterfeit money
scam but instead of using forgeries you used real money because, as
you actually said yourself, 'it's more realistic'. Remember that?
Remember how pleased you were with yourself for coming up with that
one? And you said your favourite part of the plan was that you
couldn't get caught because you weren't doing anything wrong. I was
lost for words that time, absolutely lost for words. It reminded me
of the pyramid scheme you set up with you as the only member.
Remember that one? You said you couldn't lose.
Honest to God, how you ever got to hold
a ministerial position I'll never know.
Schloop schlop, off to the shop.
Sausages, eggs and milk. Flip flap, back to the flat. Put them in the
I was very far from anywhere once and
he was even further. Standing in a long stretch of nowhere near the
Tunisian Libyan border. What was he doing there? He was just
standing. He certainly wasn't going to find any figs or anything.
Maybe he was a North African Harry Dean Stanton, walking off the
memory of a woman. Or maybe some Crowleite who got into a spot of
occult bother or maybe a Saharan demon some Crowleite summoned.
Maybe just some Berber up to something but what that something
could've been must've been almost nothing. All you can find is
scorpions and sand until the cold night falls and the snakes move
Maybe he was an
off-roader whose vehicle took a tumble or a refugee escaping national
turmoil. To my mind at least, from a distance, out there, he
momentarily became Frankenstein's monster. An existential anomaly. A
slip in cosmic continuity. I once heard a baby crying far out in the
ocean. It might have been some gull but I didn't see one. Maybe
sometimes the Universe puts things where it shouldn't and you see or
hear something in a place where you couldn't.
I'm grilling my sausages and putting
milk in my coffee and thinking of him and feeling glad that I'm me.
At least I'm just bored whereas maybe he's scared. I'll never forget
how he just stared and stared. Maybe he was wondering what I was
doing out there. Maybe he thought of calling out but just didn't
dare. Maybe he thought that he was looking at Set. Maybe what I saw was an
angel of death.
I have tirelessly trained and run in
the most competitive of races with the greatest of athletes and, on
the cusp of victory, I have slowed my pace to ensure I finish last. I
have prepared the sweetest tasting meals in all of culinary history
and put them straight in the bin. I composed the most stirring
musical composition that ever would've been
heard had I not performed it on only one occasion,
in a remote and unpopulated vicinity, with my ears plugged so even I
would not hear it. Every single time someone wins a lottery and does
not claim the winnings, it is me. I painted the greatest painting
ever painted and then I painted over it. I wrote the greatest work of
literature anyone would've ever read had I not rewritten it so that
every word was 'shiteballs'. I then retitled the piece 'Shiteballs'.
I have invented things that would have changed humanity's course for
the better had I not placed them in a locked safe and hurled that
safe into the core of a nuclear reactor. I have also learned the
ultimate truth and when people ask me to share it with them I tell
them a lie.
I have done all these things because I
am The Contrary Man. I have devoted my life to mastering the art of
living and then denied myself and the rest of you the fruits of my
talents and knowledge. This is my ultimate revenge on the existence
that has been foisted upon me and upon us all. An existence that, for
many, consists largely of suffering without explanation. This
compulsory existence is the ultimate injustice and my greatest
achievement is to deny the challenges set before us by learning to
overcome them and then not overcoming them. I have even discovered
the secret of immortality only to cremate it and when I breathe my
last I want to go to the afterlife and I want God to look at me and I
want God to ask me 'why?' and I want to relish the look of
incomprehension on God's face.
This will be my victory but the effort
has not been an easy one. In the struggle there is a small amount of
satisfaction. I have learned to love the meaninglessness of it all
and I have learned that the most tragic failure, when executed
correctly, is the greatest triumph. I have come to understand that
the only finishing line that matters is death and even that doesn't
matter very much in the dribbling staccato overwhelming context of
this, ...whatever this is.
After six years of blogging here on
Fugger, I think it's time I told you about my uncle Dan and his
embarrassing complaint. He fell over when he was doing a bit of
gardening and landed arse first on a garden gnome. The thing split
through his pants and went right up his arse crack. Pointy hat first.
It really must have hurt. It got lodged there.
A proud man, Dan decided never to speak
of the gnome or its whereabouts. The complaint was too embarrassing
to address. He didn't fancy a humiliating trip to a health
professional. A doctor might presume the ornament had arrived at its
location via some bizarre act of gratification. The truth would never
be believed. Dan barely believed it himself so he thought he'd just
keep it to himself. He was a bachelor so he had no wife to shock when
he took off his britches at night. 'No one will notice', he said to
himself. 'What difference will it make?' he fooled himself.
Dan accepted the compromises his
predicament brought him. Going to the toilet was complicated. Cycling
was a no no. The very act of sitting down was, forevermore, out of
the question. People would insist that Dan take a seat but he'd say
that he preferred to remain standing. This made people feel uneasy at dinner parties and so on
but they weren't as uneasy as Dan, living his life with a ceramic
interloper nestled in his rear.
on his feet, Dan could no longer stand quite straight. His posture
was at a slight angle to the world. This made him feel as if he was
at an existential angle to the world also. He saw other people, everyone
else, go about their garden gnomeless lives, working and loving and
fulfilling goals. And there he was, unable to even go swimming lest
someone spot the wee man's boots protruding from his posterior. Dan
felt as if he had been cast into the lowest of castes. He was an
untouchable. No one could ever truly know him because they did not
know the truth of his situation. Despite it all, Dan remained
unprepared to risk revealing his plight in case it brought derision.
Better to silently suffer with some dignity than be the subject of
mockery. Concealing his degradation, Dan walked the streets with his
head held high ...and with a bowlegged gait.
After a few years, Dan could no longer
bear to attend social gatherings. The fact that he had a garden gnome
up his arse increasingly weighed upon him. The thought of it was
always there, gnawing, mocking, eroding his peace of mind. Dan
started to suspect that others had noticed the gnome and were making
snide remarks and innuendos at his expense. He would mishear things.
Words like 'home' or 'roam' or 'comb' would be misinterpreted by his
paranoid ears and he would hear the word 'gnome'. Then he would
explode. 'What did you just say?' he would furiously demand of
confused friends and acquaintances. Dan
realised that his situation was having a knock on effect. It was
spreading out from himself and hurting those around him.
Dan became a recluse. He had no choice.
His became the most solitary of stations. Dan attempted to take some
solace in the supposedly 'small' things in life. He tended his
garden, even though it had betrayed him. He fed birds. He stared at
clouds. He kept the company of animals and plants and things that
could not judge him. He attempted to cultivate a
kind of Zen philosophy but it didn't work out. 'How many covertly carry crosses as large as mine?' he often
wondered as he saw the people of his town happily interacting.
It was such a fool's bargain, the suffering of isolation Dan had chosen to endure
was worse than any suffering public embarrassment could cause.
The decades passed and Dan never took a
wife or pursued a career. His only
achievement was keeping his stigma a secret. It was on his death bed
that Dan confessed all this to me. I did not snigger as I lent my
ear, although I'm sure I looked pretty shocked. After Dan said what
he had to say he closed his eyes and went. He seemed more at peace
than I had ever seen him. They took him from the hospital bed and no
one mentioned the gnome up his arse. It wasn't out of respect that no
one mentioned the gnome. No one mentioned it because it wasn't there.
It must have fallen out some time previously, perhaps years before
and Dan never noticed. Who knows how long there wasn't a garden gnome
stuck up Dan's arse? Who knows how long Dan had laboured
under his misapprehension? Turns out that the only place the gnome
was stuck was in Dan's imagination.
I've invented a contraption. It's
broken. When someone comes across the contraption they feel compelled
to repair it but every attempt they make to fix it just breaks it
more. It's addictive. The intrigue experienced when you try to repair
the contraption becomes a compulsion. Soon you are muttering and
moaning and growling in irritation but you won't give up. You'll stand up and walk around the contraption and
consider it from all angles and you'll draw diagrams of it and make
3D models of it and perform mathematical equations based on it and
even write poems about it, so fascinated by the contraption you will
be. You will name it too. You'll give it all kinds of names. You'll
name it after yourself. You'll name it after me. You'll name it after
a country. Afghanistan maybe. Or perhaps you'll just call it 'life',
after that other confusing thing you've been wrestling with and that
the contraption provides distraction from. The contraption may be
frustrating but at least it is not that other confusing thing.
And eventually, after you have grown
weary and old and your mental capacity has diminished and your
physical strength is sapped, you will look at the contraption and
realise that you never even knew what it was for and you will wonder
if it was even broken in the first place and then you'll come to
understand that all you did was break it over and over and over again
in new ways, each and every time until, finally, the contraption
Then you'll breathe your last and
collapse and I'll take up your body and put it in a sack. I'll place
you in the space under my stairs and then I'll wait and watch for the
next person to come along and find the contraption and try, until
dead, to right what's wrong.
I'll steal your world from you and
you'll rent it back. You'll appreciate it more because it has a
price. You'll earn the money to pay for your keep by working for me.
I'll pay you almost as much as you pay me. You can borrow the rest
you need from me so you don't fall behind on the payments but you'll
have to pay me interest. It's my world after all. You owe me, in
I'll do the same with your peace of
mind. I'll rob your self-esteem and flog you placebos. I'll tell you
that you are ill and sell you pills if you become fatigued. You are
unwell. The world is well, that's why you pay for it. If you can't
pay for it you are not fit for it. You are too weak to be part of the
world. You are aberrant, a malcontent, a
criminal, a skiver or sick. Take your pick.
I'll make you feel ashamed of being
poor or poorly or too fat or too thin. I'll make you hate yourself,
outside and in. I'll be the sole gatekeeper of your self-approval.
I'll be your self-improver. I'll sell you books that tell you how to
get by but they won't tell you how to get by so you'll have to buy
more. Then I'll get you to pay me for an army and I'll send it to war
against another army that you also paid for.
When the fighting is done,
I'll charge you for reparations and get you to pay me to pay you to
clean up the devastation. You'll pay me for the monuments that you'll
build in my honour. If you died in my name, I'll say you were a
martyr. I'll sell you a coffin and pass your debts to you kids. I'll
be the one who decides where you spend the life after this. Heaven or
Hell, I'll own you even in death and you'll thank me because it was
too much responsibility to own yourself.
The following is a transcript of what I
told the banking inquiry about the part Fugger played in the events leading to
the blanket guarantee.
'Why did we guarantee the banks? Well
that's quite a question. A fierce question altogether it must be
said. Absolutely fierce hard to answer, but I'll give it a go and I'm
not going to lie to you. I'm not going to make up some guff and
pepper it with all the lingo like liquidity and all that. No. I'll be
straight with you. I'll tell you the truth. The truth of it is that
it's a mystery. A pure mystery. It's like a strange event. Life is
full of strange and mysterious events isn't it? It is. And this is
one of those events. Very much so. Very strange and mysterious.
Fortean in nature, I'd even say. Truth is, we're not sure why we did
it. It just kind of happened and to be honest we barely talk about it
anymore. It upsets us. It was an extraordinary experience y'see
and not in a good way. Not in a good way at all. It's like this, imagine if you and
a few of your pals were on the way home from the pub one night, a
night like any other night, or so you'd be thinking, but then a
spaceship kind of thing appears and you get zapped up into it and
there's aliens in there and they start sticking things up your hole
for a bit and then they drop you back. Well, the whole guarantee
thing was a bit like that. If aliens grabbed you off the road and
started sticking mad science fiction objects up your arse you
wouldn't talk about it would you? I mean, you'd be upset about it.
You'd be kind of ashamed of it maybe and you might even wonder if it
even happened. Well, that's what it was like for us, y'know. When I
look back on that time, I usually can't really remember what happened
at all. All that comes to mind is a beady eyed little monster fella
sticking a mad yoke up my hole and that's my answer for you. That's
what I have to say. We guaranteed the banks because it was like an
alien putting something up your arse and it was very confusing and
distressing and I don't want to talk about it anymore. So, we'll
leave it there if that's alright with youse.
Now, tell me, can a fella charge for
expenses showing up at this thing?'
If there is one thing we at Hotel Fugger take pride in it is nothing at all. We at Hotel Fugger know we
have nothing to be proud of but that's OK because we're not proud
You will love the food at Hotel Fugger
because there isn't much of it so if you get your hands on it you
will really value it. That is why we say that you will love the food
at Hotel Fugger.
Do not drink the water at Hotel Fugger.
It tastes bad. It all comes from the tank on the roof. There are dead
bodies in the tank. We don't know how the bodies got in there as the
tank's only aperture has a diameter of nine inches. However, a suicidal
troupe of contortionists from the Chinese State Circus were reported
missing five years ago and it was around about that time that Hotel
Fugger's water started to taste bad.
Many famous personalities stayed at
Hotel Fugger but all of these famous personalities are dead and all
of them died in Hotel Fugger. The circumstances of their deaths are
considered so grim that no one talks about these famous personalities
anymore. Hence, they are no longer famous.
When you book into Hotel Fugger we give
you the directions to your room. 'It's at the end of the corridor',
we say and you walk down the corridor toward the end but there is no
end. The corridor just goes on and on and on and on and on.
Eventually you give up and turn back. Then you realise
that the corridor has no start either. There is just corridor,
stretching out in both directions, forever. Doorless corridor.
Endless corridor. The last corridor you will ever see. The corridor
you will die in. This corridor is our little joke. We have to keep ourselves amused somehow. It's just
something to lighten the mood here at Hotel
At Hotel Fugger we have face painting
for the children but the children are all dead and the people
painting their faces are the people who killed them. If it's any
consolation, the face being painted on the children's faces is your
Hotel Fugger is heated by the
collective unease of its guests.
The Devil came to stay at Hotel Fugger
but was told there was only one bed left and that he'd have to share
a room. The Devil agreed and we put him in a room with God. We locked the
door from the outside and the two of them are trapped there to this
day. If you put your ear to the door and listen you can hear the two
of them arguing. Things can get pretty bitchy. Listening at their
door is one of the chief attractions at Hotel Fugger.
A guest recently found a finger in his
bed at Hotel Fugger. It turned out that it was his own finger and
there was nothing to worry about because it was still attached to his
hand. The guest thought he'd report it anyway because, as the guest
said himself, 'you never know' and that is very true, you never do
know. In fact, that is our motto here at Hotel Fugger. 'YOU NEVER
KNOW.' You find those words on the heading of our stationary,
embroidered into our towels and on the plaque that hangs over our
entrance. These words are also written in the minds of our staff and
guests alike, in letters standing one mile high and made from the
bones of the hundreds of millions of men, women and children who died with the words 'you never know' on their lips.
Hotel Fugger has been completely
refurbished. To be precise, Hotel Fugger has been utterly
unfurbished. There are no longer walls at Hotel Fugger. Hotel Fugger
no longer has doors or furnishings of any sort or even a roof. Hotel
Fugger is just an idea. Hotel Fugger is not a good idea but it is an
idea and you are stuck with the idea because I've just placed the
idea of Hotel Fugger in your head.
There were shops so Tarzan went to
them. Have you ever been to shops? I bet you have. Most people have
been to shops. Not Tarzan though. Tarzan had never been to shops
before. Tarzan had no need for shops up to this time. Up to this
time, Tarzan had been living in hedges at the ends of gardens and
feeding on birds, squirrels and hedgehogs. Tarzan had everything Tarzan needed
but people who are called 'The Authorities' told Tarzan to change
Tarzan's ways or they would lock Tarzan in a room for the rest of
Tarzan's life. Tarzan did not want to be locked in a room for the
rest of Tarzan's life. That struck Tarzan as very constricting so
Tarzan changed his ways.
Tarzan was told that Tarzan needed
proper clothes and other things called accoutrements and that Tarzan
would get them from shops so Tarzan went to shops. Then a man in a
shop told Tarzan that Tarzan had to hand over money if Tarzan wanted
to take away the items Tarzan needed. Tarzan asked the man in the
shop what money was and the man in the shop showed Tarzan bits
of paper and some small pieces of metal. Tarzan realised that Tarzan did not have any
money. Tarzan asked the man in the shop if he would take pebbles and litter
instead of money and the man in the shop said that he would not.
Tarzan told the man in the shop that Tarzan needed money and asked
the man in the shop to give Tarzan some. The man in the shop told
Tarzan that Tarzan would get money in the bank and told Tarzan where
the bank was so Tarzan went there and asked the lady in the bank for
money. The lady in the bank told Tarzan that Tarzan could only take
money away from the bank if Tarzan put money in the bank. Tarzan did
not think that this made sense. Why would Tarzan need something
Tarzan already had and if Tarzan had something why would Tarzan give
it to someone else to give back to Tarzan? Tarzan told the lady in
the bank that she was wasting Tarzan's time. Tarzan left the bank.
As Tarzan was leaving the bank, the
lady in the bank told Tarzan that Tarzan should put some clothes on.
Tarzan told the lady in the bank that the world was Tarzan's clothes
and walked out the door, putting one foot into the world just like
most people put one foot through the leg of their trousers every
Tarzan asked a man on the street if he
knew where Tarzan could get money and the man on the street told
Tarzan that Tarzan could earn it by working so Tarzan went looking
for a job. Tarzan asked people if there was a job that Tarzan could do for
them in exchange for money and they told Tarzan that Tarzan needed
qualifications before Tarzan could get a job. Tarzan asked them where
Tarzan could get qualifications and they said the college so Tarzan
went to the college and the people at the college told Tarzan that
they would only give Tarzan qualifications if Tarzan gave them money.
Tarzan told the people at the college that Tarzan had no money and
they told Tarzan to get a job.
Tarzan was beginning to get very
confused. Tarzan was confused and hungry. Tarzan saw a small dog but
Tarzan did not eat it because Tarzan did not want to be locked in a
room for the rest of Tarzan's life by The Authorities.
Tarzan wandered the streets naked and a
man pointed at Tarzan's penis and said 'cover that up or I will call
The Authorities'. Everyone seemed to be disgusted by Tarzan's penis.
The men all had their penises covered up by clothes and the ladies
had their breasts and vaginas covered up too. Lots more of their
bodies were covered up by clothes. Only their heads and hands were
showing. They had hidden themselves from themselves because they
found themselves disgusting. Tarzan realised that Tarzan better find
Tarzan disgusting too or Tarzan would be locked in a room for the
rest of Tarzan's life so Tarzan practised being disgusted by Tarzan
and to go around thinking about the money all the time. 'Tarzan needs
money, Tarzan needs money', said Tarzan to Tarzan all the time and
Tarzan's hungry belly agreed with a growl.
Tarzan never got any money. The once
mighty Tarzan got weak and skinny and Tarzan still had no
clothes. An old lady saw Tarzan and said 'you should be ashamed' so
Tarzan became ashamed. Tarzan became ashamed of Tarzan's nudity and
Tarzan's poverty. Tarzan had never felt shame before.
The shame hung around Tarzan. Even
though Tarzan could not see the shame, Tarzan knew that the shame was
there because Tarzan felt the shame. Tarzan could no longer see the
world because of the shame. Something Tarzan could not see was
stopping Tarzan from seeing. 'Tarzan is blind yet Tarzan has eyes!'
exclaimed the confused and miserable Tarzan.
Tarzan tried to hide from the shame but
the shame found Tarzan wherever Tarzan went so Tarzan went to the
only place the shame could not follow. Tarzan went to death. Tarzan
dived from the top of a big shop and landed on the pavement. Splat.
The shame was gone but Tarzan's skinny naked body remained, crumpled
on the path. Tarzan's body was left there. No one would clear it away
because of a thing called an industrial dispute. The men who clear
away dead bodies wanted more money and the people who gave them money
to clear away dead bodies did not want to give them more money. So,
Tarzan's body rotted where it was and those who passed by it said it
was a shame. 'What kind of world is this at all?', one lady asked.
Tarzan could not answer her because Tarzan was dead but she did not want Tarzan to answer because she did
not want to know. She already did. Deep down, she just wished she didn't.