My first ever blogpost. I’m actually not sure if I want to write a blog. And yet here I am. I figured writing comes pretty easy as long as I can say whatever I want but now that I sit down I have this feeling about blogs – that it’s all a bit bloggersome. People banging on about themselves or their precious hobbies. I’m actually already cringing. “Oooh, I don’t want to write a blog”. Whiney  git.” Ooh I don’t want to go on about myself”. Disingenuous bastard. “Ooh today, I saw an old woman standing on a snail, but she didn’t notice because she was deaf – it bwoke my ickle heart” Sap. Blah blah, Og.

The thing is that I spend too much time together already. I  need to spend some time apart. But I guess I can blog away from myself. It shouldn’t be too hard really – I have always been full of shit. Pure steaming bullshit runs through me like…eh…rumours through a beauty parlour? No wait – a priest through the lingerie section? A fastidious mind through simile candidates? Anyway, given anonymity is my thing I think my best bet is to give myself up to the flow of flippant frippery to arrive at some kind of generic ramble. I feel up to that task. I need only answer the call to chaos. Listen for that literary laxative that will liberate these leaky letters. 

If I squint my ears I can actually hear it. It’s shrill and wavering – a bit needy – like the cry of some warbling two-headed bird-monkey trapped in the attic – careering around thumping into timber studs and letting out its guttural, shaky protests. I picture it with odd stubby wings(one feathered, one furred) with stunted finger-claws sticking out at the ends.No doubt they failed to evolve due to a lack of reality…

Anyway, with these retarded appendages, this unfortunate scatterbird can rarely ever grasp any concept that it flails at, and if it does it is only momentarily and with detrimental consequences for the mauled notion (said notion must then be rushed to detrimental hospital for treatment). And if the blizzarding buzzard does ever find pause(between its claws and caws) it doesn’t inspire in its audience any sense of relief. It perches too awkwardly in the branches of thought for that – in some weird stance that seems to be plotting calamity. And if you take this opportunity to look into its beady eyes you will identify such an unsettling mix of total determination and complete lack of focus that your ability to get anything done may suffer for days.

What shines in there is something unhinged. Something frantically but aimlessly reaching. It is like the unnerving look of somebody who thinks they can fly when they can’t. It’d put you on edge – even if there are none currently around to step off – it’s only a matter of time. A fatal foolishness with foreseeable fallout. Putting the fall in fallacy. That’s probably why this flying delusion was so often presented as a common symptom of mind-altering drugs. But then where all the splatted teenagers? The body count just doesn’t add up. 

I suppose it’s only a matter of time until they do invent a drug that enables you to fly and what a hero the first person who takes it and then has the balls to jump from a height will be. Something to aspire to kids. Lofty heights of heroism.

So yes, in there somewhere lies the legend of the bluzzard’s genesis. A bird who got too high, and dared to believe he could fall. Oh how they mocked him, those birds of that inclination. How they clucked and tutted and tweeted and ruthlessly commented on Instagram. But our balding bluzzard took the plunge, tumbling into this random framework of shrubby letters, upheld by no ground to speak of, and somehow survived, putting his special sort of flapping enthusiasm to good use and triggering this pointless but never before so-arranged sequence of words. 

But even beady-eyed bird-brains must sleep and so the bedlam abates much as bullshit too eventually runs out of steam and dries up. I’m getting off here. If you’re staying on in the dark silence that will ensue, just watch out for the magpie-muggers and early onset discursive delirium…