RAY BRADBURY WROTE A GOOD STORY ABOUT CEASELESS RAIN
THOUGH I FORGET ITS TITLE. THE REST CONCERNS TREMENDOUSLY RUBBISH TERRORISM.

In various ways I'm under house arrest. It's quite calamitous.

I arrived yesterday of an afternoon in a car full of my life and upon entering the threshold of mother's house could feel myself regressing mentally by five years but with the added and intense feelings of being 50% more twerpish. Probably I looked at a mirror and pulled a sullen face at myself about that.

49% of the problem is that everybody I know is working. 1% of the problem is mother's hallway carpet, which is hypnotic in a sea-sickness sort of fashion.

The other 50% is that in various ways I'm under house arrest with no tobacco and with a great deal of wetting going on outside too. I've stolen a couple of my mother's menthols but mostly it's like smoking a tube of warm polo mints, and is about as airy. Frankly I like to feel like I'm wrecking my throat with industrial pollutants and mustard gas when I smoke - a full-bodied lung-smashing affair. None of this having my lips lightly fragranced with the kind of mint that just doesn't make me happy. None of this super-long perforated filter stuff - if I wanted a lighter smoke I'd do it someplace where the altitude sickness helps out. Or I'd blow up sixteen air mattresses in two hours and then smoke a pair of Daily Mails, loaded as they would be with sawdust and printer paper.

But don't talk to me about air mattresses.

Anyway, I spotted a sunny chink in the armoured sky at about 4pm last evening and introduced trainers to feet and opened the front door with a fiver at hand and lo, did walk less than fifty yards before being called a 'fucking goth' by some disenfranchised youth with his mobile phone around his neck singing profoundly racist things about Richard Littlejohn and, apparently, 'burning towers of cakes and hot cross buns'. And, well, that was confusing enough, since I was wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans, and since I've ginger hair, but more confusing was that I'd thought goths to have died out with Murray Walker's passing to ITV, for instance. I.e., a long while previously.

'Eeee aarrrr, what's that tattooOO maaayte?'

'Well it's actually a pictorial representation of me taking macro photographs of your dead first pet, little boy, AND it's sentient to the point of sticking two fingers up at you.'

'Really?'

'No?'

Bear in mind that this is within three minutes of leaving the house on my first excursion since returning. It'll just not be happening again soon.

But there we are. Presently I tramped away all hunched up and baffled and a bit cold and not wishing therefore to show the world how sensitive my RIDICULOUS nipples are, and I kept fighting the urge to tonk the bollocks out of said (very itchy) new tattoo and so I walked straight upto a shop to buy some water and an apple - because I wanted both of those - and then it wetted all over me as I left and I turned back and went home and went to bed for a time where I thought about what I'd done.

Most upsettingly I've not even got anyone to tell how funny I find these inept suicide bombers. They're just so superbly British in their own little way. Never you mind border controls and Melanie 'Fishcakes' Phillips and today's Daily 'Fucking' Mail containing a questionable and incredibly bizarre opinion column by a 'former radical Islamist' - thank Danni Minogue for integration is what I say - because if these prannocks had not been so woefully British I doubt very much that they'd have fluffed their attacks up so badly. I say integrate as many radical Islamists into our reluctant, squalid little country as is remotely possible. They'll be so badly afflicted by Elton John not bothering to play 'Candle in the Wind' that they'll give up pretending that the West hates them, decide that actually it's the organisers of national live music, and top themselves in the bath with a radio playing Wet Wet Wet's pitiless mortuary songs. Prannocks. We are such a rubbish country.

They could've used more suitable cars too - like bicycles.

Still, what makes me burble and fizz the most is how the news seems to be persistantly trumping up the fact that one of the Glasgow-smashing prannocks apparently shouted 'Allah! Allah!' - just before being punched on the nose by a man I *hope* was sporting a trilby and an umbrella. Of course he'd be shouting that - he was on fire. Having just failed to bring Global Islamist Jihad to couple of flimsy entrance doors, I'd be shouting at all kinds of deities too, especially Ganesh with his funny arms there. What a shit pair of bastards they must've been. Awful. And imagine how STUPID they must feel that they can fill an entire car with accelerants and still fail to do anything but get themselves punched and arrested.

Honestly - me and my friends were finest purveyors of small explosions this side of being infidels in our youth, and this pile of gas canisters and petrol is fairly small-fry compared to the Lynx-can mortars we used to make. The butane cans they pulled from that Jeep are the same size as the cans people were putting on CAMP FIRES during the riots at Leeds Festival 2002, and trust me, their 'blowing up' was about as exciting as Elton John NOT SINGING CANDLE IN THE WIND.

Here that, terrorists? You're monumentally guff!

I really want a fight with a terrorist despite my not liking fighting. If you're a terrorist and you got to this little sentence here by googling 'Allah' and/or 'shit bastards' then let's... go. Send me an email and I'll fight you with the shield I've fashioned from my mother's broken wardrobe and the toilet-roll dagger I pulped into shape in the shower before. We can even put it on the YouTube if you like, and later still we can publically make hands and you can tell all of your silly comrades that being beaten insensible by a ginger boy is much, much worse than having despotic rulers of corrupt governments of countries you've never visited removed by despotic rulers of other ones in which you actually live.

Simply then, one wonders if global Islamist terrorism in Britain will one day devolve into simply being a couple of Madrassas-trained wazzocks happy-slapping old women and shouting 'Allah!' while lighting their cigarettes in specially-designated, patio-heated areas afterwards. That's what'll happen if they stay British. That's all the British ever do.*

*I'll probably remove this entire post if something actually awful happens.