Thursday, 3 November 2016



Part 1


            So many kind’ves, impacts and models in the media these days.  There is now a kind’ve for anything, an impact for anything and a model for anything.  Not to mention a challenge, an absolutely and a clearly stuck on to any sentence uttered under an English speaking sun. 

            What the kind’ve, impact, model fuck is going on in such absolute clarity? 

            I like chips, but I don’t need chips with everything on the cheffing menu.  I also like words, but I don’t need kind’ve, impact and model with absolutely every clearly spoken sentence on the throw-up-coming media menu.  These overcooked words and more, are as inedible as all the challenging challenges that challengingly challenge my audio appetite. 

            Nevertheless, just to wet my appetite for more challenging analogenic euphemistical metaphoricalisms, I’d like to taste the juicy wilted sibilances of a few fresh felicitous fecundities tongue-fried on the hot lips of theriouth lithp-thtricken thpeakerth, whosth primary impediment theemth to be a dethperate desthire to be theen and heard on televisthion asth often asth pothible. Perhapth they were media thstudieth thstudenth with no pop thstar potensthial.

            Neverthemore, I’m full up with the kind’ve impact of the food model, but still hungry for an answer to the clotted cream of questions – 

            Why can’t people learn to speak more properer? 

            There are various possible answers to this vexatious question and they inconclusively include the forces of ignorance, greed and stupidity driving deluded ambitions, expectations and aspirations which generate excessive stress and anxiety when humans are attempting to communicate with other humans, whether in private, socially, at work or in media land.

            The result of this hyper-active anxiety is succinctly described, by those blessed with healthy ears, noses and throats, as verbal diarrhoea – a foul smelling symptom of the brain’s bowel being infected by worthless words and phrases which, in order to avoid the strain of constipation, must be shat out through the mouth.  Hence the phrases, “You’re talking out of your arse”, and “You’re full of shit”.  Intelligent, well educated speakers suffer from this très difficile condition, as do other on-trend conditioned sheople desperately seeking security in an infected herd of humans.

            Where are the word surgeons – are they all operating at Oxbridge? 

            As with sminking and droking, sex, drugs, rock and roll, bwanking, granny tossing, cream cakes, dwarf baiting and underwater tennis, any form of human thought, word and deed can become addictive.  No-one of any high, middle or low social status is immune from succumbing to fashionable addictions, including the constant repetition of contagious words and phrases. 

            Kind’ve, is now probably the most contagious warped word in the English language, used billions of times every day down and up all five corners of the world – only by humans of course.  Other species can’t be bothered with such balderdash.  It’s only human copycats who keep pissing on the lush green grass of the English language. 

            Do humans talk to their precious pets in sheople speak?  “Come on pussykins, here’s some kind’ve like type’ve tinned fish and a sort’ve saucer of milk”.

Kind’ve is fastly becoming a global pandemic, a virulent verbal virus which contaminates spoken communication.  Kind’ve is used more often in a single sentence than its incorrigible companions sort’ve, type’ve, like, nowo’amin, or its rising rival impact –  all of which are frequently forced into each sentence, only briefly brought to a halt by continuous interruptions from the famous pause star Ann Dumb…………. lusting after elusive lucidity.

In the most serious cases of Kind’ve Addiction Syndrome, the constant repetition of kind’ve and all the other ‘ves could be described as a turbo verbal expression of – a nervous twitch, embarrassment, pressure to perform, confusion, lack of confidence, pleading for acceptance, escapist aberration, hedging of bets, a fragile ego, fear of being mis-understood, vulnerable pretentiousness, emotional overload,  gullible copycatitis and a lack of natural self-awareness – any combination of which can cause an excruciating struggle to communicate. 

Is healthy existential anxiety being corrupted by unhealthy attention seekers?

            Kind’ve, or kind’ve like is used by a kind’ve like, type’ve, sort’ve, y’nowo’amin adolescent teenage brain trying to communicate on the painful threshold of adult life.  And yet educated, intelligent and seemingly respectable adults, including the Royal Family and smartly spoken BBC radio and television presenters, are using kind’ve as if it’s kind’ve like the best kind’ve social convention since the kind’ve invention of kind’ve like sliced bread.

            In fact of pointed finger, the British Royal Family, the elite of the elite in the land, might royally enjoy using the common ‘ves for a little satirical entertainment with the lords and ladies of the court.  And when spoken in public, those royal ‘ves are the spit and polish for their passports to popularity with the sheople on the street. 

            Some younger Royals however, have become accustomed to using the ‘ves to dumb-down their high status in a patronising attempt to be like the plebs.  Though these Royal young shavers may be aware of suffering from copycatitis, if they gave up their addiction to all the ‘ves they could lose the approval of the Palace, and could no longer pretend to be one of the ‘guys’, the common people.  What a wight woyal pwedicament – as a pedigree copycat cannot be a common copycat. 

That’s enough pussyfooting metaphaws, because there is an important constitutional benefit to the British monarchy arising from chronic copycatitis.  Namely, royal stutters and stammers (nervosa inheritas) are easily eased with frequent squirts of kind’ve, type’ve, sort’ve lubricants – the royal oils of anointment for would be kings in waiting.

Hear ye, hear ye, the King’s New Words!

Yet the perpetual reciprocity of the chicken and egg question remains – are the Royals copying the prols, or are the prols copying the Royals? 

            The situation could also be compared to a desperate television commercial – “End of season sale so get your kind’ves now, while stocks last.”  But stocks of kind’ve might never run out.  Or is the ubiquitous abuse of the innocence of a kind of, a word spitting competition to get into the Guinness Book of Records, by forcing the greatest number of kind’ves into a single sentence against the clock?

*          *          *          *          *

            The more a word is gratuitously used, the more it loses its meaning – as on a Women’s Rights protest march, moving along at a medium speed of 98 bpm.

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Up and down the Cuntry

            The last line has a one beat rest in which to draw breath, allowing constant repetition over many miles of city streets.

            The words may be shocking when shouted and sinister when whispered, but they become more meaningless when synchronised with the magnificent sights and sounds of massed militant women (and a few femboys) marching in lardy-arse leggings, bullet-proof bras, pink tutus and stout hobnailed boots. 

Longer rest breaks for sore throats, inner thigh rash, undercarriage repairs, hot flushes and feeling faint, are taken by stopping for cream cakes and frothy coffee outside every other Starbucks, and for looking in the reflective windows of designer handbag and shoe shops to check hair and make-up.

            In London these LibFem marches tend to end up down by an old riverside pub, recently gentrified and re-named The Muddy Duck.  But not a duck in sight, only mud.  The new name is obviously concocted from the TV celebrity chef’s speciality dish –

A twin pair of culturally poached Vietnamese raw duck embryos drizzled with

Thames mud jus, served on a cold grey Welsh slate.               £49.95

A better name for this risible restaurant would be The Sick and Bucket.

What happened to ye olde traditional pubs with proper names like The Dog and Stocking, The Hare and Gusset and The Goose and Buttock, where you could get a bidet of spit and sawdust soup for £1.60?

Truly liberated females don’t give a flying fuck about pretentious gastro pub names, because they know what they want, and how to get it up at The King Dick Inn.

*          *          *          *          *

Straight speaking people occasionally use a kind of, a type of or a sort of to loosely introduce a cluster of related alternatives surrounding the subject under discussion, or just a simple analogy to indicate resemblances. 

For example, lovable grandma Doris de Boyce, who once worked at the Post Office and now goes out for a good time every Saturday night, might say to her neighbour – “An un-used condom is a kind of un-inflated balloon”.  However, condoms are not exactly the same as the balloons at children’s parties, mainly because they are much harder to blow up – so I’m told by practising pensioners. 

Yet condoms and balloons are made from a similar sort of flexible rubbery substance and can look, feel and sound with tactile textural squeakiness similar to each other when inflated, depending on size, shape, flavour, smell and colour of course.  Also, inflated condoms and sky-going hot air balloons need certain types of heat to keep them up for pleasure seeking riders – reactive thermo-dynamic energy which penetrates space and provides a fairly safe and enjoyable experience.

Some differences between these two types of transport are, that riding in a condom is not quite as safe as riding in the basket of a balloon, nor can a condom fly as high.  But a condom is a sort of warm and cosy wet suit, whereas the kind of cold weather conditions in an open balloon basket can “freeze the balls off a brass monkey” – as the they sometimes say.  Or to be feministically PC – “It’s cold enough to freeze the nipples off the Statue of Liberty”. 

Another difference, within the above cluster of comparables, is the difference between the power of flame-throwing burners shooting up into a balloon through a small hole in the bottom, to lift ten cold pleasure seeking people sky high for three or four hours – and the type of power required by the occupant of a hot condom finding it hard to stay up and lift only one pleasure seeking person up the stairs to ecstasy, for not much more than half an hour before the fuel runs out.

Further differences are that hot air balloons can catch fire, and look very untidy when tangled up on power lines.  Whereas condoms don’t catch fire easily, and when deflated are difficult to throw much higher than a laundry line.  Some similarities are that balloons and condoms don’t flush well down the lavatory, although they do float well across the high seas – so I’m told by the strict woman at the District Council Recycling Centre, who is skilled at upskilling the skillsets of semi-skilled Waste Disposal Operatives, as she points to the big skip marked in bold red letters, BALLOONS AND CONDOMS ONLY – NO DILDOS.

But let’s not get hung-up like a recycled condom hanging on a laundry line (hence the phrase “hung out to dry”) when the genuine use of a kind of, a type of or a sort of, enables interesting and useful, if not humorous analogies to be enjoyed.


            If not to be continued .......

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