Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Tim Minchin.............. is playing Cardiff

 and We are going to see him! Hooray.
Should be fun, hopefully he'll do the good stuff.

Inner North London, top floor flatAll white walls, white carpet, white cat,Rice Paper partitionsModern art and ambitionThe host’s a physician,Lovely bloke, has his own practiceHis girlfriend’s an actressAn old mate from homeAnd they’re always great fun.So to dinner we’ve come.
The 5th guest is an unknown,The hosts have just thrownUs together for a favourbecause this girl’s just arrived from AustraliaAnd has moved to North LondonAnd she’s the sister of someoneOr has some connection.
As we make introductionsI’m struck by her beautyShe’s irrefutably fairWith dark eyes and dark hairBut as she sitsI admit I’m a little bit warybecause I notice the tip of the wing of a fairyTattooed on that popular areaJust above the derrièreAnd when she says “I’m Sagittarien”I confess a pigeonhole starts to formAnd is immediately filled with pigeonWhen she says her name is Storm.
Chatter is initially bright and light heartedBut it’s not long before Storm gets started:“You can’t know anything,Knowledge is merely opinion”She opines, over her Cabernet SauvignonVis a visSome unhippilyEmpirical comment by me
“Not a good start” I thinkWe’re only on pre-dinner drinksAnd across the room, my wifeWidens her eyesSilently begs me, Be NiceA matrimonial warningNot worth ignoringSo I resist the urge to ask StormWhether knowledge is so loose-weaveOf a morningWhen deciding whether to leaveHer apartment by the front doorOr a window on the second floor.
The food is delicious and Storm,Whilst avoiding all meatHappily sits and eatsWhile the good doctor, slightly pissedlyHolds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical historyWhen Storm suddenly she insists“But the human body is a mystery!Science just falls in a holeWhen it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”
My hostess throws me a glanceShe, like my wife, knows there’s a chanceThat I’ll be off on one of my rantsBut my lips are sealed.I just want to enjoy my mealAnd although Storm is starting to get my goatI have no intention of rocking the boat,Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestleBecause - like her meteorological namesake -Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:
“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemyThey promote drug dependencyAt the cost of the natural remediesThat are all our bodies needThey are immoral and driven by greed.Why take drugsWhen herbs can solve it?Why use chemicalsWhen homeopathic solventsCan resolve it?It’s time we all return-to-liveWith natural medical alternatives.”
And try as hard as I like,A small crack appearsIn my diplomacy-dike.“By definition”, I begin“Alternative Medicine”, I continue“Has either not been proved to work,Or been proved not to work.You know what they call “alternative medicine”That’s been proved to work?Medicine.”
“So you don’t believeIn ANY Natural remedies?”
“On the contrary actually:Before we came to tea,I took a natural remedyDerived from the bark of a willow treeA painkiller that’s virtually side-effect freeIt’s got a weird name,Darling, what was it again?Masprin?Basprin?Asprin!Which I paid about a buck forDown at my local drugstore.
The debate briefly abatesAs our hosts collects platesbut as they return with dessertsStorm pertly asserts,
“Shakespeare said it first:There are more things in heaven and earthThan exist in your philosophy…Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality,It can’t explain love or spirituality.How does science explain psychics?Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”
I’m becoming awareThat I’m staring,I’m like a rabbit suddenly trappedIn the blinding headlights of vacuous crap.Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just misquothedOr the eighth glass of wine I just quaffedBut my diplomacy dike groansAnd the arsehole held back by its stonesCan be held back no more:
“Look , Storm, I don’t mean to bore youBut there’s no such thing as an aura!Reading Auras is like reading mindsOr star-signs or tea-leaves or meridian linesThese people aren’t plying a skill,They are either lying or mentally ill.Same goes for those who claim to hear God’s demandsAnd Spiritual healers who think they have magic hands.
By the way,Why is it OKFor people to pretend they can talk to the dead?Is it not totally fucked in the headLying to some crying woman whose child has diedAnd telling her you’re in touch with the other side?That’s just fundamentally sickDo we need to clarify that there’s no such thing as a psychic?What, are we fucking 2?Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who?Do we still think that Santa brings us gifts?That Michael Jackson hasn’t had facelifts?Are we still so stunned by circus tricksThat we think that the dead wouldWanna talk to pricksLike John Edwards?
Storm to her credit despite my derisionKeeps firing off clichés with startling precisionLike a sniper using bollocks for ammunition
“You’re so sure of your positionBut you’re just closed-mindedI think you’ll findYour faith in Science and TestsIs just as blindAs the faith of any fundamentalist”
“Hm that’s a good point, let me think for a bitOh wait, my mistake, it’s absolute bullshit.Science adjusts it’s beliefs based on what’s observedFaith is the denial of observation so that Belief can be preserved.If you show meThat, say, homeopathy works,Then I will change my mindI’ll spin on a fucking dimeI’ll be embarrassed as hell,But I will run through the streets yellingIt’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it!Water has memory!And while it’s memory of a long lost drop of onion juice is InfiniteIt somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!
You show me that it works and how it worksAnd when I’ve recovered from the shockI will take a compass and carve Fancy That on the side of my cock.”
Everyones just staring at me now,But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down,So I figure, in for penny, in for a pound:
“Life is full of mysteries, yeahBut there are answers out thereAnd they won’t be foundBy people sitting aroundLooking seriousAnd saying isn’t life mysterious?Let’s sit here and hopeLet’s call up the fucking PopeLet’s go watch OprahInterview Deepak Chopra
If you’re going to watch tele, you should watch Scooby Doo.That show was so coolbecause every time there’s a church with a ghoulOr a ghost in a schoolThey looked beneath the mask and what was inside?The fucking janitor or the dude who runs the waterslide.Throughout historyEvery mysteryEVER solved has turned out to beNot Magic.
Does the idea that there might be truthFrighten you?Does the idea that one afternoonOn Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten youFrighten you?Does the notion that there may not be a supernaturalSo blow your hippy noodleThat you would rather just stand in the fogOf your inability to Google?
Isn’t this enough?Just this world?Just this beautiful, complexWonderfully unfathomable world?How does it so fail to hold our attentionThat we have to diminish it with the inventionOf cheap, man-made Myths and Monsters?If you’re so into ShakespeareLend me your ear:“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly”Or something like that.Or what about Satchmo?!I see trees of Green,Red roses too,And fine, if you wish toGlorify Krishna and VishnuIn a post-colonial, condescendingBottled-up and labeled kind of wayThat’s ok.But here’s what gives me a hard-on:I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant lump of carbon.I have one life, and it is shortAnd unimportant…But thanks to recent scientific advancesI get to live twice as long as my great great great great uncles and auntses.Twice as long to live this life of mineTwice as long to love this wife of mineTwice as many years of friends and wineOf sharing curries and getting shittyWith good-looking hippiesWith fairies on their spinesAnd butterflies on their titties.
And if perchance I have offendedThink but this and all is mended:We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time,For all the chance you’ll change your mind

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