Misc. jottings made on my train journey

[Payne]

The Death of Bong Lore


A few years ago, my friend and I were smoking a shit load of weed. We had named bongs, and all the paraphenalia. I was seldom seem without a joint made of a single paper, leading to it being called a 'hancock'. It was my signature.

So basically, we smoked a lot of weed...

We wrote little tracts on bits of the receipt roll when we were working at the supermarket. Little bits of shit that claimed that there must be a layer of our stmosphere, no matter how thin, comprised of the active chemicals in cannabis. We decided the shape of Hitlers pie-cutting device.

Sometimes we came up with something almost interesting, like maybe something about mass media ultimately causing us all to act like we're in a maze.

We collated this all together one day and declared it the 'Bong Lore' and treated it like a bible. I blu-tacked it to my wall. My friend started drawing little toddler like comic strips based on it, with us as the characters, and he still does to this day. Later all of my scraps of pseudo-intellectual diahroea were bucketed. I believe the Blu-Tac was given to a friend who used it to hang half naked pictures of women all over his bedroom wall.

The Bong Lore was fun for a while, but I had to let it die. It was turning me into some kind of emo-stoner-hippy.


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Train Journey


I was walking to the bus station today, heavy bag on my shoulder, and sticking to myself, having excelled myself with several days of drinking, smoking and hassling the natives of my ex-home city.

I walk past a woman urging me to say "gouranga" and be free. I've seen the type before, pervasive on Scottish streets for the past five years at least, so I avoid her. I don't want to buy any of the CD's, pamphlets, fridge magnets or bouncy rubber balls they offer. I walk on, and just around the corner, there is large man urging me to "repent! and be saved by Jesus Christ!".

In the background a Bagpiper skirls and shrieks his way through a half assed rendition of "Flower of Scotland". My, don't I feel jaded today?

I get on the train, just, throw my bag of foul smelling clothes onto the overhead rack, pull out a book, a free newspaper and a bottle of water. I stare at these objects for a time as Edinburgh slowly slides past my window.

I fucking hate the train. I hate the people who take trains. A little kid is yelling at his mother, two Londoners sit behind me talking about tracing family histories, and walking around churches in London. Damn it!

I read through the paper, it's got a little piece on the guy who defenestrated himself up the road from where I stayed the night before. About six pages on the VA shootings.

It has a page of puzzles, which I would do, if I had a pen.

I'm sick of the apathy. My own, everyone elses. I'm happy that I have a little table to myself, because I'm not sure how I could handle enforced human contact today. Even something so small as where to put my feet in relation to any who share my table. I don't have to, so I feel a little better.

As we reach St. Andrews, I read that Justin Timberlake visited here the day before. Woo Fuckin Hoo. Mr. Timberlake gets as many column inches as the poor sod who dived through his window to his death. The media certainly has a strange balance on which they weigh the merit of their stories.


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A Sociological Golden Shower


Hey! Did you know that 'society' today is really just communal urination? Did you ever get that thing where you just can't piss if someone is looking at you? I'm thinking that it's a fact that you do it almost every time you interact with somone, or they with you.

Sometimes it's difficult to really listen to someone, or talk to them, because you fear the consequences of letting out all that bile and hatred you really feel.

There are, however, some who don't let such a petty insecurity hold them back. You can stand back in awe of these people as some self-titled 'innocent' gets soaked by the urine laced with sheer contempt let forth by one with no complex that prevents him or her saying what they think.

The people who do, though. What about them? Who are they? Do they drive fast cars? Start revolutions?

These people are not good, neither are they bad. You may know some of them, and you may not know any. These people do things for themselves, and want more people to do things for themselves, because it would make life more interesting at least.

Next time you think the splash-back from the guy relieving himself in the urinal at the local bar is too much, remember that someone you know could metaphorically be doing the same thing to you. And they're having a great time doing it. Don't you wanna see if you're missing out?