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Thursday, 14 June 2007

Who Is This Anarchist?

Well, here I am sitting in front of my trusty laptop and it’s Day One of the Blog. Cue for big fanfare! Tarrraaa! Yes, Wikipedia will tell people that this was a defining moment in the history of the Internet. The day the common blog was elevated to greater heights. On the other hand, once my Partner reads this he’ll no doubt make a few snide remarks. He’s that sort. My Partner is a solicitor working for one of those community law centres where they advise the lame and the lazy on how to apply for benefits. Of course, my Partner would claim those are the views of a rabid right-winger. But I’m not. I regard myself as an anarchist. A rebel. A carbonaro, sansculottes. A follower in the illustrious footsteps of Che Guevara. And I’m quite sure that most of my Partner’s clients are genuine cases. I meant it in a purely jocular way. Anyway, over the years, I’ve learned to ignore him. Actually, I reckon it’s because he’s secretly jealous of my creative talent. Whoa! What am I doing? This is supposed to be about me, not my Partner. Let him write his own blog. That’s if he can.

Okay, by now you’ve probably gathered that I’m starting a blog. And I'll be giving the reader a blow-by-blow account of my experiences. I suppose I’d better begin by telling you that the blog is not really meant for public consumption. Although the public will have access to it. Instead, it is aimed fairly and squarely at my fellow anarchists. Those people out there who share my views. Hang on, I hear you cry! Being anarchists will they share my views? I mean, you could argue that the only truly genuine anarchist would be someone whose views are totally at odds with everyone else and who belongs to no group or organisation. Wow! Imagine if I put that in my blog. Pure dynamite, right? So I’d better not otherwise I might piss some of those anarchists off. And then come the letter bombs. BOOM! Look, mother! No fingers. In which case I’ll stick to upsetting the Establishment. How? Well, no doubt the powers-that-be have means and ways of trawling the Internet checking to see who’s having a pop at them. That means they’ll come across my blog. So I needed an eye-catching format for it. Then I came across this Russian website catering for people like me. They’ve got some real in-your-face blog templates. And so they should. After all, Russia has produced some of the world’s leading anarchists. All they ask is that you carry some adverts for Russian brides. Being Gay, they don’t anything for me. So they wouldn’t be a distraction. Of course, if they were Gay men... But they said they didn’t cater for that particular market. And when I explained that Gay marriages are quite the norm, the cheeky bugger on the other end said that that sounded like a contradiction in terms.

So I eventually picked the “F*ck Microsoft” template. At first I wasn’t sure about the logo. The one of Bill Gates being raped by a Muscovite down and out fuelled on vodka. (Presumably the image was faked, otherwise there would have been some mention of it in the media.) It was actually my Partner who suggested it. When I objected, he asked me what the problem was. I was supposed to be an anarchist, right? I reminded him that I’m only a part-time anarchist. The decision was based on purely financial reasons rather than any political or philosophical ones. Anarchists are not normally found in the higher income brackets. In fact, they’re usually at the bottom of the pay scale. And there are bills to pay.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But being part-time simply means you have to be even more radical.’

Seeing I was still unsure, my Partner said that if Bill Gates threatened to sue, he’d represent me. After some persuasion I finally relented. What swung it was the opinion of The Man In The Iron Lung. More of him later. Anyway, enough of this digression. You want to know about my blog, am I right? Of course you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t reading this. So here’s the one that started it all...

Hello, fellow anarchists! You’ll find these thoughts of mine simple and to the point. No waffle. We anarchists hate wafflers. We anarchists hate everything, but we hate wafflers most of all. So forget all those other boring old blogs. Stay with me and be entertained by the utter ravings of a gay, middle-class, part-time anarchist! My name is Guy Forkes and I always like to joke that my name can cause fireworks. Ha! Ha! Ha! My Partner, on the other hand, claims he’s going to take it seriously. In which case, he’ll be making sure I occupy the seat of honour on Bonfire Night. He then added that being November there might be a precipitation of rain so, to ensure adequate combustion, I would be liberally doused with paraffin. I just hope he’s not serious! Anyway, you’re probably all wondering if I’m any relation to Guy Fawkes, the famous anarchist who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Well, the answer is yes!

Knowing my ancestors came from Sheffield I’d always imagined they were in the cutlery business. However, my mother assured me that I’m descended from the Great Anarchist himself. Wishing to distance themselves from the crime, the family name was changed from Fawkes to Forkes. My Partner, however, was unconvinced pointing out that if this was true, then they wouldn’t have picked a name that rhymes. He reckons it’s just too obvious. The Establishment, he points out, may have been stupid...but they weren’t that stupid. Fair point. So I put forward the theory that they might have been poets. After all, this was the age of Shakespeare…the Great Bard. “You’re not going to claim you’re related to him, as well?” asked my Partner. I ignored him. Sometimes he can be pretty insufferable. He then proceeded to cast doubt on the Gunpowder Plot itself. According to Mr Expert-At-Blowing-Things-Up, the conspirators had to rely on a substance that hadn’t changed since the Chinese invented it back in the 8th Century. In other words, to do the job properly my illustrious ancestor and his cronies would have needed several large barrels of the stuff. And these barrels would have been prominently marked with the words, “DANGER! YE GUNPOWDER!” When I questioned this, my Partner replied that people weren’t entirely stupid. Given the preponderance of lighted torches and lanterns, there would have been at least some, rudimentary safety regulations. My partner asked me to imagine a bunch of guys, (no pun intended), wearing large hats pulled down over their faces, transporting twenty barrels of gunpowder around London. Surely that would have caused some suspicion. He then made a pathetic stab at satire. Considering the dismal record of the Met, he reckoned they might have got away with it today, but not back in 1605. I quickly countered by reminding him that that this had occurred in November. So Guy and his conspirators were probably hidden by one of those thick London fogs. This amused my Partner who pointed out that the fogs were caused by the burning of fossils fuels in the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution. And that there were few coal mines, dark satanic mills, and steam locomotives around in Elizabethan times.

I then told him I was making an early start on my Xmas present list. Still in an argumentative mood, he suggested that a true anarchist would never celebrate the Festive Season. I reminded him that even demagogues need a holiday. So why, he asked, did I persisted in calling it Xmas? Why don’t I call it Eduard Limonov Day or Watt Tyler Day? Maybe he has a point, but it’s nostalgia. And if I did, what sort of decorations could I put up? Red flags? English peasant artefacts from the 14th Century? For a start, we’d have to get rid of those expensive Xmas tree lights along with the illuminated decorations on the front of the bungalow. The ones that make the people opposite so jealous. Talk about rude! They call us the Griswold’s and wonder how a pair of puffs like us can afford the electricity bill. Anyway, as usual I had great difficulty finding the right present for our American guest who lives in the loft. A former master gunnery sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, he’s over 6 foot tall with a lantern jaw that lights up at night. That joke elicited a loud groan from my Partner. On the other hand, what, the next word in italics, can, you buy a man in an iron lung? Items of clothing would have been in bad taste. I mean, the poor man is totally immobile and the only part of his anatomy open to view is his face. Then I had it!

I’ll get him some aftershave lotion.

Hey, Guy! I thought you might like this one...

Politically correct definitions: Non-vaginal insertion technique; traditional AIDS virus distribution method; biological solid waste portal organic dildo insertion procedure. Example: She told her doctor she’d been constipated ever since her husband had started using non-vaginal insertion techniques.

Politically correct definitions: Temporary mobility reduction ritual; restraint opportunity; harness modelling; collaborating in a ligature-orientated sexual strategy. Example: The book she was reading was Hemmingway’s Of Human Temporary Mobility Reduction Rituals.

Politically correct definitions: A seminal flow inhibitor; disposable seminal fluid container; testicular products receptacle. Faulty Condom: Negatively buffered seminal flow container. Example: “Would sir like a packet of disposable seminal fluid containers with enhanced stimulatory attachments for the weekend?”

Politically correct definitions: Non-organically based male sexual organ; lesbian artefact. Example: Her parents suspected something was wrong when she started spending a lot of time in her bedroom with a lesbian artefact.

Politically correct definitions: Female pain application operative; punishment craftsperson. Example: He left the dating agency after they sent him a female pain application operative.

Politically correct definitions: Non-male dildo operator; lesbian artefact user. Example: They met through an advertisement in the Personal Section of Lesbian Artefact User’s Monthly.

Politically correct definitions: Male organ restructuring; penile perpendicularity. A flaccid penis is described as: failure to achieve maximum erection; penile downsizing; negative penile growth syndrome, erecturally dispossessed; relative lengthening. Example: She observed his organ spontaneously restructure itself.

Politically correct definitions: Sexual defence tactic; sexually challenged; in a state of negatively-charged sexual excitement; chronic headache victim. Example: He called her a “Sexually challenged and chronologically gifted manufactured receptacle for transporting materials!”*
(*A frigid old bag.)

Politically correct definitions: A multiple sexual experience; recreational activity for alternative lifestyle motorcycle enthusiasts association members. Example: Jodie Foster once starred in a film about a multiple sexual experience.

Politically correct definitions: Alternatively sexed individuals; sexually different; incompletely heterosexual; heterosexually challenged; nonviable partner for the opposite sex; a practitioner of non-traditional sex; person with alternative sexual needs. Example: He replied, “I fear I must decline your suggestion, Mrs Witherspoon, for I am a person with alternative sexual needs.”

Politically correct definitions: Non-interactive sexual experience; incompletely successful sex act; individual with unmet sexual needs; sexually inconvenienced; in a reduced state of sexual activity; disengaged sexual activity victim. Example: “Not tonight, dear...those 10 pints of Futter’s Extra Strong Bitter have left me sobriety-deprived and sexually inconvenienced.”

Politically correct definitions: An alternatively orientated sexual activity; sexual needs of a non-traditional nature. Example: When she saw his comprehensive collection of rubber appendages, she realised he had sexual needs of a non-traditional nature.

Politically correct definitions: Pain experience opportunity; pain volunteer; punishment opportunity; voluntary failure to maintain one’s pain-free potential; force beneficiary; painful stimuli abuse; physical abuse management; discomfort addiction. Example: The discomfort addict went to Soho looking for a suitable punishment opportunity.

Politically correct definitions: Organic dildo; inflatable male lower body adornment; sperm migration instrument; seminal fluid transporter. Example: His bright red Porsche was clearly an inflatable male lower body adornment substitute.

Politically correct definitions: Alternatively timed ejaculatory response; a non-mutually shared orgasm; accidental delivery of seminal fluid; seminal incontinence; a seminal discharge misadventure. Men who suffer from this condition are said to be: ejaculatorily challenged or have special ejaculatory needs. Example: After going to bed they experienced several seminal discharge misadventures.

Politically correct definitions: Experiencing a pain fulfilment ritual. Example: He bent over the chair and prepared to experience yet another pain fulfilment ritual.

Politically correct definitions: Seminal fluid containers; organic temporary housing for potential future birth canal travellers. Example: He said, “I’ve just made an awful seminal fluid containers of this job!”

Politically correct definitions: Low-powered penile shaped electromagnetic instrument for orgasmic enhancement using fluctuating wave-transfer technology; oscillating dildo. Example: “Just lie back while I use this low-powered penile shaped electromagnetic instrument for orgasmic enhancement using fluctuating wave-transfer technology on you.”

Politically correct definitions: Negatively-orientated sexual activity phase; person of unused sexual organs; temporarily sexually inexperienced; sexual experience non-possessor; sexually disorientated; sexually challenged. Loss of virginity, (popping the cherry): Non-surgical removal of hymen survivor; post celibate individual. Example: “I’m sexually challenged, so please be gentle with me.”

Posted by fellow Blogger!


The other evening Guy got an email from It seems Agbara’s father died leaving him $15.5 million, (I wish I had a father like that.) And he wanted help transferring the money to England. Guy being somewhat gullible thought it was genuine. But I pointed out that these scams were quite common and told him I’d reply to it. I emailed Agbara telling him that I’d be only too pleased to help him, but my fee would be $15.4 million and he could keep the rest. I never expected to hear from him but – lo and behold – the idiot replied. Here’s his email...

“I just got your mail and i must say that i am still confused about that,You asked for US$15.4 before helping me,how do you meant by that,if i give you the amount you mentioned how much will left for me,Please if you really care to assist me,i can afford to give you 20% of the total money,if this interest you then we can go ahead on the transaction.



And he had the nerve to quibble about my generous offer! So I passed him on to one of my clients at the Law Centre, a Scottish “Knight of the Road,” called Tom McKelpie. Using our computer Tom penned this reply...

“Och, man! Wits dis all aboot? Wits wrang wi’ ye noo? Ahm bisy knockin’ lumps aff de auld wife’s heid wi’ a poker an’ yer whinging aboot me pal’s offer. Yer mekin an awfu’ fuss over nettin. Mae pal’s fee of $15.4 million wus fair. Leavin’ ye wi’ $0.1 million. Why the fook do ye need more than that? Isn’t yon money better in mae pal’s pocket than yours? Mae pal is a generous wee feller, so he says heel gi’ ye an extra $10.00. But nae a cent mere, d’ye hear? Nae a cent mere! Have we got a braw deal? Jist try an’ keep oot de nick, ma wean.”

Let’s hope that shuts him up.

Posted by Guy’s Partner.

A brief word about the Man In The Iron Lung. His name is Milton P. Smith and he was a former Master Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. He may be incapacitated, but he can still be very persuasive. As befits a former Drill Instructor. Anyway, there’s always a risk that upsetting him may exacerbate his physical condition. If he were to die, God knows how we’d explain it to the police. I can imagine them arriving to investigate a sudden death and asking us why we had someone in an iron lung in our loft. Worse still, an expert would soon discover that this was no ordinary iron lung but one constructed from parts salvaged from a scrap yard. Was it a crime to make an iron lung? My Partner didn’t know. As far as he knew, this was the only one of its kind. He then pointed

Guy Forks

Posted by theophobiac at 2:10 PM BST
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