The Christmas Rat

HELLo. It's been some time since I regurgitated on to this record of the life and times of Lord B Chunk and seeing as I told many people that I'd update it regularly I suppose I'd better get gurglin'. Init.

Life passes in Dublin, although not away however. Mind, the weather has been noxious enough to induce the suspicion of immanent no-zone arrival, an arrival forestalled by a clear blue day today.

Yesterday night I drank. The great overarching feature of Ireland is the quality of the publife, which is insuperable. On the other hand a weekend night out in Dub can be, at its nadir, like being trapped in a constant Watford. In fact my place of imbibation yestereve was strongly reminiscent of places I'd go when I was 14, which was exactly half my life time ago, but this time it was without cider or anything else from then.

The gracious Lord of Chunk will pass this Xmass in gracious Ireland. But to alleviate the terror caused by being chased from the supermarket by Kwality Kristmas Klassix something new and fresh must be done. To that end: instead of the banal, and quite frankly predictable act of erecting a Xmass tree, I shall instead create a 'Christmas Rat'.

The Christmas Rat will rest on a faux marble yet blatantly plastic graeco-romanesque mini pillar, its lovely cage will be adorned in the finest traditional baubles and it will be crowned with an Angel. The Rat will be handsomely treated and will eat as part of the family, though this is partly as a means to the end of making it so fat its body more or less fills the cage and its tiny head and arms move up and down rhythmically in time to 'Bartok: The Pneumatic Drill Remixes'.

Trivia: whilst discussing the maelstrom that is Dublin's main shopping area with my fine German flatmate Stefan (Leipzig Rules!) I observed that Dante had forgotten to include it in his depiction of the Inferno. Then, whilst reading the pedestrian books of the year list in that despicable shit-rag 'The Irish Times' I was delighted to discover that Madame X was complimenting JG Ballard on his identification of shopping malls with aforementioned Italian's rest home.

Toodle Pip! Happy Xmass and outstanding Nu Year, y'al.

I live in Dublin now

Cheerio!

Book o' Da Week

This week is a book I read a couple of months ago 'The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (from A to B and back again)'. The Baron of West strongly recommended it and I think mentioned something about Borehole defining art as 'whatever you can get away with', although The Baron may not have said this as his words were obscured by the screaming of The Turk. Whoever did say it, and I must say I missed it in the book, it seems laudable to me, and entirely accurate too. Unfortunately though, I was disappointed, though it's irreverently candid its only absurdo/surreal hi-lite was when he talked about his detachable facial wings that bestow many benefits. Other than that there were some records of satisfyingly futile cross-polonising meditations on life but not much else except for the retrospectively foreseeable idea that his intention was to make money not art. Hurrah!

I hate Tesco too...

Went in to Tesco today, fucks have installed self-serve checkouts. Now you have to do the job some poor bastard was paid to do before but you don't get paid. Fuck off Tesco. Ain't no way I'm doing their job for free you fucks.

Did someone say that The Great God Pan is dead?

Home of Logical Gastronomy

Padre Pio is Kenobi e Yoda e' la prova

In Bologna there is a great instiution known as 'Casa Logic', kinda like a latter day Cabaret Voltaire, ma piu genio. My friends who are it do things like this see :Piokenobi/YodaVideo
(see da second one down especially).

See the main site here:Piokenobi Official Site

And Casa Logic at home:Casa Logic

Myself during Napoleon's Italian Campaign

My Shiny Sword

I thought I'd show everyone my shiny sword. I call it my (additional) big chopper.

Lord B Chunk: Ex-London, soon to be Ex-Bologna

Dear Friends and assorted lackeys and serfs, militiamen, men at arms, huntsmen,

The time has come and I must regretfully inform you of my intention to forsake dear Bologna for pastures new. I will leave behind blue skies and cheap wine and remove myself back to the northwest of Europe, this time to Dublin.

At least it's not London though, a city that I intensely miss in many ways but not enougth to go back to live there. Not unless I get very rich very quickly, which is a hint. Poll-tax anyone?