Tag Archives: poo

January 10th

On this day in 236 a bloke called Fabian became the Pope.

Does this seem a little dull? I’m sorry about that, but all the stuff I could find for this day more or less bored the arse off me, so in the end I just went with Fabian because it was that or write about four paragraphs about how bloody boring January 10th is. Which I might still end up doing anyway, but meanwhile, back to Fabian.

Jesus the Dove flies into JPII face. The message being "why did you make this idiot pope?!"

There is one interesting thing about him becoming pope. You see, it is said that he wasn’t a bishop or a priest, or anything like that. He was a a simple layman who just happened to be in Rome when all the bishops had got together to elect a new pope (Anterus, the previous pope had died about a week before after being pope for only one month and ten days. It’s almost certain that he was murdered for being more trouble than he was worth. Cf. Pope John Paul I who might turn up here one of these days). They were all up for electing a Bishop, as was the usual way of things, but as they all stood around nattering about who’d make the best pope and comparing frocks and jewellery and stuff like that, a dove came along and sort of fluttered about over Fabian’s head.

Well, being religious sorts who knew their bible and all the stories it contained they all went “Bloody Nora! That dove is totally like Jesus innit! He’s telling us to elect Fabian! Er, do we have to do that? Really?”

The dove did not move while they were all prevaricating, so they decided

Fabian's deadly poo. Bishops look on and are heard to say "that turd will kill him!"

they’d better do what Jesus was telling them to through a bird, the big thickos. To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult for them to decide to go along with the dove, because even though being pope was a top job with well nice frocks and the best jewels in Christendom, given that Anterus had probably been murdered and they reckoned that the next pope would probably be done in as well, none of the bishops were that keen on being pope as they preferred being alive.

As it happened, Fabian turned out to be quite a good pope, sending people to places like France to tell them how nice it was to be a Catholic and doing some nice building and stuff around Rome. Oh and he also did something with Chrism, which wasn’t as rude as it sounds. So, he wasn’t murdered and got to be pope for fourteen years. He wasn’t murdered to death, he died of bursting a vein in his head when struggling to have a poo, just like Elvis.

And that is the story of Pope Fabian. Oh he got to be a saint as well, which given what we read about yesterday, doesn’t mean much of anything at all.

Still, nice as it was to talk about bishops in pretty frocks, doves and getting to be pope in olden times, I bloody hope there’s something more interesting to rabbit on about tomorrow. Let’s hope there’s a semi-interesting birthday for today. Fingers crossed, I’m off to have a look now.

Today is the birthday of Roderick Stewart. I mention this not because I give a flying fornication about Rod the Mod, but because until today I had no idea that his given name was Roderick and it amuses me no end.

Imagine having that face looming over you?

I’m not totally anti-Rod. The man’s done some good songs and stuff, but anyone who can sing “do you think I’m sexy” whilst wearing the most hideous leopard print tight trousers in the world is a bit of a joke. That and the fact that he keeps marrying the same blonde woman, just changing her for a slightly younger model every few years or so, which is just too icky for words.

But, blah, it’s Rod’s birthday. He will probably put on a kilt and a tartan hat and go on about how Scottish he is, despite being from North London and being a plastic Jock. Or joke, whichever you prefer.

It was also the birthday of Mary Ingalls, the older sister of Laura Ingalls

The real Mary Ingalls.

Wilder who wrote all the “Little House” books. Unlike the pretty crazily blue-eyed girl in the tv series of Little House on the Prairie, Mary never married, although she did go blind and did go to the blind school that the TV Mary went to. But there was not crazily blue-eyed teacher for her to fall in love with and get married to and so her non-existent husband did not fall over and get concussion and magically get his eyesight back and take her to NYC where he could finally be a lawyer and not a crappy old teacher. Her life was slightly less dramatic than that.

When she finished school, she went back home to live with Ma and Pa, made fly nets for horses and when her parents died went to live with her sister Grace and then with Carrie, before dying herself. I note that she did not live with Laura, who was probably to high and mighty to let her blind sister live with her by then.

Despite her dull life, it’s fair to say that Mary was probably more worthy of inclusion in this little blog than Roderick the Mod, because while she never accomplished much, she also never put her flabby arse into stupid trousers and pretended to be a bit half gay when she thought it was trendy. All in all, Mary the bland trumps Rod the twat.

Happy birthday to them both! Sort of.

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February 17th

On this day in 1913 there was something of a little art exhibition in New York; The Armory Show of 1913. You may wonder what’s so special about an art exhibition, given that they go on all the time, but  this one was a bit different. It was the first showing of modern art in America and introduced the public to the likes of Picasso, Matisse,  Braque, Dufy, Epstein, Kandinsky and Duchamp. In all there were well over a thousand paintings, sculptures and decorative works by over three hundred European and American artists. Four thousand people attended the opening night of the show and the immediate impact was rather full on. It’s hard to draw an accurate analogy, but if one were to imagine how a maiden aunt might react to the carnal propositions of a priapic, flatulent man, one would be close to understanding the initial opinion of the show.

Theodore Roosevelt, most famous for shooting bears in the face, declared “This is not art!” and demanded that the Armory replace everything with pictures of kittens and lovely ladies with their boobies out. Thankfully, he was ignored and pointed in the direction of Robert Henri’s Figure in Motion which kept him out of everyone’s hair for quite some time. The press went into a collective conniption fit about the whole thing and there were headlines about “Anarchy!” ,”Immorality!”, “Insanity!”, and the first recorded

Roosevelt laughs off rumours that he was caught in a compromising position in front of a "tittie" painting

instance of someone saying “My child could do better than that!” Marcel Duchamp attracted most of the opprobrium for his Nude Descending a Staircase. One critic declared it “an explosion in a shingle factory”, which everyone agreed was a really shit analogy, mostly because they were thinking of the disease shingles and wondering why on earth there would be a factory for making diseases. It didn’t stop with the press. Art students in Chicago burnt an effigy of Matisse because they didn’t like the way he’d drawn the hands on his Blue Nude.

The fulminations and furore in 1913 have been repeated at regular intervals ever since. New ideas in art are shown to the public, everyone says it’s shit, then they get used to it and a while later it’s accepted and the next thing is shit. Of course the exception to this rule is the work of the artist Chris Ofili, who got past the whole thing of being declared shit, by doing a lot of paintings using the medium of shit (don’t worry, he dries it out first, so they mostly don’t smell of poo). What was unique about this show, was it was America’s first real exposure to the modernist movements happening in Europe. Cubism, Futurism, Fauvism et al, may have been a bit on the shocking side, but it did change the course of American art, which would eventually become a centre of new movements later in the century. It was, therefore, the most important art exhibition in the US, ever!

Today is the birthday of pointless waste of skin and vapid despoiler of everything she comes into contact with, Paris Hilton. Where does one start? Paris is a model, an actress, an author, a singer, a fashion designer, a media personality and an ex-con. It would be unfair to assume that all of her achievements have been won on the back of her name, as most observers are happy to

A pointless bint

believe that even if she hadn’t been a Hilton, she’d probably have managed to end up in jail.

She is one of the great conundrums of the 21st century. Why is it that some people are constantly photographed and featured in the press in the face of deep antipathy from all and sundry. Paris manages to carry off the role of walking conundrum with great aplomb and in the sort of hideous clothing that proves that money and taste are not always happy bedfellows. She has been on this earth for thirty years and the only worthwhile thing she has done in that time is … no, sorry, there is nothing.

Still, it would be unkind to not send her joyful birthday wishes as she faces a future of increasing pointlessness, worthlessness and (one can but hope) the sort of batshit mental cosmetic surgery that will one day have her resembling the hind parts of an Aardvark. So, in the spirit of generosity, we wish her all the happiness a classy bird such as she, deserves. Roll on the aardvark’s arse.

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