The Cult of The Clique

I am a member of a very unique clique. This clique doesn’t conform to any dress code or gather its members around regular events. We don’t discriminate based on age, racial, cultural grounds or beauty. We don’t pretend to be a haven for the alienated, bewildered, the outsiders and those who were considered geeky and nerdy at school. We refuse to pretend that we’re something that we are not. We’re not interested in the likes of Oscar Wilde, Marquis de Sade or Byron. We don’t follow the literature of Kafka or indeed any figurehead. We’re not misunderstood because we want to be but because we make no sense. Although we say we don’t impose any rules on membership, this is a lie. We discourage outrageous dress sense and outlandish make up. If we have any taboos it’s more likely to be a liking for the musical ‘Taboo’, but not its characters. Any irrational hatred that we have is of the Primrose Hill pretenders or gay emo kids. We don’t feel the need to adopt ‘bunburyist’ pseudonyms or to have a select group of friends when it suits us. As for language, we don't have to hide behind the Anonymous tongue that is 4chan, ebaums world with their twatty, petty, clueless, misunderstood, demented, gullible flash mobbing scientologists, another pointless clique. ('Ooh, look at the point we're making with our V for Vendetta masks. Clever, thought provoking, aren't we? No we're not copying what Armando Iannucci did with those Princess Diana masks in 1996.' Dicks. 'Um, aren't cats cute? Caturdays, eh?' Cunts)

This clique would be unsuitable for Boy George and too brusque for Noel Fielding. Peaches Geldoff wouldn’t find it kooky or chameleon enough. It’s not as offensive as the ‘Glitter Children’ sect or as commercial as the ‘Neo-Gothic Suicide Forum’. It’s not as prejudiced as the ‘Iranian Dykes’ clique or does it hold regular ‘Gnectroclash’ soirees as the French ‘Nife Club’ in Newcastle. It doesn’t even consider itself as progressive as Alderley Edge’s ‘Watersport Wives’. In fact this clique is unique as it only has the sole member of myself involved and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Even though most of you must be aware of the famous Groucho Marx quote regarding membership of clubs, there is also a more perceptive one by Quentin Crisp which goes along the lines of ‘How can I be out of fashion when I was never ‘in?’ In an increasingly self-obsessed world, even more so on the web (guilty as charged) it’s more difficult to fit in or belong to anything without competing with each other to see who’s having the best life. It’s like the Jone’s next door, scenario. Sometimes it’s best not knowing all the tacky things your friends on Facebook are into. It only serves to disappoint. You turn into a culture snob, a whore, and might as well be in a reality television programme. All the while the delusion and self-denial cuts deeper and you find that you end up resenting everyone, including your family and friends. The clique, its concept which has been around since the birth of the Homo sapiens, has gone beyond jocks, new romantics, emos and the Nathan Barley’s. It’s become a clique of one. You. Thatcher is laughing at you.

Much Ado About Nothing

Two Face

I might as well lump these two clowns, seperated at birth, shit faced-discharged haired queens together. Not because they resemble the evil lovechild of Russell Grant and Vanessa Feltz, not because they epitomise the dumbed down media, not only because the trite unimportant gossip they inspire makes Lorraine Kelly wet in her tights but because they look like a couple of cunts. Who are they, you might wonder. Darren Lyons (Mr Papparazi) and Perez Hilton. Don't know who gave him the black eye. Maybe it was the Black Eyed Peas.

This is what they actually look like when they step out of the house everyday. Perhaps they believe they look good and 'edgy', that there's something rather zany and playful about them. Perhaps they aren't aware of the irony of appearance when they don't afford the same effort to personal appearence, health and hygiene that they expect of the minor no mark celebraties they regularly exploit/masturbate/hound/torture/witch hunt. Perhaps hypocrisy means fuck all to the fat cunts, or indeed to myself for writing this. Maybe soemday we too can exchange high fives with our friends and colleagues when one or both of them are found dead, empty tubs of Ben and Jerry's strewn around the tear stained Liberace inspired crib, sticky bibs on their chests and a pile of shit smeared into the seat of their fluffy pyjamas, as their pooches sniff around there corpses. Who knows?

Diane Appleyard:An Appeal

Let's have a whip round for our poor middle class angst-ridden lady.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1024403/The-credit-crunch-hits-home.html

It appears that the credit crunch has affected mediorce novelists and 'journalists' too. Look at what it's done to her. Poor thing blames Gordon Brown for all her financial problems and not the world market. What a shame that she might only have one luxury holiday this year instead of two. And there's the shame of having to suggest that her privately educated kids might have to get summer jobs instead of pocket money? I mean, summer jobs for children, it's hardly middle class, is it?

Come on, everyone. Let's show Ms Appleyard that we care, that her self-rigteous, sel-entitled, inflated figures are justified and send her a pound. She would love to hear from you. Especially if you're Polish.