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Socks appeal

Socks appeal

(Sockratic methodology)

I have 14 pairs of general-purpose socks for everyday wear.

I have not just pulled this number of sock pairs out of thin air. This figure has been arrived at after careful consideration of two fundamental and critically important principals:

i) I will do at least one machine load of washing each week.
ii) I am unlikely to change a pair of GP socks more than once on any particular day.

For me, a good general-purpose sock is a dark coloured, nondistinctive, un-patterned high ankle sock. The sock should consist of a blend of natural and synthetic fibres, and be of a medium thickness, in order to provide a comfortable and flexible foot covering across the greatest range of climatic conditions and whilst wearing a varied selection of outer footwear. I currently favour a well-respected brand of soft ribbed multi-terrain leisure socks. An example of a balanced fibre blend for a typical general-purpose sock could be 76% cotton, 21% nylon and 3% lycra; providing for a pleasing combination of warmth, ventilation, stretch and durability.

While a general-purpose sock is, as to be expected, suitable for most occasions, I also have seven pairs of woollen socks for use in cold weather. These socks, when worn with a stout leather boot, provide a winter expeditionary capability; allowing for journeys to be made on foot –perhaps to a Christmas cracker shop or eggnog stall– during harsh wintry weather conditions.

As a legacy of my army service, I also have in my possession a couple of pairs of army issue arctic socks, though it is rarely cold enough to need them this far south of the Arctic Circle. In addition to the white arctic socks, I have seven pairs of woodland-green, woollen, general issue army socks. I do not normally wear these; however, they are reassuring to have – I know that should I need to engage in woodland combat, I‘ll have the right socks on hand.

I have seven pairs of white sports socks, as though I am a physically active person, I will not normally have more than one training session per day. I also often have a day off training each week, and so one pair of sports socks for each day for a week is sufficient.

I have 14 pairs of ‘hidden’ socks for use in summer when wearing shorts – three white pairs, four dark blue and seven black. I have two pairs of soccer socks, though I have not played a game of football in years. One pair is white, one pair is dark blue; neither pair is team branded.

I have a pair of purple socks that have a non-slip rubber tread for use indoors on hard flooring. I do not wear them; they are gay, insofar as an epicene cotton bag can be gay. However, they were bought for me, and are potentially useful, so I keep hold of them.

I have two sock puppets with which I often entertain myself.

My sock system has an inbuilt sock redundancy – I am able to operate a flexible laundry routine, and should a sock become holed, I have ample time to replace that pair without having to worry about running out of socks of any type.

I have two pairs of underpants. One for everyday wear, one for special occasions.

Categories: Brian Black, Lifestyle Tags: ,

Enter the Dragon

Enter the Dragon

(Venture crapitalism)

Some people are simply better than other people.

It may not be fashionable to point out this irrefutable fact, but that does not make it any less true. Some people are simply superior to others; conversely, some folks are scum. People like me are special, set apart from the hoi polloi; we are of an elite and cultured class, destined to lord it over the ignorant masses. Unfortunately, for some of us it is an unfulfilled destiny.

To some extent, I feel that I have been robbed of my birthright. I feel that under slightly different circumstances, perhaps in a different era, I would be a man of significant status – a man of influence, a man of wealth and power. Instead, like some kind of commoner, I’m forced to work for a living; I’m forced to queue for service in shops; I’m forced to sit in traffic next to empty bus lanes; I’m forced to have sex with only one, and very occasionally two, girls at a time!

The natural world depends on a state of balance – yin and yang, a quiescent harmony. If I am not fabulously wealthy, as I rightly should be, then there is imbalance in nature – an intolerable turmoil. Nature will seek to resolve the unfairness and iniquity of the situation, and return to the ideal harmonic condition. And so, nature spontaneously created the TV show, “Dragons’ Den”.

Dragons’ Den (aka Shark Tank / Hakrishim / Draknästet / Al Aareen / Manê no Tora) is a TV show where affluent and aloof business types (the “dragons”) torment the poor. The dragons sit next to gratuitously flaunted piles of cash in front of impoverished dragon-wannabes. The wannabes are then forced to perform for the dragons in the vain hope of some miserly financial reward – a format that is somewhat reminiscent of my sexually humiliating treatment of many skint Eastern European girls. The wannabes metaphorically fellate the dragons’ on screen before, probably, literally fellating the dragons’ off screen. How I admire the dragons. I admire their piles of cash; I admire their power; I admire their contempt and cruel putdowns.

Amongst the countless opportunistic chancers and deluded fortune hunters who appear on Dragons’ Den, are a handful of inventors and visionaries that win the praise and the financial support of the dragons. People like that guy with the sauce or the bloke with the plastic thing for electricians; people unforgettable for their ingenuity and imagination. These people, these plebs, are nobody before Dragons’ Den; but then, with only a half-baked idea and the backing of the dragons, they become well-paid rich people! The degradation of Dragons’ Den is my pathway to limitless wealth and endless blowjobs.

The idea came to me just the other day; suddenly, like a refrigerator light bulb flicking on. I woke up, got out of bed and headed for the kitchen; tipped my night-time piss jar into the sink and switched the kettle on. I knocked the butts out of my favourite morning mug and dropped in a tea bag – so far so good; however, on opening the fridge I realised that I had run out of milk.

The thing is, regular milk bottles only hold 1pint of milk, or 568ml. All I needed was another 20 or 30ml of milk to make my cuppa. So, if my milk bottle had held 598ml of milk, I would not have run out!

Bigger milk bottles; that’s it, my way out of middle class poverty. No more waiting six months to upgrade my smart phone; no more making do with a diminutive 32inch widescreen TV; no more haggling over prices with escort girls – I get to have everything I want, whenever I want it. An extra 30ml of milk per pint bottle – no one ever runs out of milk again, and I get to live a life of luxurious leisure on the back of the royalties!

There are over 9 billion pints of milk sold in the UK each year, and let’s face it, if you’re in the store buying milk, would you buy a 568ml bottle knowing you could run out; or would you buy a 598ml bottle and be safe? It’s a no-brainer. I expect to make over £50million on UK product licenses alone; when considering global milk sales, the figures become almost unimaginable. I’m going to be so busy making money that I’ve already started to tell people I know to fuck off out of my life.

All I need now is a spot on Dragons’ Den. I just need the first 100 grand to set up initial production. I want just £100,000 for a 0.2% equity share; you can’t say fairer than that. It’s entrepreneurs like me – people with the balls to risk other folks’ money – that built this great nation; I just need a helping hand to get started, just need that opportunity to make my pitch to the dragons.

I’ll obviously not be letting Deborah Meaden invest. She could curdle milk with her boat-race.

Sour faced bitch.

Ipswich Moon Cult

What is Ipswich Moon Cult?

(Wherefore comfort one another with these words)

I am a very spiritual person, and I take my spirituality very seriously.

My spirituality covers all aspects of my life; I have many spiritual accoutrements at home, and many which I carry about my person.
I often wear a lucky Celtic knot bracelet, for good luck obviously, or carry a magic peridot gemstone amulet to imbue myself with divine wisdom. Sometimes I wear a mystical ruby talisman for warding off the evil-eye. And sometimes, when using public transport, I may wear a Saint Christopher medallion for warding off suicide bombers.

At home I have a Buddhist prayer wheel, which is like a really spiritual executive desk toy, used for stress relief. For meditative purposes, I keep a pouch of Tibetan incense powder and a copy of Kraftwerk’s Computerwelt album. I also have a crystal ball for foretelling the future, a bottle of sacred Hindu oil for hired Eastern European girls to anoint me with, a Native American dreamcatcher hung above my bed, to catch bad dreams I guess, and I have a gilded cow in a shrine, which is just a regular gilded cow in a shrine.

One of my most prized spiritual possessions is called “Bible”, which is an ancient spiritual book written in olden times by Jews. It’s very much like the “The Da Vinci Code” of its day. They made a film of it too, though Robert Powell plays Jesus, rather than Tom Hanks.
Bible can be a bit difficult to read in parts, but I think that was intentional of the author. The writing style changes throughout; in some chapters a kind of spontaneous stream of consciousness style is used, somewhat reminiscent of Jack Kerouac or Hubert Selby Jr; in other chapters a style reminiscent of Dan Brown (but with clumsy word choices, confused structure and poor grammar) is used.
If I were to be honestly critical, much of Bible is just filler; a better editor would have cut out many of the incidental scenes before publishing. Despite this shortcoming, there are some very worthwhile and personally influential parts within the book.

I have copied a couple of passages from Bible to present here:

1 Thessalonians 4
16 For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God; and the dead in Christ shall rise first:
17 Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

Mark 13
24 But in those days, after that tribulation, the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light.
25 And the stars of heaven shall fall, and the powers that are in heaven shall be shaken.
26 And then they shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds with much power and glory.

It is upon these very selectively singled out Bible passages that I have based the entire ideology of my new-found religious faith.

I have sought spiritual inspiration from as far afield as Machu Picchu, Stonehenge, the River Ganges, the “Smoke ’n Toke” headshop, and the Kii Mountains; I have studied the teachings of prophets and gurus; and I have meditated in pursuit of divine guidance. However, it was while flicking through Bible that a heavenly hand pointed me towards the Light, pointing out to me the two passages that would form the basis of the new dogma.
When I read these passages I experienced a revelation, a godly moment of absolute clarity, The Lord descending from heaven; coming in the clouds; meeting us in the air; the dark moon… it could mean only one thing! That Jesus is waiting for us in a holy spaceship parked on the dark side of the moon, and at the end of days he will descend from space to pick up his true followers.

Newly sanctified by the touch of God, and equipped with this sacred knowledge, I immediately set about forming my Moon Cult (The Sacred Church of the Disciples of the Holy Lunar Spaceship of Christ the Patient Redeemer). As the sole Prophet for the one true religion, I was obligated to spread the word of God, and to offer redemption and deliverance to as many people as could afford to pay the one-off and non-refundable spiritual salvation fee of £499.99 and the subsequent administration and subscription fees of £19.99 per week.
It was something of a slow start; I was on my own for a few weeks. However, with discounts for hot chicks and free Moon Cult T-shirts, I began to get a few regular followers.
The girls were awesome; most girls would enthusiastically get it on with the Messiah if only they had the chance. Though I was only the Prophet, rather than the Messiah, I saw no point in getting too pernickety about minor theological details.

Things were looking rosy for the Moon Cult, at least until the beginning of May 2011. I feel a little foolish now, but there was a lot of fuss in the media about the forthcoming rapture, and the cultists were being caught up in the excitement of it all, there was a growing anticipation of the coming of the Lord, and I guess I just got swept along.
The rapture would supposedly happen on the 21st of May, so said the reports in the media. Possibly against my better judgement, I kinda thought that, you know, it could actually be the actual date. I hadn’t heard anything from God directly, but it can be so difficult to go against the crowd sometimes. In fact, if anything, the disciples kinda forced me to act; forced my hand; practically begged me; essentially were asking for it; they asked for what happened to them!

We were to ascend to the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and join him in his holy spaceship while the sinners left on Earth would meet their terrible fate. And so, to enable the cultists to escape their corporeal shells and spiritually ascend to the Lord’s heavenly spaceship, on the 21st, at about 8:30pm, I gathered the disciples together in the Moon Cult compound and served up the Holy Purple Cola.
There was a little bit of bother; some tears; some followers got cold feet; but within an hour all the cultists had received a good serving of the Holy Purple Cola. I of course didn’t need the Holy Purple Cola as I am holy enough already; and my Filipino houseboy didn’t get any as he doesn’t speak English, and therefore is not eligible for eternal salvation.

After a couple of days it had become very clear that something was amiss. I had not ascended to heaven, and there had been no sign at all of Jesus and his spaceship. The bodies of 23 obviously un-ascended disciples littered the Moon Cult compound. Twenty-three festering bodies for me, and my houseboy Tattoo, to dispose of.

Gonna need some new disciples.

The Ultimate Question

What is Brian Black?

(Ideas are bullet proof)

What is Brian Black?

That is the question reached by Tibetan monk, Tenzin Sopa, following his exhaustive 7½ year mediation on the nature of the ultimate question. When pushed for an answer to the question, Tenzin said “Fuck off, I’ve done my bit”, and so it fell upon others to find the answer.

Though the rationale for doing so has long since been obscured by time; in a vain attempt to piece together an answer to the question, a team of a dozen chimpanzees were locked into large suite of rooms in an Ipswich hotel. Provided with a copy of the question and generously/cruelly supplied with twelve typewriters, cigarettes, Viagra, a selection of women’s lifestyle magazines, a UNIVAC I, strong German pornographic videos, a surfeit of heroin and a shit-load of bananas, the chimps set about raping and killing each other.

After nine days, all indications of life had ceased; the rooms were entered and cleared, and searched for signs of an answer. The following details were found to have been scratched into an ape-shit-smeared wall with a piece of broken typewriter:

Brian Black is a partially successful biological experiment, to determine whether a sentient being can be created by way of incubating human male trouser-spaff within the unpleasant and hostile environment of a human female uterus.

Brian Black is a complex primate, with a large brain, opposable thumbs, and two left feet.

Brian Black is an inefficient use of natural resources.

Brian Black is a conceptual device, designed to convey to you the correct thought that you should be having; rather than the incorrect thought that you are having.

Brian Black is unconcerned by the limitless scope of human imagination.

Brian Black is an impenetrable in-joke that you wouldn’t find funny even if it was explained to you in fine detail; especially if it was explained to you in fine detail.

Brian Black is a Leo.

Brian Black is obsolescent 1970s technology, having been largely superseded by microprocessor improvements and cheap Chinese labour.

Brian Black is free of the meddlesome influence of his superego.

Brian Black is a talented artist, a skilled sculptor who works in the often overlooked medium of mashed potatoes.

Brian Black is 180cm, and 17.5cm, and UK size 9.

Brian Black is modestly reluctant to discuss his natural, non-surgically enhanced, physical beauty.

Brian Black is a role model for your life.

Brian Black is a repository for correct opinions, on all manner of topics, which can be dispensed as required when in the presence of intellectually inferior people.

Brian Black is the axis, about which Brian Black’s world revolves.

Brian Black is innocent of all subsequent criminal charges relating to an incident of bizarre animal cruelty in an Ipswich hotel.

Brian Black is 87% an Hero.