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Suggested Audio:

[1] Sisters of Mercy “This Corrosion”

[2] R.E.M. “Shiny Happy People”

[3] Godiego “Monkey Magic/Gandhara”




noun: a substance that is capable of causing the illness or death of a living organism when introduced or absorbed.


It’s astonishing what a few drops of this stuff can do. In 2013 alone, there were over three million cases of unintentional poisonings worldwide, resulting in almost 100,000 deaths all by itself. That’s a staggering statistic, especially when you consider that it only accounts for unhappy accidents. What of the premeditated variety? Well I guess this is a little harder to keep tabs on as it tends to go on very much on the sly. Indeed, just a little of this administered over a long enough period of time can have devastating effects and, if kept enough on the down low, can be almost impossible to trace. It’s quite scary when you think about it and, having watched Flowers in The Attic, I’m far less willing to accept sugar-powdered doughnuts from anyone who prepares them while laughing maniacally. I could do without the steadily worsening gut rot and have kind of grown attached to sporting a healthy glow so there appears no reason for me to have a habit of a lifetime changed without my prior knowledge. Sting once said “it takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile” and I’d love to find out his views on arsenic.


Unfortunately poison is far more wide-reaching than those pipettes of hazardous green sludge and I know as much as I have first-hand experience of people who have absolutely nothing but the most grave of intentions. They go about their vile work incognito, while smiling like the character assassins they are, believing they well and truly have you licked and placing all their exertions into the gradual decimation of your emotional well-being. It’s way beyond bonkers to think that these types are actually willing to devote so much of their time into making the life of others misery, when there are far better ways for them to make a difference. When you consider how much bogus shit is going on in the world already, it just feels so utterly mean-spirited to donate even more woe to the cause as opposed to using their voices for the greater good. Of course, it’s ultimately each to their very own, and I’m not about to waste my time trying to assist them in seeing the error of their ways as, to them, there’s neither harm or foul in their actions. But karma doesn’t necessarily see things that way.


At any rate, I’ve had it with POISON and no longer wish to associate myself with anyone who uses it to sway the majority vote. I’m not here to bitch and gripe, have less than no time for conflict and its failed resolution, and only desire to spread a little joy wherever feasible. Thus I shall do precisely that and see no just cause to rationalize my actions any further. The way I see it, folk will believe what they want to believe, and I’m not fascist enough to expect that there’s a damn thing I can do to change that. Neither do I have any desire to as opinions are much like arseholes – under sole jurisdiction of the user and prone to smelling funny if you don’t bust out the flannel  once in a while. I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve reached a point of imperviousness and, should my name be dragged through the dirt from this point forward, then I’m done with losing a solitary wink of sleep over it. Besides, it’s too damn hot for military get up, and I’d much rather dig out my strapless clown sandals. So I’m rising above shit then? Actually no, I’m drawing a line under it instead. Here take a look for yourselves and bear in mind that I cannot and have no intention of controlling the straight edges of others. This one’s just for me.





Welcome to the other side of the divide and, should you have made it this far, then I’m all dimples and pledge to come good on my oath to make a fool of myself for your own amusement. I’m feeling ever so vaguely ridiculous today and in that respect, it’s just another day in the office for Keeper. Right now I’m rather excited as my heterosexual life companion Matt O’Keeffe is heading over in just a few short hours for the grand premiere of a documentary he shot last year when scaling Kilimanjaro for the purposes of cancer research. Words cannot express how proud I am of what he has achieved and for a cause truly worthy no less. Indeed, what he may not realize as yet, is that he has entered the sacred halls of my own personal heroes and I fully intend on washing his feet the very moment he turns up at the door. What a magnificent achievement that is and, having heard the horror stories, I know just how excruciating an expedition this really was so there ain’t enough kudos in the world I can bestow upon him for reaching that elusive summit without going any more doolally than he already is.


However, while scaling the tallest peak in Africa is no stroll in the Everglades, there’s entirely another reason why I swoon at his endeavors and it involves 90,000 raging gibbons with bad tempers, even worse halitosis, and every intention of tearing any wayward adventurers asunder strip by bloody strip. I recently wrote a light-hearted piece entitled Angry Baboons Will Fuck You and unwittingly made myself something of a target for unruly primates. It turns out that they were somewhat less than amused by being typecast as randy philanderers when their strengths lie in other areas aside from bending you over and introducing you to their forearms anally. You see, baboons can also be savage little bastards when they feel the urge and, while I’m fairly assured that an impromptu prostate examination from Shakma wouldn’t classify as kindly, hand them a box cutter and it’s time to head for those hills pronto or else feel their hellish wrath first-hand.


I warned Matt of the dangers before he set out on his expedition and he appeared to take heed of my warnings. Mercifully he has been delivered back in one piece and it would appear that the hazard has now passed. Or at least that’s what the monkeys would want us to believe. I’m under no illusion that they’re plotting something nasty and have stocked up on ripened bananas just in case they come knocking and put me to task for supporting my associate’s venture. Ultimately there is little I can do but chew bamboo during the interim and pray that Donald Trump gets the bright idea of erecting a wall across the River Nile and making them pay for it. However, he’s a busy man right now, and I appreciate that his billions of dollars will only afford him a certain amount of bricks and mortar so I’ve come up with a rather devilish Plan B and it’s just crazy enough that it might work y’know.


Have you ever heard the term “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”? Well I’ve taken a look at the evolutionary chart and it would appear that humans and baboons really ain’t all that dissimilar. Thus I have decided to try everything in my power to devolve back into an ape and, with a little luck of the blind variety, they’ll think better than to batter me senseless. First things first, I absolutely must not shower under any circumstances. When was the last time you spotted a baboon applying 24-hour antiperspirants or bathing itself in herbal extracts? Precisely, primates are disinterested in personal hygiene and, let’s face it, the whole washing deal does vaguely resemble a chore. Next up is stunted posture and I reckon I can retrain my spine to arch if I carry on failing to sit up straight and slouch over at every opportunity. I’m not fond of bananas to be honest but that’s where the old smoothie maker comes in handy as I’ll willingly guzzle them down without the chunks and have no intention of discarding those skins either. Instead I shall litter my front lawn with these slippery customers and wait patiently by the window until their arrival.


I’m more than aware that, to know a baboon, one must first become a baboon thus I shall watch Project X on perpetual loop and mourn the passing of poor old Bluebeard. Should I follow all these steps to the very letter, then I plan to be a fully fledged ape by around the time that next Tuesday comes around. I just hope that isn’t too late as, for all I know, they’re already swinging my way and shaking their free fists defiantly. This is where Matt comes in handy as he managed to tiptoe through those tulips without coming a cropper and I’m fairly assured they won’t attack while he’s in or around my vicinity. Of course, I can’t expect him to engage in a week-long sleepover as spooning gets tiresome eventually, but it just so happens that I have that covered too. Therefore, I shall erect a cardboard cut-out of him, and stand it by the front patio until which time as I’m considered just one of the chimps.


I’m not foolish enough to get ahead of myself and expect this preposterous plan to work but I am more than foolish enough to give it a shot if it means coming through this whole ordeal unscathed. Meanwhile, I’ll just be content with positively beaming with pride as I learn more of this valiant fellow’s adventures. I’ve known Matt for many a year and, even if we don’t speak for months on end, it matters not to the power of jot as true brotherhood knows no such thing as time frames. The day is Wednesday 7th September 2016, the time 15.22 and counting, and I’m feeling pretty blessed right now, regardless of any monkey business about to play out. Moreover, I’ve whipped up some rather delightful banana smoothies for anyone who feels like a little light refreshment and even tossed in a dash of my not so secret ingredient for an extra creamy texture. Fret not friends as there are no flowers in this cheeky monkey’s attic. Just dozens upon dozens of right gym socks and depleted tubs of my mother’s hand cream. That reminds me, she really should see a good dermatologist about those calluses.


Click here to read Shadow of Kilimanjaro





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