Bella Lasagne - Pawn in the Reign of Emperor Sam

Why is Bella Lasagne’s restaurant named Rivoli’s?

And why does Fireman Sam continue to let his young niece and nephew dine in her establishment when she’s constantly setting fire to it?  Rather than take his position in the local community seriously he prefers to wait for the inevitable accident to happen and then just lecture everyone afterwards.  Seems he’s just trying to keep the people of the village of Pontypandy within the iron grasp of Emperor Sam through fear and intimidation, they all know that if a fire occurs and only incompetent Elvis is there to save them then will surely perish.

So why is Bella’s restaurant named Rivoli’s?  I have a theory.

Emperor Sam in his bid for supreme power needed proof of the savage danger of fire, an icon, a victim.  Rivoli was the name of Lasagne’s late husband.  She lost him in a tragic firework accident, he’d bought a magnificent firework that lit the sky in the shape of a loveheart with which he intended  to surprise Lasagne.  He’d bought it from a man with a handlebar moustache and a habit of twirling it whilst muttering gleefully under his breath.  It was his gift to her on their fifth wedding anniversary, a token of his undying love.

He told her to go to the upstairs back window and look to the skies.  Patiently she looked into the night sky as her husband below lit the firework.  She patiently waited a bit longer.  Suddenly the garden below her exploded in ravenous flame, it streaked between the fences like napalm.  In the throws of wildest panic she dialled the emergency services, 999.

Elvis arrived minutes later and bravely fought the nonexistant flames in the cafe itself and dashed upstairs to get Bella out.  As he rushed back downstairs with Bella over his shoulder in the well rehearsed Fireman’s Lift, she screamed at him.

“My-a husband, he’s still-a outside in the fire!”

“Oh, bloody hell mun” panicked Elvis “Where’s Sam when you need him?”

Where indeed was Sam?  Visiting a sick Aunt?  On a well deserved holiday?  It mattered not where he was, rather where he wasn’t.  And he certainly wasn’t in Pontypandy.  He needed to prove he was indispensable.

When Sam arrived back in the village we can’t be sure what happened.  We can however assume that there was a conversation with Bella that went something along these lines:

“Oh Sam, it all happened-a so fast.  And Elvis, he-a… he-a tried, but he just couldn’t save him.”

“I know Bella, I know.”

“Oh Sam, I…”

“Hush now, Sam’s here now lovely.  You now know the dangers of knock off fireworks don’t you?”

“Yes-a.”

“Don’t worry, Sam’s not going to be leaving here again, I’ll make sure that nothing like this happens ever again.”

“”Oh Sam…”

“Shush now, at least one thing’s come out of this, you can start using your maiden name again.  I always did like the sound of it, such a pretty sing-songy name, Bella Lasagne.”

“Yes-a Sam…”

Presumably he then proceeded to take advantage of her in fragile state of mourning.  He probably cackled himself to sleep at night for weeks on end, his perfect scheme bestowing him complete power over the village.  Bastard.

Honesty: An Ephipany and a Confession

When I was at university I crumbled because I realised I was a phoney. I’d considered the possibility for a long time, but I had it confirmed for me there in less than a month. My arrogance had gotten me A level results, shitty A levels in shitty subjects, but results they were and my arrogance had used those to get me into a two-bit university on a Mickey Mouse course.

My arrogance had done very well for itself by all accounts, but when the semester, and lectures themsleves started proper I knew my arrogance didn’t have what it takes to make me a success, to get me through it alone.

For a year I relied on this dominant aspect of my personality, allowing it to stand up and justify my drink and drug fuelled nonchalance. I mention the booze and drugs not as an excuse, just for context. But during that time of ego driven audacity, focused on doing nothing of effort and worth, another personality trait built itself up slowly, quietly, until it had completely overtaken the running of the show.

Subservience. Spinelessness, the inability to believe anything my own mind concocted that contradicted another person, because surely they knew better than me right? I mean they could say words that had meaning behind them, emotion behind them. They must know better than me.

And I kept hiding for a long time, reacting in ways I know people would want me to, appeasing everyone, being phonier than I ever could’ve believed I would. Just so others would think me likable because of my overwhelming urge to be agreeable.

Reacting, not interacting.

And it still goes on to this day. Even though I’ve gained confidence and pieced together bits of what I think I believe, which is still very little, I still betray these thoughts, myself.

At work I refuse to stand up for them, I choose to denounce them and instead find reasons to fortify the bullshit of others which permeates around the bar. It’s why I’m the best barman in town, why I’m the best barman in a backwards community.

I started having these personal revelations because I’ve been trying to figure why I hate my writing beyond the usual necessary tortured artist routine. And I’ve sussed it.

It’s not honest, it’s guarded and during the earliest moments of the writing process it’s convoluted by pandering to what I think will be considered clever, to what I wat the big boys to think of me. And whilst bits may sound original and clever, every piece is speeding off to a false start, flying out the gates with a brace strapped to it’s leg by being written in the wrong manner for the wrong reasons.

Today I started reading Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, someone once told me it was their favourite book and as I write this I’ve already nearly finished it, which is non small accomplishment for a slow reader as I am. It slammed home that my realisations about my writing are inseperable from realisations I have to make about myself, they go hand in hand and skip happily down the road towards a sunset with a subheading titled wisdom.

I find myself wishing I’d read the book when I was told about it, but reading it any earlier would’ve negated any effects it had on me. Except maybe to inflict this same American twang I’ve inflicted on the poor buggers who’ve read this far.

Conclusion? Getting back into reading has done me the world of good, I’m enjoying catching up on the 8 or so years of emotional growth that they missed out on helping to foster. But really seriously, as in I’d kick your arse if you dared interupt the next part of this sentence, no longer does my arrogance prevent me from listening and no longer does my subservience defy me from answering.

Stop trying to be seen as clever, be honest and don’t pander to those you seek approval from.

That goes for writing words, but it will go for my actions as well.

upcoming comic

Woo! Just got the rough sketch outlines of the first four pages of our comic from Hannah, would have more, but her scanner’s fooking up her computer. It deals with death, sex, fantasy and emoness, what more could one ask for in sequential art, eh? I won’t be posting anymore of the rough stuff, it’s just so nice to see it as something other than words in the script that I just had to share.

Take a look:

Should have the first few pages of the epic space adventure that I’m doing with Luke soon, so I’ll post those for y’all to see when I get them.

Incidentally, this is probably as good a time as any to tell you that I’m looking for an artist to collaborate on a new project with, my plate is considerably empty and I’m getting bored. So if you’re interested or know anyone who might be then gimme a bell. Otherwise I’ll have to start pestering random people again…

Most Haunted

Dear Mothers/Sisters/Grandmothers/Daughters you are ALL in danger.

This entry is aimed at the fairer sex. I would like to promote myself as a femisnist, but as you’ll see throughout the rest of this post, I cannot trust her with the nonsense that people deposit into her mind. And this post is duly dedicated to my mother and the thousands around the country like her, who are, like the rest of us lost souls looking for an answer to the only question that matters in the wrong place.

If you’ve ever met me or are one of the few who can put up with this blog for more than a baker’s dozen of seconds of ranting then what I am about to bang on about is most certainly not aimed at you. The problem is, it’s most likely aimed at some family member or friend who is close to you.

Now, you could be a member of MENSA, you could be the village retard, your standing in public opinion matters not, you could still be hooked to this show and the bullshit it perpetuates as possibility, if not flat, undeniable proof.

‘Most Haunted’ is a pox upon our fair kingdom, it’s not often I’ll refer to it as that, but when it comes to common sense and a bit of logic, we’ve the upper hand on most nations. Us Brits are renowned for our ability to shout “Poppycock” when presented with a load of codswallop, but our senses are dulled when it comes to this disgustingly misleading television program. And why? Because we too many people want to believe that there is more than this humble life that we lead, that there is purpose for us besides being born, procreating and then dying. That we can exist in an afterlife without being a believer in any particular faith. Not one of us believes that we are as miserable and insignificant as the anthropomorphic ants that mill about in our way and between us during our day-to-day lives, that we are designed for something greater, that our fathers who died before us were built for something greater. That the aging woman in the queue in front of us for the Gregg’s counter matters more than us and our earthly concerns, because our need for a Steak Bake is infinitely greater than her’s because she is to die soon, and more importantly because we do not know her. And on this fallacy is this piddling show designed. It takes the fears we have from seeing the elders we grew up with dying, it steals the superstition from which we were instilled with as youths and most of all, it feeds on the belief that our feeble little lives are worth more than the eighty years which we imprint upon the lives of those around ourselves and that we come in contact with throughout our lifetime as being worth more than the average Joe/Jane on the street.

The program is ‘Most Haunted’, our level of acceptability for such a show is immeasurable, farcical in fact. The introduction to this rant is meant to draw in as many people of the female gender as possible, its tagline is purposefully controversial; for as much of an educated woman you may be, there are almost certainly those around you that fall for this claptrap every single day of the week. The show is directly targeted at women, from the ex-Blue Peter, female presenter, to the highly effeminate and in some cases androgynous “Parapsychologists” (I’d love to see which universities their degrees came from). Everything in the show is manufactured to make their target audience, mainly built on the 40+ female, feel like there’s a possibility that the father figure who’s vanished from their lives in recent years has not actually left this mortal plain.

Bollocks. It’s a con and I can’t understand how they’re allowed to get away with making such outrageous statements on television. I’m sure they’ll use the defense that they truly believe it, and that other people across the country do. Well Fuck You. If you want to give people false hope that they’re able to get in touch with their dead father or mother, then FUCK YOU. You are despicable. You give false hope to people, regardless of how much they have to live for in their lives. You make them believe that they will never, ever be able to make a better life for themselves because you let them believe that anything that’s gone wrong in their personal lives between them and a dead loved one will be able to be resolved, as long as you’re willing to pay a shit load to some poncey twat who claims he can talk to the dead. In particular someone you’ve known.

Ad what about those who feel they’ve wronged the dead but can’t afford to pay for a “Parapsychologist”? News fucking flash, once someone’s died you automatically remember all the bad things you’ve said or done to them and you know what? There’s not a single thing you can do to change any of it, it’s happened, that means it’s been, it’s gone, and it’s in the past. And yet, these disgusting people feed on that last chance to tell Aunt Mildred that you’re sorry you crushed her Juniper bush, to tell cousin Sabrina that you’re sorry that you kissed her boyfriend at the ball and let him fuck your brains out.

THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

We live our lives from the decisions we make from moment to moment and there is no escaping that. Yvette Fielding, you are an absolutely loathsome woman, the ludicrousy of the show you present and produce does not need to be touched upon here, but your lust for the Great British pound does. You give false hope to probably millions up and down the country for filming in night vision and then pretending to freak out and ultimately run away.

FUCK YOU.

It is from ungallant business heads, like yours, throughout the ages that vicious wars have been fought, and just because you’ve omitted the violence does not make you any less of a disgusting human being. Not only do you feast upon the fear and anger that the death of close family member permeates from an individual, you harness it and turn it your way to make a profit. You are completely despicable, you use the instability of those of a certain age, you quell their fears of death and rein it in as a part of life with which we can all communicate and exist as one with. You are a liar and merchant of a ludicrous false hope to audience who has no trust in itself and so relies on the bullshit you and your religious brethren spread like thinly layered muck on inadequately nourished crops. Guess how you’ll eventually end up? Withered and forgotten. Though not before you’ve earned more than enough to retire on Yvette, I should imagine.

*EDIT* This is the last time I get pissed and try and write anything. I’m going to leave this here as a warning to myself.