Read Between The Lies

Maybe I should try to write a story. It can be about something. Some things can happen in it. It might hint at deeper truths. It might be moving. It might be exhilarating. It might be joyous.

Once upon a time, three plumbers became embroiled in a plot to kill the President of the United States of America.

Of course, it might not be.

I can't make any promises.

Legally I can't. It's a court order.

Apparently I made too many wild promises, and society's hopes were raised to a dangerous degree.

The Judge criticised me for guaranteeing that everyone would find a gold nugget in their respective airing cupboards.

So now I can't make any promises. I've been tagged. If I start to make any unsubstantiated claims, or unwarranted speculation, the cops'll be on me quick-smart. And bash out any promises with their promise-removing clubs.

I can estimate, but only conservatively.

I blame the Nanny State. Stupid Nanny. Trying to look after us. I can make my own mistakes and change my own nappies.

I can bandage my own scraped knees, thank you very much Red Ed.

Even though I don't have any bandages. And am the first to complain when someone leaves a roller skate at the top of the stairs. Frivolous toys.

[This is satire. Satire so obscure, it has begun to satirise itself, what with its oh-so-clever italics.]

Lucy and I have been watching a programme about cells. Not the prison variety (the kind a serial promiser might anticipate escaping from), but the biological variety.

Apparently, before we understood cell division and reproduction properly, people used to think animals spontaneously emerged. Like mice emerging from wheat and sweat.

People in the old days were idiots. In the future, this will be the old days and we'll be the idiots.

Except we won't. At least our methods are reasonable now, even if our conclusions are incorrect.

The only reason we'll be though of as idiots is if future people look back on this blog entry and become enraged by its incoherence.

They might use a time machine to travel to the point of its creation and try to stop it by using blog-stopping clubs. If I'm right, the future people will appear any moment now.

...

Nothing yet.

...

...


...

Still nothing.

...

...
..hang on!

No.

No, that's just a bookcase.

...


...

It doesn't look like they're going to show.

Unless that's what they want me to think. If I don't turn up to work tomorrow, assume I've been clubbed by future clubbers with too stringent a blog coherence code.

I'm making a point with all this. It's all part of my story. The one I began up there, ages ago.

In fact, this has all been a continuation of Tears of a Duke.

Every entry since then has been a continuation of that story. If some of the entries have made little sense, that's why. It's all one tightly constructed narrative.

Have you read every post?

If not, you might have missed some vital clues.

For example, what did I mean in this post, when I referred to a plughole that "cuts up your back"?

Was that just something to say, or was there a hidden meaning?

Hint: "cuts up your back" is an anagram of Crackup Buyouts.

You see?

There's a madness to my madness. And my method.

...

Some people have arrived with clubs.

It's either the future people angry at my blog, or the promise-removing cops.

I haven't made any promises, so I'd bet on the former.

I've lied, sure.

I've lied like nobody's business. But that's not promising. Unless it's making promises about past events, and I think that's slightly tenuous.

They intended to use pipes to funnel anthrax into the cistern of an Oval Office toilet. Unfortunately, they overcharged themselves, and didn't meet their own deadlines.
Because THEY'RE PLUMBERS!

AND THEIR ARSE-CRACKS WERE HANGING OUT!

AND THEY RESCUED PRINCESSES FROM EVIL TURTLES!

THEY'RE PLUMBERS!

THAT'S WHAT THEY DO!

I've managed to quell the clublust with promises of snacks and all the change in my wallet (upwards of £3.50).

I think I should stop now in case I do something I'll regret.

Unless I'll regret stopping.

Or regret regretting.

If I could change one thing, it would be one of the many typos in this post that I foolishly corrected.

I shouldn't write these when I'm so tired. At least I'll never have to read this again, unless I'm accused of promise-ridden recidivism.

But that's never going to happen.

I've never been more sure of anything in my life.