“Strange”. “Uncertain”. “Unprecedented”.

In these touch-and-go times, such adjectives run rampant in the Tweets and tracts of twats and hacks. The cliché is nauseating. Yet one is assuaged by a conceptual anti-emetic - the cliché (like most) carries a crumb of veracity.

Most arresting for moi has been the protuberance of Pfidze (not a fat thing). Where once she was a mere detail, an accessory, an after-thought, an atom, a fart, a nothing nothing nothing, she now has a monopoly on my life. One cannot move for her (yes, partly a fat thing).

Since Pfidze’s reinstatement, I have been abiding a strict digital diet*, the “cold turkey†” variety at that. Much of this sea-change has been induced by my excursions to the transcendental (or at least pensive) community. Fear not! I have not fully yielded to flower children and blasé kooks. My mind remains open to closing. But I’m having a crack.

The available literature‡ tells me that ours is a culture steeped in a “pornography of production”. Apparently, we are to repudiate the “fetish of do” and cultivate the “power of be”. I’m just having a crack, okay? Thus, I had Pfidze print off and laminate “MONOBE” on a sheet of A4 and Blu Tack it to the ceiling directly above my in-bed head position. Contrary to your unlikely inference, “MONOBE” refers not to the Japanese village but to the practice of BEING one thing at a time.

All to say, as time goes on, I intend on doing less and less. With Pfidze back, I no longer even need to listen to the podcast. Although… if honesty is to be my engine on the path to dormancy, I must confess… I stopped listening to the podcast a long time ago. Why? Was “eschewal of micromanagement” just a euphemism for “plausible deniability”? Who can rightly say? Truth is as the recital of a dream - it’s unique to the individual and nobody wants to hear about it in the first place.

This philosophy is fantastic, you can get away with fucking murder!

*For Pfidze - “Diet” is defined by Merriam-Webster as “a regimen of eating and drinking sparingly so as to reduce one's weight.” You would do well to avail yourself of this conception lest your heart go helter-skelter ‘fore your purpose be known.

†If you slobber over my keyboard as you upload this, Pfidz, you will be one sorry Balt.

‡FYI, given the nature of my abnegation, the “available literature” is a single book on yoga by a certain Dr. B. B. Horrocks. The dust-cover fails to elucidate the nature of her doctorhood.

A solitudinal shalom.

At 11:14 a.m. on this Thursday which did just path, I was subverting gender expectations and multi-tasking*. My continuing foray into all things ‘Netty has eroded my capacity for mono-tasking. To simply sit down and be is, I fear, a praxis now forever lost to me. So, I simultaneously found (lost) myself completing a jigsaw puzzle on Facebook, listening to a podcast the subject of which one fails to recall and contemplating securing a “VPN” to buy a gun off the dark web†.

The letterbox clacked. An envelope struck mat. Inside, a single page of hand-written text. Below it is replicated:

Hi hi hi, Mr. Kettle. I not know it before but you are my Guardian angel. When I work for you, I feel gloom and griefsome. But like Greek idiom tells, I jumped out of frying pan and into fire. I can not take more at Hope High Castle. Every room now feels like prison. Colour scheem make me feel gutsick. Bart Joyles ask me what it like to grow up in Poland and I spit at him for I proud child of Lietuva. I so so sorry about Bassett and Bart Joyles is fucking prick. Please allow me for to return. I help with computer and I make casserole. Also, Covid run rampage in hotel. Pfidze Lanka. [sic]

I am torn. On the one hand, I don’t think it will ever be possible for me to forgive Pfidze for her transgressions. She would have to work complimentarily for a not-insignificant amount of time and follow all edicts without question (no matter how farcical, demoralising or unreasonable) for me to even entertain the possibility of her re-employment. On the other hand, the loneliness has become physically distressing.

As I enumerated my indecision in the above paragraph, I thought it through and I consent. I know you’re reading, Pfidze. I expect you at my front door at 7 a.m. on the dot tomorrow morning. If I do not answer, it is because I am asleep. You will clear the cat turds from the pebbles as you wait.

*One shudders at the prospect of inflating one’s importance, so it is perhaps de rigueur to recast “multi-tasking” as “multi-doing”. “Task” implies an incident of consequence and there ain’t been none of that recently. Or, if I’m being honest, for quite some time. Rather quite some time.

†If you’ve been affected by any of the issues overt or covert in this blurb, the number for the Samaritans can be Googled 24/7.

As I belatedly quaff the wonders of t’Internet, I find myself invariably ensnared in the videographic concatenations of YouTube.

I have just watched an ostensible “symposium” of nominally “liberal” women repeatedly and unapologetically excoriate the “male gays”.

Given the demographic of the coven and the particularity of their homophobia, one can only surmise a bitter caucus of Sapphic bigots.

Whence art thine outrage? The comments section ‘neath this atrocity is a potpourri of the wickedly blithe, doggedly sympathetic and frankly confusing.

When I was growing up, being on the left* meant howling punk anthems about unions, smelling vaguely like a damp dog and bemoaning the as-yet improper implementation of Communism.

Apparently, there is much I have missed.

*I speak as a spectator. One is reluctant to nail one’s colours to the mast, but one can only take so much responsibility for said colours in the first place. Were it not for my upbringing, education and essential nature, I could well have flirted with the port-side.

#starboard4life #supportthemalegays #tribatefury #betterstartswimming #oryoullsinklikeastone

Parenthetically, here’s Episode 27.

The lights are dimmed. A hush descends. The drums roll.

The spotlight pivots.

A stage. A man upon it.

He is returned.

He is I - I, Jeremy Gage Kettle, CEO, CFO, CMO and Upload Technician of Funlimited Entertainment. The transfer of power is executed.

When last we spoke*, I was “self-isolating” at the Hope High Castle hostel just off the Billham junction in Bracknell. My pet raven Bassett had snuffed it. That may sound thoughtless but I’ve found callous casualisation to be a wonderful coping mechanism.

I was trapped. Pfidze Lanka, my erstwhile reliant, had expedited a petit coup d’état, bequeathing the keys to this online alcázar to Bart fucking Joyles, my mortal nemesis (and yes, I now feel perfectly comfortable speaking in such epic terms. He has more than earned it. No longer will I allow the terror of appearing homophobic dissuade me from absolute oration†.) My vernal affair with proprietor Ms. Marjorie Ipple had waned, her fire bedewed by social pressure. The Montagues and the Capulets. ‘T’was all acutely Shakespearean, albeit played out against the backdrop of budget accommodation.

So what hath transpired since? Curiosity must have been as a lethal malady over these past two months, killing you slowly. Rest easy. Yours uniquely has the panacea.

Primo, I severed contact with Pfidze and Marje. I returned home.

Upon reflection, that is all.

I imagined there would be much to impart, a dam to fracture, a cork to pop. Alas, the world stands still‡.

Well, I did enrol in/on(?) an online computer course designed for seniors altogether unacquainted with technology. Ironically. It’s provided me with the know-how requisite for the maintenance of Funlimited. Additionally, I’ve been researching social media management. This has exposed me to the phenomenon of TikTok which, contrary to prior assumption, is not a BMI calculator. Nor is the app aware of the sincerity of its appellation as it counts down to the disintegration of civilisation. So it’s no longer techno-illiteracy that stands in my way but sheer damn patience. It is tested so.

Here’s Episode 26 of the Funfiltered podcast. They just kept doing it. God bless them and save them. Save us all.

*A phraseology suggestive of dialogue is functionally prescriptive in prose for public consumption. It may belie the Siberian, monological reality, but it keeps us ink-slingers in a state of ignorant animation. Dogged insistence on the “we” is our Samaritans hotline.

†He’s a gay.

‡The protests notwithstanding. Speaking of which, Sam, I resent the implication in your valedictory post that I would be uninformed of this hoop-la. I’ll have you know that there was a BLM (see, I’m down with the lexicon) rally on the public green near my house. I’m big enough to confess that I don’t precisely know what they were protesting, but they did seem awful hot and bothered. There was a megaphone doing the rounds and a voice of experience is never a voice wasted so I grabbed the horn and offered to intercede with some structure. I’m no antique, I remember the righteous wrath of youth. So I paid no mind to the chap that snatched the ‘phone from my hand. I simply requested, if tempers could nay be tempered, that they shush it a bit. As I was escorted from the assembly, a teenage girl called me “Sis”, which I can only surmise is an adolescent affirmation of sororal solidarity. 😊 😊 😊 😊 😊

If it isn’t, don’t clarify. Please don’t. I don’t understand things sometimes and it frightens me.

My name is Sam Rees. I'm one of three contributors to the Funfiltered podcast, the others being Eddie Boylett and Jordan Criddle. For the past two months, we have also functioned as the caretakers, cheerleaders, emissaries and vaguely assorted synonyms of the Funlimited Entertainment brand.

We have presided over the company in a time of unprecedented human stupidity and global carnage (it’s almost like Monsieur Kettle knew… lucky break, J). It has sometimes been difficult to maintain a sense of humour in the midst of the face of misery-doom. But when one reflected for three seconds as opposed to two, the feebly-guarded despondency gave way to the wry smile gave way to the chuckle.

There are still good things in the world.

Sure, those goods things seem ever harder-won.

But you don’t win unless it’s hard… said the adjudicator to the contestants at the libertine tournament.

My very insincere apologies for my mawkish offerings. When one moves from here to there (in our case a demotion), one is invited to contemplate. For these will be our final words as spearheads of Funlimited. We hereby cede expression to Mr. Jeremy Kettle, his bridges mended, his being convalesced. I’m sure. One perk of pixel-aversion is a certain obliviousness to the wider world. I suspect Jeremy knows not what he has missed.

You lucky, lucky man.

With that, we bid you adieu. It’s all yours, Jezza.

Yo yo yo, hombres and wombres. Sam here. We could theoretically be possibly approaching the hypothetical end of lockdown perchance! Prohibition is almost at an end, perhaps! There’s a light at the end of the tunnel… although you’re unsure whether that light is real or just your birdshot chorioretinopathy playing up again. You don’t know. You never know.

The pubs will soon be flooded with those who were flouting governmental dictates anyway but will nonetheless express their relief that “things are back to normal”. The cafés will soon be inundated with peckish protesters who insisted on social distance until their boredom and frustration corresponded nicely with a cause. The streets will soon be submerged in the hordes of You that never listened to the podcast during lockdown and will continue to do so notly.

So when you’re in the queue at Greggs or sipping a mocha in your favourite niche coffee-house, do spare a thought for all that you neglected when life gifted you time. Lament the projects now forever confined to the back-burner. Mourn the self-reflection that never betid.

You could have listened, I weep. I INSIST ON SHAME, I weep angrily. FYI, I’m not howling these proclamations as I weep. Their sentiments are manifest in the wepth itself.

I’m actually writing this in a good mood. Imagine that. That’s me. That’s what it is to be me. That’s my truth. Christ.

Hello, universe (fake it 'til you make it). Sam here.

If my own mental process bespeaks broadly, you're probably in the mode of thinking that there won't come a time when Boris pops on the box and plainly announces it's time to unlock this -down. What started as a test of endurance will become a social experiment in obstinacy. The Guru keeps spurting increasingly incompatible proclamations - one by one, the formerly credulous will flee The Sanctuary and take their chances in The Nasty Outside of traffic lights and temptation. Only the deeply sycophantic and frightened, otherwise known as The True Believers, will remain as their erstwhile cultist colleagues sip cider in beer gardens.

This entire metaphor is of course moot because, in our case, The Nasty Outside poses actual and palpable risk.

Either way, I'll see you when we get sufficiently bored, to snort each other’s droplets and roll the mortal dice.

In this episode, I ‘ave a chinwag with Newportonian exile James Humphreys, now anchored in the Baltics and provoking chortles from the natives. The most prescient individual I know, James foresaw the pitchforks and torches on the horizon and scarpered before the matches were even lit. We talk about stand-up, the writing process and That Which You Can’t Not Discuss at the Moment If You’re Sentient. I’m aware of the double-negative, don’t quibble and make it a triple. You’re better than that, maybe.

Enjoy!

Hello. Sam here. The world is currently one or two things, depending on your bandwidth. Here's a third thing.

Find within natterings vis-à-vis Beastie Boys Story, The Midnight Gospel and, inexorably, Doctor Who. Oh, and the worst cover of any song you’ve ever heard. We soil a legacy and stamp on a grave. We are shame. We are sorry.

Yo yo yo, Sam(uel) here. Welcome to the second edition of our audio-VISUAL (this is ALSO VISUAL!) spin-off, the Fear the Walking Dead to Funfiltered's The Walking Dead. I've seen nothing of the former and little of the latter so I hope the analogy stops just shy of this sentence.

Once more, you are graced with a pixelated facsimile of Eddie to accompany his dulcet tones. The human with whom he does natter is Freyja Skea, a pal, uni compat and ex-national expat, and that about which they do natter includes hair and its absence, drinking, drinking, drinking and the universiteh experiunsh - I can’t express “university experience” sincerely or without air quotes.

Freyja confesses that she doesn’t listen to the Funfiltered podcast. If you’re reading this blurb, Freyja, please envision a titanic floating head looking at you all disapprovingly. Use it. It is fuel. I’m not just talking to Freyja. Obviously. You all need a disembodied head in your lives to provoke content consumption.

Enjoy!

Hey hey hey, Sam here. It honestly feels a bit weird having to write one of these blurbs. It's like driving someone else's car. I mean, I can't drive, but I imagine it's like that. Or wearing someone else's shoes. Even if they've been abandoned for some time, there's a psychic inference of warmth. And the sense that your feet might be corrupted, soaking up the steps of your predecessor via material osmosis. Am I now a part of wherever they once went? Whatever they once did? If you wore Usain Bolt's kicks, you can't tell me you wouldn't be just a little bit faster. If you wore Ed Gein's plaid cap, wouldn't your scalp be a little bit evil?

We chat about The Shining, The Eddy, Mindhunter, Tiger King and, inescapably, Doctor Who.