VISIT THE HIPPY'S NEW SITE: Spend some time chilling out with the hippy...He used to be "the most shroomtastic stoner on the internet!" until the UK banned fresh magic mushrooms. He's still "the biggest internet celebrity you've never heard of!" He'll make you laugh, he'll make you think...he'll make you wish you were a hippy too!

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

I've had my hippy hat for over an hour already, though I haven't been writing this entry for that long. I've spent the morning creating a brand new webpage and people say I can't even spell "html"! Glance to the right and you will see a link to the new page, the "BEST" of the hippy!

I think I threatened to make this page in the past, but this morning I finally got around to actually doing it. If you want to read some of my personal favourites, pulled out of the over 100 entries I've made in this blog, then please feel free to explore the links. If you are an obsessive, like me, links to each day's entries still remain down the side of this page, so you can still read them all.

I've got to be honest, because that's what this hippy always is, not every entry I've made is a winner. Matter of fact, having just reviewed every thing I've written for this blog, some of it is absolute shite. I've kept the "BEST" of the hippy to the ones that I've enjoyed when I've returned to read them myself.

All of my entries are littered with mistakes, typos (either through sloppiness or mild dyslexia) and other assorted presentation errors, which I can live with. I decided when I started this blog to get things up and on the web quickly, which means certain standards are not as high as they could be. You can over edit, you can even edit something to death, so I've stuck to this simple rule. I write an entry, read it once, correct the mistakes I see, then click on publish. That's why I've been relatively prolific in the last 6 months.

Today's my first full day off since returning from my holiday. I'm finished for the rest of this week and well, as for next week, I don't even want to think about what I'm up to work-wise. Let's just say I am dreading it and leave it at that.

I've got a stack of books sitting here next to me, my holiday reading list. I promised “one-line reviews” on everything I read while I was away. I'll probably do it later on today, or perhaps tomorrow.

I placed a big order on EDIT, which should be arriving sometime today. I ordered a new grow kit for Koh Samui shrooms, as well as some fresh mexican p.cubes for a big trip on Friday which I am really looking forward to.

I also ordered one of these, Vapureyes Vaporiser. I did a little bit of research of spending between £300-£400, this was the one people seemed to recommend the most. Any of the less expensive models had people complaining they weren't very effective on review sites and messages boards.

A vaporiser doesn't burn weed like smoking, it raises the temp to the level where the THC turns to vapor, but the tar and other nasty bits don't burn at all. It's suppose to be a cleaner, safer way to enjoy weed and hash. I'll let you know.

The reason I've ordered it is simple. I'm planning on giving up cigarettes fairly soon. I don't think I've actually written much about smoking tobacco, but I've been a pack-a-day-hippy for over twenty-two years. It's time to stop, for good.

I've quit before, but always come back, but not this time. Hopefully the vaporiser will be play a role in me not smoking cigs anymore. We'll see. Wish me luck, I'll need it.

That's the problem with drugs, the really REALLY nasty ones, are available retail. Tobacco is a nasty drug, it stinks, it's relatively expensive and it can kill you. At least cocaine doesn't stink up a room.

And look at booze, as I frequently do here, which accounts for more than one-third of all admissions to casualty and A&E departments here in the UK. Nobody dies from shrooms, or weed for that matter. Wake up and see the facts, legalise everything goddamn it.

Well, I'd love to stay here a blog away all day, but I have loads to do today.

Saturday, September 25, 2004

The hippy is home. I arrived early on Saturday morning, on the non-stop chav express running a direct service straight from hell.

Ok, I was in Corfu, which is a nice place, but the airport is a complete fucking joke. The holiday was marred by my return journey, which included a 3 hour wait in a queue outside the airport waiting to check-in. What a mess, charter flights suck.

The airport is relatively small and they dis-organised the check-in by having people queue up outside according to flight number and they let them into the building in groups of 20 people. There were easily a couple of thousand people waiting to leave, treated like cattle on the way to the slaughter. I hated it, no where to sit, to piss, or get a drink for 3 goddamn hours! It really coloured my experience and it would put me off of returning to Corfu again.

Flew into Gatwick, which was in the midst of a bagagge handlers strike. Luckily, since the flight arrived early, we got our suitcases relatively quickly and were in the minicab heading to fabulous north London about an hour after touching down.

Everything was fine once we arrived back in the ghetto, the house and the cats were all cool. I had like 6 hours sleep, but am still feeling exhausted. Oh and I'm back at work already. Yawn.

Not much else to report, but it's nice to be home.

Friday, September 24, 2004

Last day in paradise, in about 12 hours a taxi will collect Mrs. Hippy and me and take us to the airport. Our flight departs at 05:50am, which is a shitty time to be taking off, but taking the less attractive flight times means we paid a lot less for the holiday. Actually, we saved quite a bit, as the same trip on a friendlier timed flight was a couple of hundred quid more expensive. So that's the taxis to and from north London paid for and them some!

I've been watching the news, as usual, which has been dominated by news of the 2 hostage beheadings in Iraq. That's 'cause they were Americans, and a third hostage, abducted with the other 2, a Brit, remains in their custody. They'll probably hack his head off as well, though I sincerely hope that they don't.

Once the fundeMENTALISTS get you, that's it, you are as good as dead. We can hope, we can pray, our sympathies certainly go out to their families, but there's fuck-all anyone can do to save them.

I've seen the families video messages to the hostage-takers, pleading for their loved-one's lives and I've felt their pain, though admittedly just a fraction. The poor British guy, his mother was on tv begging for his release. She's 86 and from Liverpool and doesn't deserve this. No one does. I hope they spare his life, but these cunts are merciless killers lacking even a gram of compassion.

The real question is: Why do all of these foreigners go to Iraq?

The answer is not very nice. Greed. You can go on about how much they wish to help the Iraqi people, but if that was the case, they could volunteer to work with an NGO. No, these foreigners are privately employed, contractors, security personnel, etc. They're there for the money.

And the money is good, very good. Everytime some foreigner has his head cut off, I expect the pay improves even more. These people have taken a calculated risk that the cash outweighs the threat. According to CNN, there have been 135 kidnapping since the US invaded, around 21 are still being held.

Would you like to stop the hostage-taking? Simple, all the foreigners need to leave. If you want to live, stay home. If you want to risk your life to make a year's wage in one month, then go on, go to Iraq. But don't say the hippy didn't warn you!

Now I've got friends and colleagues in Baghdad right now, but they're journalists, used to risking their lives to cover a story, especially one as significant as the occupation of Iraq. They are not making a year's wage in one month, not even close. They're there because they choose to be, because it matters to them on an entirely different level from greed.

If you're there laying concrete, or protecting an oil well, you're there because the money is good. Maybe you think it is too good to refuse. Tell that to your wife, or your kids or your parents when they find your headless body down some back alleyway in Baghdad. Money is no consolation when you're dead. Besides they take Amex in heaven, or hell anyway, you don't need to take it with you.

I say this to all foreigners working in Iraq right now, if you are not in the military, you don't have to stay. You can just leave. What are you waiting for, get out, go, now, while you still can!

Iraq's not going to get rebuilt anytime soon whether you are there or not. There's plenty of Iraqis who need the work anyway, let them do it.

And as for pleading with the terrorists to release you family members, well it might make you feel better, but it is not going to work. Asking them to be merciful is about as useful as begging them to accept Jesus Christ as their one true saviour, it just ain't gonna happen.

They should let these relatives use language the terrorist pieces of shit might understand. Remember, once they have a hostage they are as good as dead anyway, so why not tell it like it is. Here's what I'd say:

"Yo fuckers. So you got my father/brother/uncle, big deal. Go on, cut his head off, the heaven he'll go to is better than anything you can imagine. You're going to hell, where Satan is gonna buttfuck you until you bleed out your ears. You cunts. Eventually, you will die and your eternal soul will suck Satan's cock in hell. There's no 72 virgins for you and once you're gone, your family will starve, your mother and sisters will be turning tricks for anyone with a dollar and a hard-on. Do you really think killing foreigners one at a time is gonna win this war? You're even dumber and weaker and bigger pussies than you look. So go on, don't waste anymore time, kill my relative, put him out of his misery. The sooner he is away from you and your miserable stench the better."

That they would understand, not all this begging for mercy shit.

God, I'm rampantly enraged by this. I guess it is really pissing me off.

If you don't want bad things to happen to you, stay home, where it's safe. No amount of money would get me to go to Iraq right now. No way.

Anyway, enough of this nonsense. The next time I do some blogging, I'll be back in London, where I belong. Wish me a good, safe flight, since I haven't taken my own advice and stayed home!

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Back again. Wasn't planning on it today, but the fact is I really don't know what to do with myself, here in paradise. I'm not really in a very good mood right now, so who knows, perhaps it will make for a more interesting entry.

Some twat just interrupted me, asking if the internet access was free, asking how much it costs, telling me it was too expensive. Guess what asswipe, I don't care what you fucking think! I don't work here, I don't have to be nice to you, so just fuck right off back to whatever hell-hole you crawled out of. I came in here for some privacy, for some time with my own twisted thoughts. I don't give a shit if you need to check your stock portfolio or whatever it is that's so goddamn important that you are too cheap to spend 6 Euros on an hour of surf-time. Cunt!

Now where was I, oh yes, whinging in paradise. I just had my beach-side lunch ruined by a swarm of wasps, that's really why I'm so pissed off right now. I hate wasps, I might even be allergic. It runs in my family and I've never been stung. I know that if I was, there's a better than average chance I could die from it, quickly, unless someone administered some adrenaline sharpish. What's the likelihood of that happening here in paradise. Nothing moves quickly here. I don't really feel like dying today.

Pity poor Mrs. Hippy, who has to put up with my maniacal mood swings and homicidal tendencies, brought to the fore by my lack of lunch. I get really moody when my blood sugar drops. She's at the beach, probably snorkeling with the fishies by now. I won't go back to the beach today, I made enough of a fool of myself while I was there today to last a lifetime.

Ok, now we're getting to the real point. I'm not good at taking vacations. I hate to fly, I don't sleep well out of my own bed, and I'm missing splif right now wicked-bad as well. I come on these trips for Mrs. Hippy's sake. She loves beach holidays and I would be a complete evil bastard if I denied her these simple pleasures.

God, I could literally kill for a juicy skunky spliff right now. I'm sure if I put some effort and time into it, I could score some, but at this point in the stay, it's just not worth it. Soon, hippy, soon, you will be home and stoned and sleeping the sleep you really need.

The big spender just returned, he's paid for some time on the PC right behind me. Chances are he'll interrupt me again with some inane question on how to use the PC. I might have to take the heal of my hand and drive his nose bone deep into his brain, causing a swift and painless death.

No court in the world would convict me for this justifiable homicide. I'd be doing him a favour, putting him out of his misery anyway.

Enough already!

I saw a good chunk of John Kerry's speech on my hotel tv yesterday, before CNN disappeared from the system. It was a good speech, strong, and highly critical of Bush's messy Iraq policy. It was billed a shift in tone from the Kerry camp, touted as a change in strategy.

Kerry's actually a good speaker and far more intelligent than the incumbent cunt. But that's not going to win him the election. What I didn't hear was one single, short, sharp soundbite that could be clipped from the speech and run ad-nauseum on tv news bulletins.

I know how to choose soundbites and have made my living doing so for a long time.
Chances are, where-ever you may be watching tv news, you've heard soundbites I've chosen just for you. I don't say that to boost the hippy-ego, but to put into proper context my observation. US politics runs on soundbites, no one bothers to listen to an entire speech.

Here's a suggestion to the DNC and Kerry's handlers and speech-writers from someone who knows better. Before you let your boy John deliver any more speeches, read the text. The obvious "button" soundbites should leap out at you from the page in a very blatant way. You're suppose to be smarter than the journalists, if you can't find them, they won't find them! It doesn't matter if it is the best, most truthful, heart-felt speech he's ever given, if it doesn't contain any "button" comments, you've wasted your time and effort.

You probably pay your media advisers thousands of bucks a day, but I'm giving you this advice for free. Take it and run with it, or you'll all be unemployed come November 3rd. Of course, if you want to pay me for it, I'll take the money and run, just right the cheque out to the hippy.

My dad's been on my mind a lot, though that is hardly surprising considering he hasn't been gone that long. It's still a surreal concept to me, that he's dead. Perhaps that's the true purpose of funerals and wakes, to make it real.

Flashes of memories pop into my head, silly little tableau from my childhood and extended adolescence. I don't let them remain there long for fear of feeling to much about his passing.

Intellectually, I understand that he doesn't exist anymore, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. But he does exist in the past, in my memories and of those who love(d) him.

I've been putting off writing a little tribute to him, here in my blog. I have no other forum to really do it anyway. As I've said in the past, he would certainly have hated my blog and the personal truths that I write about and especially the drug references. I've got no place else to do it really, so when I'm ready it will be written here.

I'm thinking that I should peg it to the 1 month anniversary of his passing, which will be on 3rd October.

I'm also thinking I should write my older brother, the one who did put the time into helping my father out in his final year of life. I've never been close to him, though closer than I am to my other two half-siblings. I'm feeling the need to acknowledge what he's gone through and somehow explain my ostrich-like behaviour. I don't feel I need to justify myself to him, but he must be wondering why I've been invisible. The last proper chat I had with my father, some 2 weeks before he slipped into a coma and then into eternity, he made a special point of telling me how good my older brother had been to him. "A doll" is how he described him.

I'm tearing up now, bad juju here in paradise. Time to change the subject.

Euro-cunt has just called some internet-help line on his mobile phone, so I was half right. I guess he thought better of bothering me again as I type intently at my PC. I may be terminally mono-lingual, but enough English has crept into most European languages (with the exception of French, the language fascists) for me to follow that he is having trouble accessing his email account. It's a distraction, but a welcome one at this point, as it is taking me out of myself and the dark place I was drifting. He's just given up and fled the net cafe, peace at last!

After all, I'm still in paradise, the sun is shining, the wasps just a blip on this otherwise happy place. I need to enjoy life more, but if you have read anything of this blog, I don't need to be telling you that.

Monday, September 20, 2004

Yup, I'm back again, but then how could I resist. Everytime I pass a PC in a net cafe, the temptation is there. Like an addiction that needs to be fed regularly or the cravings just become too much.

I love to surf the net, I can't help it, I'm a web-junkie. And not just blogging, though it does consume a lot of online time, but checking out my regular websites for news as well.

The tv in my room here in paradise is a bit thin on English language channels. CNN was on the system for the first day or so, then disappeared, but it is back now. Thankfully. No SKY News or BBC World though. Deutsche Welle does English news bulletins, but they don't update them often enough for my tastes. To say I feel somewhat cut off from the wider world would be accurate, so yes, I need my little fix.

It's not that I don't like European tv, putting aside the fact that I am terminally mono-lingual, it's just a bit dull. The German channels run loads of reality tv, including the latest series of Big Brother on RTL, but all the American stuff is dubbed. Same for the French, though we mainly only get TV5, which is top-heavy with worthy documentaries and talk-shows. Italian TV is pretty much a joke, RAI Uno has been running the Miss Italia contest nightly since I got here. Frankly I'm tired of looking at stick-insect Italian women - aren't they suppose to be a bit curvy anyway? And forget about Greek TV, they are still re-running the Olympics every night, even though the games ended weeks ago. The Para-Olympics are running, but the coverage seems to be fixated more on the repeats of the main games. Yawn.

I've now finished 11 books, the ten I brought, plus one of Mrs. Hippy's. She's got a load more with her, but they aren't really to my taste. I'll have to find an English book shop, or re-read some of the one's I've finished. When I get home, I assemble a proper list of what I've read for the blog, with one-line reviews for those of you with a limited attention span, like myself.

Since I put the hit counter on the site, I get a weekly "usage report" on the number of you visitors that drop by. There aren't many of you, are there? Well, if you've managed to stumble upon this blog, congratulations and well done you! I'd still like to promote it and get even more of you, I just don't know how. Even offering my junky old car wasn't enough of an incentive to bring in the punters and even my press release didn't attract anyone's attention. It's like that movie "Field of Dreams", if you build it, they will come. Or not as the case may be.

But then, this blog is not just an exercise in stroking my ego and though I may "the most shroomtastic stoner on the internet", it's really about me having an outlet for my thoughts; someplace where I can speak the truth on any subject without any fear or inhibitions.

Yes, I speak the truth, as much as I'm able. There's precious little I've kept off-limits here. I'm an open book. Go on, flick through my pages. Ohhh, that tickles.

This entry certainly won't make the "best" of the hippy page, when I get 'round to creating it. Sorry. They can't all be gems. Maybe they could if I thought a bit more about having a subject to play with, but that's the beauty of blogging, you can write about nothing if it strikes your fancy.

My stay in paradise will be coming to an end soon, then it's back to the grind of work, work, and more work. Maybe I'll drop by again before I depart, maybe I won't. Whether I do or not, I'm still the northlondonhippy, so come, give us just one little yippppeeee.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Ok, I couldn't resist! I'm back again, but then I would have to be, what with 2 hippy milestones occurring on the same day.

That's right, the northlondonhippy blog is 6 months old today AND this is my 100th entry. Wowsy wow, woo woo. That's from some cartoon, I can't recall which one.

I know I should not be putting another entry on top of yesterday's excellent tale of the ASS BOMB (scroll down or check out the archive for THIS ONE HERE) to see what the hell I'm talking about. It's vintage hippy and probably as good as I get at these things.

The reality is that out of 100 entries, there's only a handful that are really any good, most of it is the inane ramblings of a 40-something, emotionally stunted dope-head. I should do a page with links to the "best of the hippy" to save the casual reader from having to sift through the swill to find the real pearls. Oh, look, I've managed to label anyone reading this blog as "swine" without really meaning to do so. Dum dee dum.

I'm still away from north London, here in paradise, though the weather is a bit grey and threatening rain. Mrs. Hippy is pool-side while I sit in this darkened corner of the hotel, hunched over this slick little HP PC, blogging my life away.

I've been without dope for over a week. I manage to do this without too much of a struggle, as it a self-imposed break from weed. I find it a lot harder when I'm home and I run out and the absence of my favourite herb is not my idea. But here in paradise, it's not really a struggle.

The first immediate side effect of this lack of my favourite drug is that my dreams become more vivid and I recall them more. It's not that I don't dream when I am regularly smoking, I just sleep deeper and find it next to impossible to recall them when I wake up. To be honest, I find all this vivid dreaming tiring, as if I'm not really sleeping and I wake up feeling the need for more sleep. Oh well.

I haven't had a single drop of booze since I arrived here and in considering this, I realise that I'm not really much of a drinker at all these days. I like alcohol, but don't really feel the need to consume any. It's not my drug of choice these days anyway.

I'm missing my spliff, there's no denying that, but I'll have one just as soon as I walk in the front door of the hippy's lair and then all will be right with the world. My world anyway, not the world in the global sense.

It's 2 weeks and day since my father died, it still hasn't properly sunk in. The guilt of being away on holiday sits somewhere in the back of my mind, but I've managed to keep it from consuming me, along with the grief, which I don't think has properly hit me yet. That might not be true, since I probably have been grieving for him for months before he passed.

Enough of the doom and gloom, I'm on holiday dammit. Being fully sober means my thoughts turn to better my life and working towards some as yet undetermined goal of making it better.

I think about finally writing my novel, which has been years in the making and after a chapter or two, being discarded. If I put half the effort into drafting chapters as I have into this blog, my first full draft would be finished by now. Discipline continues to be by shortfall, I lack it the way some people have a vitamin deffiency. I've got scurvy of the soul and sucking on a few lemons certainly won't cure it. Abstaining from dope would probably help, but then that would cause all sort of other problems that are too much to even consider.

When I properly discovered dope, the night of my high school graduation, some 23 years ago, I realised I found what my body and mind were lacking. If only there was a gland in my brain that produced a steady stream of THC! Perhaps genetic engineering will solve this someday, but for now, I'll stick to weed.

I've been thinking about my own mortality a lot, more than normal and I'm sure my father's passing is the reason for this. How many years have a I got left? Who knows? I could be hit by a stray bolt of lightening right now, or perhaps I've got another 40 years left. I need to figure out what I'm going to do with my time.

My fantasies about the future, especially when I'm on holiday, always tend to be a bit grandiose. I still dream about writing novels, making films, creating a hit tv show. I'm sure I'm capable of all these things and given the chance (and budget!) could accomplish them. It's getting to that point that has always been the trick that alludes me. It comes back to discipline and my lack of it, but I hold on to the hope that change is possible.

Old dogs and new tricks, eh? Never say never, and don't be such an ageist cunt about yourself, hippy!

When I get my new, super-dooper PC, it will most certainly have the capability to edit video. DV videocameras are relatively cheap these days as well, perhaps I could write a short screenplay, put together a cast and crew and make the fucker. It wouldn't cost that much and it would be something I could show, or submit for some contests and film festivals.

It could happen, it's not that grandiose an idea, not even for me. Something to put on the back burner, certainly.

The novel is still a possibility as well, though the shape and form have changed in my mind dramatically over the years. The title and the concept haven't and I still think it could be a winner. Just do it, as they say in the ad for a certain brand of sporting goods. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

That's about all for now, I'll pop back again in a few days. Till then, keep your feet on the ground, but keep reaching for those stars. Who am I now, Casey fucking Kasem?

Friday, September 17, 2004


You won't see that on any colour coded warning in the U Ess of Ayyyy! And no, the hippy hasn't lost his mind, well not completely anyway. I'll return to ASS BOMBS shortly.

I'm not actually in London right now. I did mention in my last entry that I would have limited net access, that's why. Right now, I'm sitting in a tiny net cafe, in a warm and sunny climate, blogging my life away. For an hour. For six euros. I'm a big spender.

I'm staying in a lovely place, very non-hippy-like in that it's a five-star luxury resort hotel. Me, Mrs. Hippy and a load of vaguely wealthy, vaguely European tourists. German, Dutch, French, Austrian, Russian and even a few Brits and damn they are all annoying. Mrs. Hippy's at the beach, swimming in the warm blue water. Being short and fat means I'm not much for swimming, though I've been known to take the odd dip to cool off.

It's our first holiday in a couple of years thanks to my extended streak of non-employment. Yes, I'm finding it relaxing and I've already read 7 and a 1/2 of the 10 books I brought with me. It doesn't matter how many books I bring on vacation, I always run out.

I'm a voracious reader and I'm hoovering the words up as fast and as furious as George W (for Wanker) Bush used to snort cocaine. Allegedly. I never saw him do it myself, but then when I lived in America, we moved in different circles. I did my cocaine with normal people, not the rich and powerful ruling classes. Wish I did, bet their blow was better than anything I was getting back in the hedonistic 80's.

ASS BOMBS! Ok, ok, I'm coming to that.

Recall Richard Reid. He is known as the "shoe bomber", though in fact the "non-shoe bomber" would be far more accurate. His device didn't work, but thanks to him, you need to reveal your cheesy stinking feet at the airport everytime you pass through security. His failed plot to take an aircraft out of the sky is why we all have to remove our shoes whenver we wish to board a plane.

What's that have to do with ASS BOMBS I can hear you ask? You must have loud thoughts, because I can hear you all the way in paradise. I'm getting to that.

Suppose, for the sake of this theory that Al Qaeda constructed a device so sinister and devious that it could be easily carried through any checkpoint at any airport in the world. Yes, I'm talking about the ASS BOMB! Finally.

Suppose you took a tubular piece of plastic and hollowed it out, then filled it with explosives. A dildo would work, though I expect fundaMENTALIST Muslims might find something in the shape of a big plastic cock not exactly to their liking. Anyway, say you made this device, lubed it up and inserted into your anus.

Not you, but a committed terrorist, unless you are a committed terrorist, in which case why are you reading my blog? I hate you and would kill you with my bare fucking hands given the chance. I really would. Drop by north London sometime you fucking murderer and I'll show you.

Anyway, the terrorist lubes up his ASS BOMB and slips it where the sun don't shine. He passes through the security check point and hey presto, he's on your plane.

Now, once he's on the plane, there's no rush. Once you reach cruising altitude, it's just a question of slipping into the toilet and extracting the device. Wipe off the shit, light the fuse and BANG no more plane.

Of course, these terrorists aren't that clever. If they were, they wouldn't be terrorists, would they? They'd be selling insurance, doing the books at a medium-sized business, or serving you a whopper, but they're not. They're trying to kill you.

What this terrorist with the ASS BOMB didn't account for was ASS JUICE, which has now coated the fused on the device. It won't light, no matter how hard he tries, it's just too damp. Those same smoke detectors on planes that prevent you from lighting-up in the bog on a plane would eventually go off and he would be caught red (or brown) handed.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. They've caught that ASS BOMBer and uncovered his plot. The authorities won't know how many of these cunning devices have been constructed. They won't trigger any metal detectors, they won't even set off the explosive detectors because the fumes would be trapped up the terrorists ass. Unless he farted, but if he avoided cabbage and hummus for 24 hours before the flight, ass gas would not be a problem. So if you can't catch them through security, what do you do?

There is only one answer, a new level of security would have to be created to fight the scourge of the ASS BOMB. That's right, drop 'em, spread your cheeks and let security peer up your rectum with a flash light. It would be the only way to remain safe.

Now, just imagine if EVERYONE who wished to travel on a commercial aircraft had to suffer the indignity of a rectal examine everytime they wanted to board a plane. Even the rich cunts in first class. I hate to fly anyway, I imagine this would not make me relish the prospect even more. I think it would put off more than a few people actually.

But what choice would they have? An ASS BOMB could kill hundreds of people on a jumbo jet, not to mention those on the ground, should it be set off over a populated area. Isn't a rectal examine just a small price to pay to keep our airline industry safe? You take off your shoes, don't you? I bet your ass doesn't smell that much worse than your feet!

And think of the poor security staff that would have to provide the exams. They have enough trouble recruiting people for these lowly paid positions. What if they had to look at people's puckered prunes all day. Some people aren't that clean, I expect there would be more than a few cling-on's in your line of sight. I'm even grossing myself out with that one.

So remember, the hippy warned you first! Beware of the ASS BOMBS! Tom Ridge, are you listening? Time to go to code-red!!!

Tomorrow marks the 6 month anniversary of the northlondonhippy blog. Amazing my limited attention span has lasted as long as it has, with no end in site. This entry is my 99th! How's that for a statistic? Can I get a superdooper yippppppeeee for the hippy? Of course I can!

I'll be back when I can, keep on groovin'! And watch out for those ASS BOMBS!

Friday, September 10, 2004

Here's a little hippy for ya...

But just a little, cause a little goes a long way...

Don't have anything to say really, except to mention that I will have limited net access for the next couple of weeks. If the entries seem a bit sparse and far between, that's the reason.

Normal hippy service should resume shortly after that. I'm probably looking forward more than you are anyway.

Until then, keep moving and grooving and shrooming and smoking!

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Hey ho, hey ho, it's the northlondonhippy you know...

Actually, you don't know. Or maybe you do. If you've read any of this blog, you'll know a little about the hippy. Whether or not you care is another story entirely. Sometimes, I don't even care myself.

I'm trying to put on a brave face, but the truth is, I'm still grief-stricken about the loss of my father. I've had to keep a lot of it inside this week, thanks to a few nights working. I haven't disclosed to anyone here that he died. I'm guessing people wouldn't really understand my working through one of the worst weeks of my life. It's none of their goddamn business anyway. At least at work, I have something to focus on other than his passing.

I still can't believe he's gone. I'm missing him so much already. I know, if you've read this blog, that I maybe didn't seem that close to him, and certainly in the last year or so, that's been true.

If I let myself, I would be in floods of tears constantly. I'm not letting myself do that. Occasionally, my thoughts have drifted towards happier memories from my childhood and when I do, I can feel my eyes well-up, like right now. Not good, not now, please.

I also find myself talking to him, more frankly and honestly than ever before. Which is odd, because I don't believe in an afterlife, neither did he.

One of the great shortcomings of the modern world is the amount of credence we continue to give to the fairy-stories of our ancestors. Does anyone still believe that heaven is a place in the clouds, with winged angels and pearly gates? I don't care what religion you subscribe to, they've all got it wrong when it comes to death. If you disagree with that, you can just fuck off to someone else's blog

If, (and it is one of the biggest "if's" you'll encounter) our soul or spirit or essence or consciousness continues on after our body dies, it does so in a form that would be so alien and incomprehensible to our tiny little brains, that we simply couldn't comprehend it. No human being has the capacity to imagine it as it might really be either.

Listen to me, I'm so full of shit.

I don't believe in life after death, but the loss of a parent and suddenly I'm pondering the possibility. Oh the odd things we cling to in times of need!

As of 2 days ago, my younger brother still hadn't phoned my mother. A mutual friend got the message to him that my dad was gone. I really wish he'd call her.

The good news is, it looks like the hippymobile will finally have a new owner. No, it wasn't a contest entrant, but a friend of mine. There's more to the story, but I'll save it for another time.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

It's the middle of the night. I don't really have that much time, but I've still got more to share.

I called my mother on Monday and ended up speaking to her part-time home-helper. I got a bit more details about my father's death and the arrangements.

He passed at about 9:50pm on Friday night, local time, which was about 02:50am here in north London. By some coincidence I was actually awake at that time. I had finished work on Friday morning and stayed up most of the day so I could phone the states. I went to sleep in the mid-afternoon, with an alarm set in time to greet Mrs. Hippy when she returned from work. I slept through the alarm and didn't wake up until 1:30am, when Mrs. Hippy came up to bed. I watched tv until about 3:30am, so I was wide awake when he died. They considered phoning me after the funeral home collected his body, about 4am London time - I'd gone back to bed by then. It's just as well they didn't phone then, I would have missed the call.

My father was cremated on Monday, per his wishes. There will be no formal funeral, but my mother and older half brothers will scatter his ashes sometime this week. They plan on doing this in one of his favourite fishing spots, on a canal near where I grew up. It goes without saying that I'll be missing this event. I'll be there in spirit, if things like that are really possible.

My cunt of a half-sister really proved just how much of a piece of shit she is on Friday, by whinging furiously that my father left everything to my mother. She said all this to a visiting nurse, who she had never spoken to before. This was all relayed to my mother through a friend of the nurse. The nerve of that fucking cunt! Six hours before my father died and she's worrying about her share of the money. She's getting nothing, which is more than she deserves. I hope she dies slowly and soon and suffers the most unimaginable pain, followed by an eternity in hell getting butt-fucked by Satan without any lube. I am really fucking angry with her and I have never wished her more ill will than I do right now. How dare she! Don't husbands normally leave everything to their wives? Write me for her address and phone number, I'd be happy to give it out, preferably if you are a psycho-killer based in Maine, USA.

I found my father's obit online as well, it was printed in their local paper on Sunday. I could insert a link, but I prefer not to do so. One, it would reveal my identity, but also my father didn't know about this blog, but if he did, he wouldn't like it. All my talk about drugs and easy sex would not have impressed him.

His obit really didn't do him justice, it mentions some of the things he'd done, but it certainly didn't capture his spirit, his generous nature, his steadfast dependability as both a father and person. At some point in the near future I'll write something here about who he really was. Not tonight, I couldn't really do it while I was working, it would be too hard.

My younger brother is still not in contact with me, not that I expected he would be. The real problem is he hasn't been in contact with my mother. Messages have been left for him, but he has not returned her call. As if she doesn't have enough to worry about!

He must have deduced by now that my father is gone, if he hasn't then he's obviously not checking his machine. If he does know, and he hasn't phoned, then he is just being selfish, or perhaps he's too mentally ill to deal with it. Quite frankly, there is no real excuse for causing my mother, an elderly invalid, additional stress and upset at one of the worst times in her life. I'm rarely ever interested in "why", as you regular readers of this blog will know. It's just cruel and sadistic and my mother deserves better.

My mother has asked what's going on with my brother, I've finally told her that I haven't spoken to him in just over 2 months. I had to, I didn't have a choice. I wasn't going to lie and to be honest, I didn't know what else I should say. I don't really care of I never hear from him again, matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I never will. My mother doesn't deserve this, neither do I, but mental illness is a funny thing. That's funny peculiar, and not funny ha-ha.

Catch ya later masturbater!

Monday, September 06, 2004

My father passed away on Friday night.

I last spoke to him very briefly on Wednesday, he wasn't able to say very much. He slipped quietly into a coma on Thursday. His death was peaceful, he was at home in his own bed with my mother by his side. I didn't find out until Saturday afternoon.

My mother phoned to tell me, she simply said, "he's gone". Her speech was very understandable thankfully. I'm glad I heard the news from her.

One of my older brother's left me a message on Friday to let me know that my father was in a coma and to tell me that he didn't have more than a day or so left. I didn't phone him back, I'm not planning on ever phoning him back.

I did phone my mother on Friday and had it confirmed he was deep in a coma. I spoke to their part-time home-helper, who brought me up to speed on the situation.

To say I wasn't prepared for the news would be a dramatic understatement. He was diagnosed with the cancer almost exactly one year ago, he's been in steady decline since Christmas time last year. When he was admitted into hospital in June, I thought it wouldn't be long from then. Everyone did apparently, but he surprised them all by lasting as long as he did. It just shows how strong he is, I mean was.

It still hasn't sunk in yet, I haven't cried really or mourned for him. The whole thing is very abstract, I find myself very detached from the reality of the situation. My low-key reaction has surprised me, I expected to be crippled with grief.

Maybe it's because I've had so long to prepare, I expected it for so long. Perhaps it's because for all practical purposes, I lost him a few months ago. My ostrich like attitude meant while I could speak to him, I didn't, and once he was in the hospital I didn't expect to ever speak to him again.

When he was released from hospital, I was given that bonus conversation with him, where he sounded strong. It was a short, but good chat, I didn't know it was to be my last proper one with him. If I had known that, I would have told him again that I loved him. I didn't. I thought I would get another chance to speak to him. He sounded that good. But I was an ostrich again, I stuck my head in the sand and didn't phone for nearly 2 weeks. When I did get him, I think I was a bit shocked by how bad he sounded; how much he declined from the previous call. I didn't tell him then either. The last time I told him was Father's Day, back in June, just before he went in the hospital.

I don't think he really understood why I didn't visit in the last year, though I did try to explain, many times. I think, hope he knew how much I loved him. Maybe it was just too hard to say the words on those last calls, I know I would have broken down in tears, he would have too.

Ok, it's sinking in now, as I write these words, it's really hitting me. The tears are finally coming. I won't ever see him again. I won't ever hear his voice again. I know I've complained about him in this very blog in the past, but I've always known I couldn't have asked for a better father. I love you dad, I miss you so much...

This is getting to be too much for me, since I am Mr. Avoidance. I'm going to sign off. I've got more I need to say, but not right now.

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