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VISIT THE HIPPY'S NEW SITE: www.northlondonhippy.com 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!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
I profess that I’m a pseudo-intellectual, philosopher, humorist, satirist and drug abuser. In reality, only that last descriptive term is really true.
I’m just like everyone else tooling around on this planet. I pretend I know things, I act like things matter, I smile knowingly at all and sundry. I act like I give a shit.
The truth is: I’m just as scared and pig-ignorant as the rest of us. I’m no different from anyone else, I’m just higher more often. And if I wasn’t, I’d probably be clinically insane.
As it stands, I’m insane, but not clinically.
That’s alright then.
I search for truths, in my life, in the universe, in everything. The truth is: I don’t know dick. I know less than dick. I’m no different from anyone else.
We pretend we know things; we act like we understand our role in the universe. Bull-fucking-shit! We don’t know dick.
No one knows why we’re really here. No one knows how we got here. Go on, make up your own theory, it will be just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s all speculation anyway, who’s to say you’re not the one true genius of the human race, with all the right answers?
It has to be someone, why not you?
Why not me?
I stumble around, stoned out of my mind on drugs, pretending I’m the ultimate authority on everything. I profess to be the one true genius of the 21st century. Maybe I am?
Who are you to say I’m not? Who’s anyone? I could be, you know.
Of course, if I really was, then no one would pay attention to me.
Oh wait, no one pays attention to me now, so maybe it really is me…?
I toil away here in relative obscurity, in my own little corner of internet hell. If I truly was a genius, wouldn’t you all be worshipping at my feet and sucking my cock heartily while you were down there?
I’m looking down, all I see are my shoes. I need new laces, these are frayed at the ends.
The truth is: If I really was the one true genius of the 21st century, no one would know it now.
Maybe after I’m dead, my place in the history of the universe will be confirmed and my hippy visage will be staring at you on postage stamps. First class, naturally.
Perhaps in 100 or 1000 years, some future resident of this muddy hell-hole we call home will stumbled upon this very blog and see my writing for what it is, be it shit or solid gold.
I say solid gold, but I’m unashamedly biased.
I’m stupid, you’re stupid, we’re all stupid.
None of us are special, we’re all exactly the same, and we live our rather dull, uneventful, little lives in relative obscurity.
Everyone I love is dead or dying. We're all dying, slowly, one cell at a time, one day at a time.
We’re born, we live, and we die. The end.
Whether you’re an aid worker feeding the starving in Africa, or some serial killer dispatching street whores twice a night, your life will still follow along these simple lines. Birth, life, death. Oh and taxes, unless you know how to avoid them, which makes you smarter than me already.
Some might argue that it’s not those three simple things, but what you do in-between them.
I don't agree, because no matter where you’re born or how you live your life, that third one, death, still gets you in the end.
I fear death, I fear getting older and I fear being infirm. I’m terrified of some calamitous, catastrophic health problem, leaving me as an invalid. I don’t fear a swift death, dying quickly doesn’t worry me at all.
But lingering, hanging on, and not being able to feed myself or wipe my own goddamn ass, now that scares the motherfucking bejeesus outta me!
Hey, you fucking hippyfans owe me! If you hear I’m vegetating away in some hospital bed, with no chance of recovery, you have to promise you’ll kill me. Smoother me with a pillow, shoot me, poison me, stab me, I don’t care what you do, just make sure it’s quick and I don’t suffer too much.
I’d pray to god for insight and understanding and faith, but he doesn’t answer my prayers.
He doesn’t answer anyone’s. He doesn’t exist. He’s fictitious, he’s not real, he’s a construct; a creation of someone just like you or me.
God was invented to give us something bigger to believe in, to answer the unanswerable, to promise a better life in the next world.
Bullshit! If you buy into any of this, you’re not very clever and you deserve to be anally raped by satan until you bleed buckets. Ouch.
Fairytales ain’t gonna help any of us. Believe in yourself and know that none of us are any better off. Other people may have more dosh and more things, but they don’t have any better idea of the answers to the unanswerable than you do.
And if some fucking cunt comes ‘round, telling you they have all the answers while passing the collection plate, RUN. If you want to give some loser all your money, I’m just as good as your priest. And you know I’d blow it all on drugs, hookers and handguns, so it would be going to a very worthy cause.
When you realise how pointless it all is, how no one knows any better than you, it’s actually quite liberating rather than depressing. I get more joy out of knowing for sure that I don’t know anything, than pretending to have all the answers.
At least I know what the questions are and if you’re reading this blog, you probably do too.
Think of all those poor schlubs who don’t even know what to question. Feel sorry for them, pity them, for they know not of what they’ll never know.
Actually, perhaps rather than pity them, perhaps we should envy them. Think about it, have you ever met a proper Jesus-freak? Their eyes have this glazed-over quality of someone who knows something you don’t, only worse. Because they think they’re right and you’re wrong, they’re certain you’re going to hell! What’s even spookier is these pseudo-christian cunts seem to take pleasure in telling you that you will spend eternity getting poked in the ass by satan.
Hell’s where all the really cool will be. Heaven will be pretty empty, with god, jesus and the Osmond family your own company. For eternity. And since you’re already dead, you can’t top yourself, it won’t work. I suppose your only option is to try and slip it to Marie Osmond and hope you get sent downstairs with the rest of us hipsters.
Look for me, I’ll be the long-haired guy with the big bong and all the really hot chicks fighting over who shags me next. I’ll be hard to miss, and even harder to beat!
And remember, this hippy is available to entertain at parties. I’m one big fucking barrel of laughs!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
I wish I could say, “oh you know, since I won the lottery, blogging is a low priority” or “ I’ve only just come out of a 3 week, drug induced coma”, but I have no such excuses.
I do have reasons, though. Sometimes, I just get a bit bored with my own life…so if I’m bored, imagine how yawn-worthy it would be for my beloved hippyfans?
Also, this is my most unfavourite time of the year as the holidays approach and my levels of depression rise. This is all down to my fucked up family or rather my relationship with them.
I won’t bore you with a re-hash of just how fucked up my family is…there’s no point. Most families seem to be fucked up, mine is nothing special. I think if you look “family” up in the dictionary, the definition should read “a group of genetically related individuals who are fucked up.”
Maybe you’re family is different. Perhaps you’re family is the Waltons. Well, goodnight Johnboy and fuck you too!
I miss my dad. I miss him a lot. He’s still on my mind daily, even though he’s been dead for over a year. Even weirder! I was driving home from work yesterday morning and who do you think I saw in the car behind me, in my rear view mirror? Only someone who was the spitting image of my father. I don’t mean he looked a bit like my dad, he looked exactly like my dad!
I’m not reading anything into this, it was no visitation from beyond the grave or even my mind playing tricks on me. It was just some random guy who looked just like him. Well, I thought it was odd.
Maybe I’m not taking enough drugs. Maybe none of us are! I’ve got three days off, starting in around 2 hours and I believe drugs will be a part of my relaxation regime.
I’m planning on popping some P.E.P. pills when I get home this morning, but that’s more out of necessity than anything else. I need to stay awake today, as I’m waiting for my duff Airport Express to be picked up by Apple’s carriers. I think I mentioned it died last week and Apple were surprisingly quick at despatching the replacement. If I don’t return the old one within a set time-frame, I will get charged a boat-load of money on my Visa card. There’s always a hoop-of-fire to jump through in this life, no matter what you do!
On Weds, the festivities will be extended to include a visit from the gas man, to provide the annual service to my boiler and fix a couple of duff radiators. But it doesn’t end there, oh no fuckers, because on Thursday, I’m going through a thick envelope filled with receipts to get ready to do my taxes!
When this hippy has fun, he does not mess around! Yipppeee!
Ok, so life sucks occasionally, that’s hardly a newsflash, especially to a dedicated gloom merchant like myself. Some weeks, it’s one long non-stop rock’n’roll sex’n’drugs party, other weeks, life sucks ass. This is one of the ass-sucking weeks. Pucker up, fuckers!
Once my taxes are out of the way, life could become fun again. There’s a project I’m working on, which I make vague references to occasionally that has moved about a quarter step in the right direction this week. Trust me, things don’t happen quickly in the media and being persistent and patient may serve me well yet!
I’m not going to say much more than that, because I’m still practically no where with it, but I remain guardedly optimistic. It’s something for TV, a potential series and I’m going to start working on the pilot in about a week or so. The good news is there are some high powered TV execs poised to read what I write! Amazing, ain’t it?
But you, my beloved hippyfans, are not amazed. You know that I am one of the great undiscovered talents of the 21st century. At least that’s what my mum says!
Send me those positive vibes, kids. I fuckin’ need ‘em!
Until next time, I remain your ever faithful, ever funny, ever stoned, northlondonhippy!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Truth is, I’m still not feeling myself, following my illness last weekend. Sitting here now, at the ungodly hour of 4:40am, I still feel pretty shitty. I’ve got chills, I’m sweating slightly and I feel really tired. I’ve felt this way all week. I’m wondering if something might be really wrong with me.
I hope not, I can’t afford to get sick. If this hippy doesn’t work, this hippy doesn’t get paid! Welcome to the new economy, fuckers!
I get paid per shift, so if I don’t come to work, I don’t see so much as a thin dime. Luckily, I get paid in pounds and pence here, as dimes don’t get you very far in north London!
I wish I felt better, it’s a bit dull feeling ill for over a week, especially when the weather is getting colder and the work-schedule is getting heavier!
No drug festivals or any real fun lately either. Ho hum. My life doesn’t suck though, it barely has the energy to blow at the moment, let alone get any suction going!
Ok, I’m down, I’m feeling sorry for myself. So what? Is everyone else’s life that much better?
You tell me, you’re part of “everyone else”. Is your life better?
We all live small, quiet, unimportant lives; the problem is some of us aspire to more. Most of us fail and I count myself amongst those failures. Ho hum.
I’m too old to be thinking that I can still turn my life into something that matters. I delude myself in a million different ways, every day that some day things will be better.
Newsflash, you hippy cunt: If it hasn’t happened by now, it ain’t never gonna happen!
Except me, because my delusions may be all I’ve got. And I haven’t given up. At least not yet, though I reserve the right to quit at a time and place of my own choosing.
So there you have it, life +1, hippy, zero – but the game ain’t over yet.
Actually, I think we might be into extra time, but who’s counting. I don’t even own a stopwatch.
Can I mix any more metaphors into this confusing jumble of thoughts and ideas?
Probably, but I’m bored now and think it’s time to wrap this up.
Catch ya next time, fuckers!
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Like the mythical bird, the phoenix, I have arisen from the ashes of the last week of my life, reborn with the knowledge that, the one and only, northlondonhippy….
Oh fuck it, this intro looked a lot better in my head than it does on my computer screen.
The truth is, I haven’t posted anything in a while. Blame a recent bout with the flu and a lack of focus on all things hippy for my lack of participation. I even missed a couple of nights at work, which means this hippy don’t get paid! That’s how fucking sick I was.
I’m at work tonight, it should be my last shift of three, instead it is an orphan night; a guest appearance and to be honest I’m not really up for being here.
I’m feeling more than a bit drained. I’ve got a slight headache and every time I go outside for a cigarette, I return shivering. Oh poor hippy, boo-fucking-hoo!
I don’t really have much more to report, life’s been in a holding pattern since I was laid low by this lurgy.
Oh, I can share some tech-geek news, my AirPort Express thing-a-ma-jig died on Monday night. Right in the middle of surfing, it just went. It’s dead, it’s ceased to be, it’s an ex-AirPort Express, blah blah blah.
As much of an Apple-mad consumer as I am, they are dreadful to deal with when something goes wrong. I spent forty minutes on the phone with customer support, trying to sort it out. I had two options, and I have chosen what I hope is the easiest of the two. I’m going to visit the big Regent Street Apple Store in central London, where I am promised they will trade me a brand new AirPortExpress for my dead one. We’ll see!
I hope it works, as it would mean I have a new one in my hot little hands comes Thursday morning, which is my first chance to get into town. Cross your stubby little fingers for me!
Like I said, I ain’t got nothin’ tonight. But I’m alive and on the mend. What more could you ask for?
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
…well, I’m alive, anyway.
And I’m sorry for not posting anything for a couple of days. I’m working too much, too hard and too bad on me. It’s been busy at work, but that’s what happens when a major European country is on fire every night.
I’m referring to France, where they’ve had 12 consecutive nights of unrest with no end in sight.
Here’s the thing: I’m not surprised by any of this. Actually, what surprises me is that is doesn’t happen more often, everywhere.
Every country has an underclass; every society has deprived poor people who feel alienated by society. I’m not suggesting they should all rise up and burn everything, but I do wonder why they don’t go after us “haves” a bit more often.
There’s more of them than there are of us. By “us” of course, I mean people with an income and a stake in society. You can’t be that poor if you’re reading the hippy! After all, you can access the net.
I’m not poor, but I’m not rich either, not by a long shot. Sure, I can afford to buy a video iPod, I can throw stuff into my shopping basket at the supermarket and not worry about the price, but I don’t have a mansion, or a sports car or a yacht. I should though, would you like to buy them for me? Please?
As the gulf between rich and poor widens, the poor are going to wise up. We’re out numbered and as events in Paris show, the police are ineffective in quelling the crowds. Maybe it’s time to coat your car with asbestos or move to the country!
People tell me that France is quite racist when it comes to their immigrant population. I don’t like sweeping generalisations, but there could be some truth in this one. Britain is fairly racist too, and that I’ve seen with my own eyes.
Let’s face facts; we’re all guilty of the sort of casual racism that keeps our differences at the fore. We all notice colour, race and even religion and probably always will, even if we try to pretend not to.
That is, until my hippy-utopia comes, when the inhabitants of planet earth become homogenised into one coffee-coloured race. None of us will be alive to see this happen, but mark my words, it will come. We don’t have a chance of surviving as a race, unless we become unified globally in every conceivable way.
Gosh, this was just going to be a short entry to let all my loyal, beloved hippyfans know I’m still here and look, I got all pseudo-intellectual on your ass. I won’t make a habit of it. We’ll be back on course with handguns, hookers and hard drugs in no time!
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The new, 5th generation iPod is pure technological perfection! I am more impressed with it than I expected to be, and I expected to be impressed! The video playback is faultless with a clear, bright, detailed picture. Even Mrs. H was blown away by how good the moving pictures looked!
It also plays music! That’s an understatement, it plays every song I own, nearly 2,000, flawlessly. It is by far, the coolest hand-held gadget available on the planet. I’m very happy!
Happy is a relative concept, naturally and in this context relates to only to my all-new digital lifestyle. I’m at work right now, grooving on some happening hippy tunes! And I’m writing this, and I’m still doing my job to an incredibly high standard. Yes, I am just that goddamn good…
…Except where it comes to blogging, because I’ve been so incredibly lazy this week. I know this is my first entry in days. I suck, well sometimes anyway.
There’s never enough time in the day to do everything I want to do, especially with all the random violence, meaningless sex and high levels of drug consumption involved with being the northlondonhippy. It’s complicated being me…
…but then it’s probably complicated being you too. Its complicated being anyone, everyone!
Tonight begins my run of six shifts in a row. It’s the longest consecutive run I’ve done in ages. Wooo-hooo! At end of it, I only have three nights off to look forward to, which ain’t much.
I’m aiming to have the delayed, yet much anticipated northlondonhippy drug festival, which touch-wood, should start on Thursday evening and continue until Sunday morning, or when I fall into a drug-induced coma, which ever comes first!
Naw, I’m just joshin’ ya, no comas for me, I’m not that lucky! Besides, I’m not messing with anything that hard of heavy. No Class A’s, just Class C actually and some legal goodies.
Speaking of legal goodies, I’ve now tried the three variations of P.E.P. Pills, the Love, Twisted and Stoned versions. I dig them all, but I think the Stoned just about have the edge. They were speedy, but monged me out a little. More field testing is no doubt required!
I’m also planning on finally trying Dionysos, which are capsules filled with ground up seeds containing LSA. I’m hoping they will be fun. A certain helpful hippyfan of mine, who emailed to point out a technical problem with my blog, is certainly looking forward to my review. Soon, my friend, soon!
I’m looking forward to my drug festival, but then I bet you are too! There’s no reason why you can’t play the home version. Just get some drugs, a few nights off and away you go! But if you end up in a drug-induced coma, don’t blame your uncle hippy!
I’m going to party like it’s 1999! How? I’ve invited Prince over to perform at my northlondon lair and I’ve asked him to join me in my time machine. How did you think I would do it? In my head?
Ok, yeah, well, ummmm, it will be in my head actually. I have more fun in my head than most people have in some of London’s finest nightclubs. And the women are easier in my head than any stinking club!
It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Thank god, it’s me. If I believed in god, I would send him a thank-you note right now, but I don’t, so I won’t.
Of course, if I were god, I wouldn’t expect anyone’s thanks.
I’m not god and at the rate I’m going, I never will be. ‘Tis a pity, because I’d be a great god. I’d be your favourite god. I’d be the god other god’s aspire to be.
Ok, enough of the god nonsense. Even if I do look like Jesus right now (I really do, long hair, beard, walkin’ on water, etc), I’m not going to ever be god. It’s your loss, fuckers!
Speaking of “your loss”, it looks like the Tory’s are still trying to fuck themselves up. My Tory hero, David Cameron has committed the cardinal sin of speaking about drugs with common sense and now everyone is trying to stitch him up.
Specifically, Mr. Cameron said that MDMA should not be classified in the same league as smack and crack. He’s right and any self-respecting drug-user worth his salt would agree. Cameron’s point is simple, if people know that the gov’t is misrepresenting the truth about some drugs, they will reject what they say about all drugs.
Look, the kids, man, they know that “E” is no where near as nasty as heroin. You know it too, though it may pain you to admit it.
Cameron is a sensible guy when it comes to the one issue I care about. The problem for him is this: drug users aren’t known for voting. And the people that do vote, won’t care if he’s honest about drugs.
This is the thing, Cameron’s enemies have figured out that drugs are his weak spot. He speaks sense, sense scares people.
If Cameron doesn’t get to become the leader of the conservatives, they don’t have a hope in hell of ever getting into power. Then again, if Cameron isn’t made leader, they don’t deserve to be in power. Fucking losers!
Anyway, I think I’ve more than made up for my lack of participation this week, with this informative and entertaining update on the wild, wacky and wonderful world of the northlondonhippy! It’s so damn good, I got a semi-hard-on just re-reading it!
Bet you do too, unless you’re a chick, in which case, you’re dripping!
Hippy, why do you have to get all icky, all the time?