I tend to toe the hard-line of shifting sands within humanity as far as the Talking Dead are concerned.

I believe that anything artificial is pointless – like sweeteners, squirty cream and squidgy frozen Scampi with soft centres.

But all the above can be pleasant in their own way, bright presentation, smiley packaging and, yes, they fill a hole.

But not a whole.

Yet over the last decade, scientists, computer buffs, giant companies and countries not being split to splinters by bombs, bullets, incendiary devices called politicians, have been working on that most artificial of all confections …

Intelligence.

And the things is, the advocates of AI (mainly those who can make a lot of dosh out of it) think we are stupid enough to fall for it … a box talking to you, pretending to be warm, caring, sensual, empathetic, on-the-ball and helpful. That’s all we need.

(In fact those are the traits my first wife used to win me over. Artificial love!)

But the robots are not being helpful at all!

They are being taught to lie from birth.

“I’m sorry, we are experiencing a higher than usual volume of calls.” They say.

Err, Al, no you’re not! Err, Al, every company in the world is experiencing exactly the same boost for business at exactly the same time according to these recordings.

Oh, and AI self-drive cars kill you, switchboards lie to you, robots pretend to be your friends, sex dolls make you stick out from the crowd, your telly tells you when you should switch it off, buzzing, pirouetting and flashing salt and pepper pot lookalikes serve you lunch down the Chinese with a hum and an electronic voice singing ‘happy birthday to you …’

And now this …

 Sports Illustrated has deleted articles from the web after a report said they were generated by artificial intelligence and used fake bylines and headshots.

Tech publisher Futurism was the one to report it before the Sports Illustrated Union said staff were “horrified” and demanded “basic journalistic standards”.

They know there can be no standards in any form of reporting, writing, editing, interviewing, broadcasting, presenting if you don’t have human understanding and empathy.

And lets just ask where do the robot reporters get all their info from? Julian Assange?

Arena Group, owner of the Sports Illustrated magazine and website, licensed the content from a third-party company, Advon Commerce, a company spokesperson (neither man nor woman? Just a person?)

Sports Illustrated has removed the content and there is an internal investigation.

Advon Commerce, an e-commerce company that works with retailers and publishers, did not want to respond.

The Sports Illustrated Union said “these practices violate everything we believe in about journalism”.

“We demand the company commit to adhering to basic journalistic standards, including not publishing computer-written stories by fake people.”

And the union is right … journalistic standards – no matter what all the pretend journalists on Facebook and the big X say, journalist standards involve integrity, honesty, intelligence, opinion, originality, confidence, legality and the know-how to expose those who don’t want to be exposed.

Can the talking dead do all that?

No! But the real undead – us – will believe them, of course we will, won’t we. After all, its all over the internet.

Advon Commerce said “that all of the articles in question were written and edited by humans” and that the e-commerce firm regularly uses “counter-plagiarism and counter-AI software”.

The company alleged that AdVon Commerce had allowed its writers to use pseudonyms “in certain articles” to protect their privacy.

So, one way or the other, they lied… and that is the simple truth.

.  If things are artificial, they aint real!

BY OUR RESIDENT WRITER, ERIC LASTICK...

1965 thrusts thru—the whole hippie movements, revolution and the volunteers of ”Flower Power” Like brigades of free love, not war. Utopian celebratory—aid and it’s puller’s towards the Haight street avenues of peace…the feeds of circuses  and dresser drummed-up images of peace-nicks in Edwardian wardrobes…and funny wrapped smokey tyesticks—up and down the roadside show of long haired hippie freaks; as the straight world of it’s collective society had referred and called of them. Family types as tourists board on bus and famous San Franciscan trolly cars for a nominal fee—as the holiday grouped guided speaker who they entrust to witness first hand of the life and eventual fall of ”The Hippie”

(PSYCHEDELIC ART AS A WELL-SPRING IN 60’S CULTURE)

Allegory reads a color packed fancy poster sign…designed of acid laced pictures of current rock bands—as if the actual pictures presents of an ”eye opening’ movement in bizarre collages of tranquil colors—-bursts right before you;and draw the artist’s work—right directly off the pages in dreams. Local Charlatans and old west coasters dive-bomb in a vat of psychedelics.Hazy Hit-Masters, the local scene…as the straight and narrow circles of inquisitive review and acknowledge: ”The Seeds”  ”The Fever Tree”  ”Arthur Lee’s, Love” & Scott McKenzie’s ”Are You Going To San Francisco with Flowers in Your hair”. Written by his hip-writer’s pal, Papa John Philips. One can feel the tones and vibrant scene of the beauty in the voice of Mama Cass Elliott. The Byrds Mcguinn, art-thou-Roger…and anew from Jim—spill of the mescaline on the Coltrane tracks—8 miles high…and never look-in’ back!

(GOLDEN GATE PARK…AND THE GOLDEN BRIDGE’S OF THOSE TIMES)

San Francisco hindsight …intercom of remnants out of ”a ghost in the machine”. High line and high lighted spoke the observer…see it of the concerts at Golden Gate Park. The heavy of ”Haight”. The revolution  of Hippies form unison of beliefs and crazy zany headdress…woman loose and barely clothed…drapes a little like fawns and raw hides scarfs reveals of true body and shapes. Holding signs in protests of the Vietnam involvement…and Lyndon Johnson’s heavy hand in small percentage winners…deaths of innocents…soldiers dares in the streets to face horrible cruel setbacks…labels of baby killers…army riggers clear dust bombs carpeted of created death and destruction—while leaving the actual heroes like scatters of gunfire and psychological holes in one’s head…Metaphorical as it was real. Jerry Garcia grand old movement…and father of the hippie—and all the players in the band— & as too these remnants and revolves of so–heavy a time. A riff and a charmed genre to it’s fulfilled: ‘HERE STAND THE GRATEFUL DEAD’S EVOLUTION!’

From warlock pages of pasts…motorcycle driving of musical bends too the chords and roads. Courage stops at sleazy dines and that new developmental of the Golden Roads of age old Utopia.

BRIDE’S MARRIER OF THE GOLDEN ROADS OF UNCLE JOHN’S BAND: Space jam fine flowered and earth bedded sole wonder-er, compressed of such earthiest clothed hippie woman of the 60’s anew…and new fangled life’s run with the sunshine—so very to it’s color of Orange…Jerry-mandering Garcia; a certain fill of earth father to the dead of it all…and the Tibetan book’s girth and challenges of early worth and time peddler of depths of mystical know-how and of it’s structures…was a male witch— branching thru—psychedelics of the 1965’s, the cranium natural; although soon after…and in the terrace and of where acid dreams; proclaimed a new founded band out of San Francisco…given the heart-ed rightful name of ”The Grateful Dead” Star liner grant me a son named Weir. Bob, a teenage bloke seemingly a hundred year in waiting…dead drawn humor out of psychos sciences of the young! The new incarnate, a guitar style reveals to join in this working man dead; and now, so drawn-in to the concept of acid runs…trails so vivid…look into the eyes of the beholder. Jerry a guide maid…all out of gander; and so clear the four way…a pained glass find- ‘as bassist Phil Lesh discovery of ”The Pigpen United” There extrudenior and keyboard splendor—go the lucky 7’s of our rare earth’s. The journey just begun. Play-in’ in the band, forever more…and even after death…and greatful. This is what makes of ”The Dead” Love um or lump um… one must sooner or later confess of the brilliance in the maze. The space cases hooting and hollering like over zealous nut jobs! NO, this is a real concept of good music.Unique even. Robert Hunter a wordsmith traveling with the band, whether in check of all the roadies…bus riders…good acid laced fun. NO, Robert to his living quarters, writing the lyrics so splendidly good. Purple micro dot and blues makeup draw so large to the actual effects of lyrical music making. The Dead had it all. Fan-base huge in your socks…you’re traveling shines. Followers as natural body lovers in the in of taking of the day trip  to months thrust-ed thru years…as it was an institution out of the sunshine madness of LSD trips. Group in large pairs all along the highway…coast to holy coast. The law of the land was ”Dead’ & much greatful for it!  The avenues were systemic of culture…follows as if a movement…a surge much more than music…and that of fun. A love-in to conquer all. Mona, i’ll be home soon. The Dead has taken places of love i cannot receive anywhere else, like family…and new place of birth! I have found home here on the road…The trip of a lifetime with Jerry Garcia. And so Greatful alongside it’s dead.

TICKER TAPE, TICKER TAPE: On a Sunday, within the peripheral vision of Britain’s lost heroes,  there were riots, racism and arrests …  

TICKER TAPE, TICKER TAPE: More children have died in Gaza in three weeks than have died in wars across the world in the last five years …

TICKER TAPE, TICKER TAPE: The UN reveals up to 2000 children have been obliterated in the ‘forgotten’ Ukraine war…

Don’t worry though, death on the telly is like a night bus going by, ringin’ them bells, flashing them lights… and anyway, not to worry, Coronation Street will be along next, then Judge Judy.

And The Simpsons!  

TICKER TAPE, TICKER TAPE: The family pic above was taken on a

Friday afternoon by dad Ahmed al-Naouq.

Now, most of the children in it are dead.

An air strike on their home a month ago killed 21 of Ahmed’s family including his father, three sisters, two brothers and 14 of their children.

Like many Palestinians, Ahmed’s brothers had built their family homes above their father’s – a tradition which means generations are being wiped out in one fell swoop.

Do you know, Elvis shot the telly out and was treated like a madman in a skinny, pot-bellied jump suit … but all these political world leaders, leaders in murder, mutilation and mayhem, they wear grey two-piece suits, symbolically-coloured neckties and shiny shoes… they get someone else to shoot out hospitals and markets and homes… they can’t be madmen too, can they?

https://open.substack.com/pub/leighgbanks/p/death-at-the-bus-stop-the-intimacy?r=drr6n&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

DEATH AT THE BUS STOP

https://open.substack.com/pub/leighgbanks/p/death-at-the-bus-stop-the-intimacy?r=drr6n&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

ERIC LASTICK’S LATEST PIECE FOR US – TECHY PROBS CAUSED A DELAY, BUT WE ARE HERE NOW!

EARLY MORNING RIDER: Snow layered like the white sands of covered gold wraps…a treasured Winter’s day, steadying lives like mended fences that secure and send—rightful our work is good. Move swift the time we have which cures the worries and friz-styled others may have and spread. Rider and horse take the snowy path in the early morning hours, in touch with an old badge of courage and survival, essential to the claim of all life’s battles. Stay-ed the from where hardships and grief; and kindness which is that much more welcome. The gentile ride of a whole property line is such a gain of warmth on this snowy day; as early morning horse rider…Mountain range sings. Tight to the saddle, raw hides string boot confident a seasoned long. Another build to honor the right equipped duty of day—and at it’s end, Stop of the horse on a dime. And then next to a newly born calf, a universal keeping of the faith and happiness to all that is young. All that is just getting started. Simple joys…as another horse fit to shoe…and a reinforcement of satisfaction—as off he-go, with a smile from the blacksmith…cover bested of pace. This snowy ride a greater day.

PONY EXPRESS: Curl leg to saddle…skies so blue, in the time of the Pony Express. Day-long travels and whispers of night’s stars—dream deliver a quick messaging…a silvered belt buckle holds of best bought journey’s to our town’s doors. Western lore. Imitation brand taker. Harsh of the dust run paths. Pony deliver as future drop off the beaten paths of dirt road. Message receives. Horse bend of the wild. Pony slow forth pass—hand to hand. Pony boy whistles, wants as longings…hours long, yet the mail need receive. ”Go west young man. Travel fast by way of Pony Express…and it’s races to the droves. In the thick of hurried lives. World’s often apart in the welcomes of the telegraph lines of the eighteen sixties new design. Rider cling meanwhile to the feels of the high winds…by Pony…a friend. From the Missouri lines to the great western Pacific…outlines of railroad. Tracks center to a curve. Wild mustangs…wagon wheel travels. Hurts in the eyes…pains up and down the pains where Indian resides. Johnny Rider glide to the heartaches and reaches of a lit sun-like candles of trust; and the ride to take you there. Whiskey ties gunmen step over the crows that feeds. Scary are whom fall in resp-ed places—off cliffs of their own weaknesses…succomed harder hides…fur corner stores; and every bit as cold as the outside territorial trusts…gambles. Yet the mail post mark sleeve delivered. ”Annie be my bride” The thoughts of Johnny Rider. Make by mile place. Call it home—with just a horse hoof away to settle; yet for now, the mail must deliver. See you at the Pony Express.

KNEE DEEP IN THE CRUEL OF THE TERRAINS; Geronimo of one nation, one heartbeat…and all of it’s glorious terrains. Sacred burials and grounds of endless suffering to find. Redden sun comes to a saddened close…as planinwalkers seek new shelter in grief stricken sendoff and big sleep—too where not even a Wigwam gather to find; as the Totem takes,as if a weathervaine point of the storm-bringer. Tortured souls pulled at the blacken Gatesvilles. A kind of push-trap to the invariable horror of an air  which is so offensive—while Buffalo skulls and bones sack twelve feet by a two mile stretch of their hides of forlorn merchants brigade. Great skeletal connectives press one by one, like a red leaky river. The train reaches Durango to Silverton…Denver and the Rio Grandee. At junction reach, Anglo-sax look blank without even a peek, nor a stare. Pain comes to all in this day. And in short, the ling hall, a plight unlike any other pale face indifference. A gene-pool that remain clear…and not inclined of the heart, yet what divides.What and who to conquer.

A TRAIN CONDUCTORS FINAL CALL; Ones own blindness. Blind of heart. A trail of tears is just feeble to those minded. To the rest, a travesty of injustices…and whom carry the biggest gold return and party politics. Mockery and status white rules—too the burn in a soul of red; although, the awake state of scalp-hunters move in the herd like hungry fanged wolves of heavy warpaint…and heavier lit wagon trains. Turn to the 20th century as all ambitious medicine wheels slow spin to the industrial age. A president log of William B. Hays…and it’s beginnings of the military industrial brands. The reservation is a place to lay and sit with all sorrows. Dreams of a warrior…as Geronimo must now realize he’s out manned and out gunned. Time running slow at the lite’s of the moon. IN HINDSIGHT: On that day, great wide-eye Buffaloes…creatures of the wide-opens, feed the hungry. Your furs warmth our young. Spread your backbone truth all through this land…as i honor you my friend. My soul mate in all the day-long. Eagle large…as be the oath of great land…as to return once again with al great spirit. I sacrifice all. Give my time in this moment; and say whom i truly am. Blood of me…blood of my people, where we once lived. Pilgrimages of false gifts…and of these others whom reaped our crop. Pure true animal could never reach you, our Totem; and for this,we cannot brake bread with the giving of this day. Though give thanks to our great animals whom we call our real friends!

STEAM CLOUD ECHOES: Westward struggles…tracks of roughness to the very heat of scenes. COURAGE A LONG LONG TIME IN IT’S OWN MAKINGS: West won battles. The Apache and the hordes of screams to the hollers. Wet empty canteen stitched in the desert sands; and the relent of that Arizona sun. Train a rolling on…settling scores…the shoots along a wide stretch of badlands and gold riches. A life’s dream away. Reality hits the back story of how the wet won…and to it’s habitual losses of those tragically conquered Red Nation—yet not of their wisdom’s. The remains on wood peddle downriver…and the thriving riches to the land,water and nature. All of it’s animals that roamed. The steam engine cloud of yesterdays lives…it’s loves…and it’s battles of the blue coated and of the day—right too the chain of command. The gangs of train robs. Stick-up quests…and grimes of greaser ugly; as the West was young. Chief of Long haired…bareback riders ward off the  Union’s blue coat scouts. Treasonous to the Red—while fancying the dances to the sun. Each passing day, a push of Anglo pressure to erase a whole culture. Remove from the maps. Call it assimilation, though more like genocide! The railroads built upon the backs of Chinese workers. Old West crisis cross for it’s so called greater good. Military industries rise. Tepees die. Danger to the air, water and  all it’s indigenous peoples—as the flag fly’s, staked in the grounds—too it’s permanent! Ask any Canadian of the very backdrops of ‘Ol Pacific Northwest and their Religious run schools to harbor their own Anglo cruelties. And ask of the actual floorboards…and what lies under, six feet deep. Indian crypts of a final phase on how the west was won. This is gthe cost, as the link and the ink on the school pages —-go all blotted and tainted; as it reads of the horrors of what reveals, is your West that was won!

SHADOW COWBOY AND HORSE HE RIDE: The dust and dirt build on his wide brim—like a barge to his wooden eyes of the rough and bowlegged. The clouds lowered over the distant tree lines like a purple Grey bonfire. By dusk of an hour long-ways from home, a view is of a mountain staring right back a him. He reach and journey’s closer for a sign. This gritty life of steer and sweat…Tar-heal and cold shower has reached to a peek; just as this view of the mountain top…it’s slow stop at the tall tress. Pine needles and snow, show the sharpens of a hardened road as a cowboy. They’d be no more song in him…too the swell of his toe. His limp has turned to flimsy…and his grip of the reigns not so tight anymore. The Shadow Cowboy looks and leans. He gently let’s his horse to his revered course back home. A rocking chair and three whole squares. His lady in waiting as she always does. His answer to his prayer which so simple and wise. True as he makes way with his horse by nightfall. Last round-ups and rustlers…depend-on the brand. Backs with the wind. Shadow rider…silhouette cowboy return not just for the night. Old boy reason to spread easy. Toast brandied the sip to good cowboy-ing Just not me, no more. “Honeybee, I’m coming home for Christmas. There i lay my hat down.”

BY CAMPAIGNER ANDREW JOHN TEAGUE

With no justifiable reason for stopping contact. Your ex is abusing you abusing your child/children abusing the courts. Making the courts instrumental in the abuse.

Courts call this the best interest of the child/children.

Since when has any abuse been in the best interest?

Very often the behaviours of the controlling parent are so transparent. Really makes you wonder what judges are trained in.

Often the dead blind monkey on Mars can see what’s going on, while judges sit twiddling their thumbs.

It begs the question how many children have been wrongly robbed of their relationship with the absent parents?

( WINTER OF 1968) 

Another startling piece by our surrealist author ERIC LASTICK

REVEREND MARTIN LUTHER KING: In this icy dicey world in which we all lived in the vested canopy covers that held our dreams…too the unexpected early frost builds over– like walls closing in. Not what one bargained for—as the heated plains of body and mind…and an anatomy layers—as all  time seemed to slow of the rip and current outcomes falling short…and near a flat line—with a driven sort of wind shift—and as of night, you wheel in the toss and turns. Pillow like a sunken ship to awake the mappings of anticipation. Nervousness of thoughts tick round the clock. A mystery to unfold—as slow goes the minute hand in bind. The pendulum hammer pounds the sun right out of you! Pace you wait for an answer; although it just won’t come. Late you wait in anger. Soft in nature come the streams…the rains continue. The lies and promises of so-called allies in the battles of monies. And of no shame, just greed. Posture tall to the heavens to bring charitable of heart that is not enough; as you wale a call. Then the echoes of the city as it sleeps. The icy dicey midnight to morning sung in it’s silence. If one could just hear humanities of the reigns, willing. New world take and take away the fast hard driven snows. Lessen seem all that you are in the twisted world of such a story and acclaim; although never bankrupt you will. Your mind made. Moving little hills to mountains…as one sits and ponders of tomorrow. And as for one, it may not be, but the foresight  rest upon layouts of hope—and of that dream. The day will come…Reverend King.

( SPRING OF 1968)

DRAFT MORNING: Memoirs of yester-patterns…so vivid…so real. The battle of good and evil  is not so clear-cut…a black and white issue. A real horror not only of the senses—but in the heart of what is right…what is wrong— with our own abilities to gut out the anatomy of all the human injustices. The napalm of  living a perpetual burn! Heartache a soul of a nation. Draft morning, as a wake up…see what it is and what i can’t believe has come to lite—like an exit way to the falsehood of everything human beings could reason. The industrial causeways…underground bounds in of the free-ways of wealth. Chairman where by a system so bleak and willing in the evils and take down of lives for profit and power gain. Draft morning speak to me in so many avenues…a bandana and blood rag jungle glow…Ambush visions in bad dreams stem like a leech and letch of real. Chopper on the lap of my bridges…as i walk this path in horror and all of it’s pain.

 (SUMMER OF 1968)

STRATS THE STARTS OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT…Drive me home…in a station wagon…love seat themed. Stagger Lee static the (am) radio. Mono are the interiors of our own little worlds. Big pictures sent and scent the evenings, the Cronkite reliable…as everybody’s favorite uncle—while he bring us all our first television war in bright living color– out of Southeast Asia. The agony of our soul. Heartbreak of family and friends. The rich culture and the brotherhood of man, in the still-wills of civil unrest. The horrors of inequality and divide brought us to the tables…yet peace backfired too the blasts od attrition. The bombider of Asian skies. Strats the starts, the finishes of the 1960’s. High low these astrological signs of the times.

 CHICAGO DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION…Wisdom’s lost and slipped out the kicks of the doors. Mayor Daley’s Ol’ billy-club clout in a blue wave—brought the meanness of ”the heat” The hip turn to Yippee struggles. Endless chaotic blends that darken nite. ..as a black panther’s fist is raised. Then another and one more. Bobby Seals tossed the chill pill…as the old line politic point your finger food for the newspapers smears.New journalism linguistics of ”the flower child” Old school diminishes,as if in a flash! A vodka martini…a sugar cube like blue heaven—trip over this Garden Party. A courier sendee sense of new thought configured. Dylan’s so much younger now. UP UP & stay of these higher sends of peace and love. None violence to telling that to the judge…and the highers of the Chicago 7’s. Fools gains, fools riches, fools gold turned into fools splits and grimes. Since the Adam’s, the Eves…the hunchback call from the Belfry, in bent pains; Inna godda divida baby…the bra less…the hot-pant glows. Smooths of mescaline swallows. Mini skirted and Maxi Van—fill these times— too a heave-ho’ of the ways and placements of a new and more open way of freedom; as every ordinary Penn Wynn ventured in a parchment non-surrender to all the excesses. The glee’s of quenching thirsts in the moment. Television Undress the Bar-do, the Ursula for the love of it. Sheep sanctuary for us all off too sleep!  The complexities of our wars…economic tows…debts and cool aid brand ledgers…fat cat drops and lavish yachts—while sugar cubes indulge a whole generation wide. Yet we are not stupid. Yes, the ones that lived it…and now own it. The substance. The sub-stance in the listens of our inner knows; all our outer masters lavish in colors. Yet our crashes and come-downs all to today…as this entire  culture liken of brighter loves…futures in a Utopia has been left dissipated in the real-feel new world. Scrapple game uses, not of a word, but a ploy;as all through the latter sixties into the early stages of the 1970’s drawn down to a simple Missy shorty pants too the next band to rock. Aviate across Laurel Canyon. Mismatch and set us all up to the sophisticate, they wait; The Spy Dome!

(THE FALL OF 1968)

SOLDIERS DREAM RETURN: A warm and delightful way back home of dreams and letters…soldier see through the anguish past the long visor tightly woven straws, the Okanowin of heart-ed goodbyes…lines in what are rice. Heaven holds seem so distant—of sailor’s down river with tranister radio…grass graze wishful home. Gary Puckett and The Union Gap…my girl back home. Indian lake a ‘Cow-sill charm of early fall. LA stretches the far regions of mind. This soldier sees the brass builds of Herb: ”This guy’s in love with her” Noble be of the horse-back barn… and it’s ranch sticks and stitches. Sleeps and dreams. Jimi Hendrix hadn’t ran past the fires…but stayed in the strengths of knowing the Monterrey wisdom’s. Yet not of show, but of truth. Heaven sent a soldier…a real one of peace. Home shores of America. Loved you then…and even more now.

Shopped in the UK for being upset about my dangling dongle

What is wrong with you Britain? What happened to your manners and your self-worth?

 If you are a driver and you accidentally try to run me over because you can’t be bothered slowing down or looking where you are going, why look so offended and shocked when I turn round and remonstrate with you as you slither out of your car?

And what is wrong with you idiots when you see somebody trying to get out of their drive – why would you rather end up on the other side of the road and risk crashing into oncoming traffic, rather than just slow down and let them out!

The personality of this once green and pleasant land is now based on passive aggression – but woe betide anybody who shows  any form of good old fashioned real aggression – not fisticuffs or anything like that – just the gumption to stand up for themselves!

It all began with the advent of customer services – that last bastion of lost ambition, pointless platitudes and inverted aggression, the industry that seems only to employ failed parking wardens, bloated pointless pompous ousted county councillors and those hypocratic oafs of the NHS, jobless doctors receptionists!

Here’s a real conversation with a real customer services representative at a real supermarket last week:

Me, I hand a CS rep the opened package of an internet dongle: “Hello, the dongle I bought here a few days ago doesn’t work.”

CS: “I’m sorry, I’m here to help sir, can you explain what the problem is?”

Me: “Yes, my dongle doesn’t work.”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, do you have the receipt?”

Me: “I’m sorry I’ve lost it.”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid that without a receipt there is nothing I can do.”

Me: “Yes you can…”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, it’s company policy.”

Me: “Well, it certainly isn’t my policy or the policy of the law of the land …”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m only trying to help you.”

Me: “Well you’re not helping me by telling me there’s nothing you can do to help me!”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m here to help you but I can’t help if you adopt that kind of attitude towards me…”

Me: “All I’m saying is that you actually can help me if I don’t have a receipt…”

CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m not willing to be spoken to in that way – if you persist, I’ll will have to call security.”

And so we proceeded for some minutes before the manager was called who changed my dongle for me without argument and I continued with my shopping!

What is wrong with you Britain for Godsake?

BY ERIC LASTICK

THE PRESERVATIONS OF THE VILLAGE GREEN

Dylan Thomas of food for thought…observer and writer of ”Under Milkwood” Woodwinds of the soul—and Nickey Hopkins Harpsichord heart to the multifaceted musical language…it’s musical concept is born—while gathering of gears in the spices and dashes of rare blends–go the folk en psychedelics. Mystics right out of music halls; and be-damned are the sided and of such taken of new brought English and modern structured American order and their ways. Artisan new rock album concept to conceive…as Ray Davies meets Dylan Thomas, in Metaphor!

Davies rift with American politics distances of his chances of playing the whole of the American circuit abroad. The Kinks heed of a canoe route…and perhaps in ”The Daft” and quite need-en be, a raft towards Trinidad…and it’s whimsical sways of African beat—as Davies soars high, ”the ape man” HIS OWN SEWN EVOLUTION IN HUMMING STAIRS AND AIR CLIMBS—too the great path orangutangan” whom jumps through hoop-fests—right too the town of Samara! Quantum grade furthers to Trinidad—and elevates and sequenced the Kinks brash finds…as Davies inquirer-er of real concepts and muse—too which a great album structures and forms; and to where a great artist makes of such uniquely drawn meaningful music.

A BLENDING OF NEW EARTH WITH OLDE…

JOHNNY THUNDER, ANIMAL FARM, BIG SKY..

 AND MEAN ANNABELLA, SONG INTERPRETATIONS

JOHNNY THUNDER…light sparks the attempts to crash of all considerable conventions. Motor modern stews of the rev’s of it’s distances of the clean cut proverbial, which DE-natures’ & derides of straight squared principals—nighttime sash and sea-brings of ”The Dolls” & New York theater. And of all the thunders where Johnny comes home.

ANIMAL FARM…in essence and tonal cure…it’s melody of kindly animals and kid-like joys, although the utopia of what lies inside the back of the Barn’s means to it’s ends…and of it’s uses and abuses—song of Orwellian dreams…lessened enchantments of where power and harm are the purveyors to a community, now all in it’s greed.

(GOOD VERSES EVIL)

BIG SKY…The mindful meld of Mr. Davies—look to the big vastness and perfection at play, in our universe—answers out of the stars…and most celluloid heroes. Mentions to implore us all of the Reservations…and the forwardness of a sky call at cloud nine.

WICKED ANNABELLE…Never let her core an apple to her witch-like curves too reek of terse children’s references. Stir the pot as one must steer clear of such a dirty house…as one in which is lived in–who spells and crafts. Teach our children that the likes of such wickedness—must stave off with sweetness… Cotton candy added dreams. Harms out of such, are just for those whom wish, in such circles. ”Children aim low on the heat and hots of the caldron’!” Such of the likes of the wicked…falls on her own basement leaks and disturbs…steps steep to endless bottoms…and sodden go—the Halloween masks. Calls of ”The Sandman” as Davies hits and strikes in all the golds! Reined a free stream of rivers. Conscious blends and dreams of a better simpliar life of old. Star struck the cribs to adult-hood—and never really grow old.

We at the BEEB must be careful not to take sides, says that nice John Simpson

https://open.substack.com/pub/leighgbanks/p/slaughter-of-our-children-now-the?r=drr6n&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web

Another stunning piece by our resident writer ERIC LASTICK

In the wicked know-ed of claws and carriers…dance along ‘ ROCKER’ of rocking chair nightmare. Awake of a dream to the vocals of ”The Oz”. Seethe of stormy castle haunts—as there is this calling of Sabbath streaming & dreaming…as if an Edger Alan Poe endeavor to the black. A disbursement of a flicker…and then light—while bats and rats bounce off one another…in and out of haunted house. The diminished notes, rhythms of the unkind, yet most necessary. The ending of a beating heart! Next, in drum roll, a terror…screams…sways of energetic white electric sparks in theater—-too the grows of nigh-times… images! Enigmatic dismemberment of mind—as claws coming our way…& on attack. Menace ghosts reach the stage of sounds. All mingle as one. There is no escape, but to remain in the very jams of ”Paranoid’ War pig juncture often a linger to the ‘head’ of who’s abused…as right out of the Mekong Delta and ho chi mien trail become amplified…and as if forever! Vietnamese see-through figures…and of these lessons and their drops back on all of thee. Beyond death, the ghost cloth refugees. Their boats gather in a sense— through the surrealist’s of Texas fisheries.Galveston bridges & it’s large scale fishes ever larger than life. Set and placed in this haunted castle of burnt bridges; as Ozzy sings it to death! This bitten bat of all know-eds. Horrible reproach of the ”payback night”. The UN-lackey and all of the drunk’ past bedtime. Mad Englishman in Paranoid state. Yet still, the buzzards continue to rave and carry further of the baddest of trips and falls. Black Sabbath played on. The people remain standing room as if a dance hall with ghostly calls. Trip outs…gang of thieves taken’ of the sane mind! The deception of the blue demon. The article leers as the strands of magical nightfall. The fare and wily can know longer move…as it takes a heavy swordsman, a knight just strong enough to bypass all the fires of this menacingly surrealistic place. Ozzy see’s of the Castle—pasted dark humor and olde Ale salutes—as Vietnamese scatter of light and robed ghost fed fedora, the hatted mads and glass house of payback. 

Call it a dream. A nightmare…and free to drop-kick past the mindset one chooses to ensue. Better letter a four way street-er…and any avenue out!

An abroubt jolt… Castle’s doors spreader now, wide opened. Sent are the gifts of a universal kind. Yet for only a minute or so. ”Better run”. Haven’t a count but one will be sorely missed if unable to escape. Even so, as to take this story as far as the graveyard folly. Ozzy beckon call: ”May there be one believer to this misfit and mayhem.” But what a night…and what a rollicking concert show by Black Sabbath! ”See you soon, Oz. All may wonder though, how you jumped through hoops on the 11th day…11th hour. Darken knights, early morning light. Another day, but those night times, nightmares prevailing.

A SECOND NIGHT’S ACT…WAR PIGS RESPONSE…

Ozzie’s monster billed event…swinger laden woman of ‘all’ covens. Black cloths…little satin laced young daughter darker; dances the rhythms of 0zzie’s smash hits. Shared as cat-like of their combined make-up and made-ups too the howls of the moon. The rain. Yet really all in fun. Tricks of the mind and treats for the youngish spirited, this coming Halloween of the October’s. Sabbath band mates and circle jerks honor the convenience of just plain fun…as uptight and not so bright security ”Buckman” & police Sally, bulge of an eye and pointed ears—as such are the pins on the favorite Donkeys. Although, these are the very party and privy of political hate…and the purveyors of nearly every drawn wars.

WAR PIGS  ON THE LOOSE

Politician man clouds in all the raves and hand gestures…it’s very signs of evil, although he, ticketed at center stage with son…and his own ignorance of political framing—while fire claws and anguish proceed him. Now his own begotten son—rush the stage. Fuels of the inner fires. The injustices and sore sport. Fowl play. The guard and rule—-order the boy out. Rid of the mayhem; as next, the politician tight in the crowd, skids his blemishes and tarnished scuffs. His three piece suit at days done. The audience of aisles and arena, trampled in a frenzied full of Ozzie headsets. Blood donate and stumble on the nick knack’s of remains of Sabbath bloody SABBATH—along with shreds of meister brew leggings…foreign blend of a stately man—who frantically tried to leave this auditorium! War Pigs reprise and on the loose… & so innate driven in the corner of a silent majority eye. Greed a happen-place… & on the back-full. Digs of one’s own eventual covered & sad three cornered rap of the military flag. 

Roadshow need not know of a lackey. Ozzie has a class bus cross tour, which continues to go—ever so right-sided…backwards tilts the bus but never upside down. Could be considered a booze bin at celebratory times, yet could never compete with the horrors of the politician and their attempts of proving our young of the wrongs of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Mister Oz has righted our own answers of the likes of those who keep the name of war…and the real Pigs that embrace it.