tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66568902009-03-20T00:54:59.813Z© John van der Put 2004-2009 | <a href="mailto:info@standnotamazed.com?subject=I%20Want%20To%20Publish%20You">All rights reserved</a> | <a href="http://www.standnotamazed.com">www.standnotamazed.com</a> | <a href="http://www.standnotamazed.com/blog/disc.htm"> disclaimer</a>John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comBlogger722125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-48146322510018338922008-12-08T12:00:00.002Z2008-12-08T21:06:12.491Z

Goato was stuck on the roof. Sometimes he'd be on the left slope, sometimes he'd be on the right slope. Sometimes he'd stare at the sky, sometimes he'd glare at the floor. But he was always stuck on the roof.  No one quite remembered how Goato got stuck on the roof. Some said he climbed a ladder and the wind blew it away. Others said he floated there on a balloon. Still others said he jumped. But

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-80944301154601055242008-12-01T14:56:00.001Z2008-12-08T21:22:44.141Z

I put my phone on the desk and he asks, is that a blackberry? I look at it. It looks like a blackberry. It has blackberry written on it. It is a blackberry. Yes, I tell him, it is a blackberry. I've got a Nokia, he says. Ok, I say. I was thinking of getting a blackberry, he says. Can we just get on with this? I think. I'm not sure, he says. Outside they're shooting a music video and the band

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-5902578532885509442008-11-24T12:22:00.001Z2008-12-05T18:15:31.112Z

The first night she comes to stay she brings a handbag. A small handbag. Barely bigger than a purse. And yet somehow, the next morning, she has enough for a full costume change plus makeup.The second visit warrants an overnight bag. This time she knows she’s coming. Not a rucksack, let’s not go too far here. Just something that’s an armful, filled with small lacey things that to the uninitiated

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-81902090302519269782008-11-17T22:32:00.000Z2008-11-24T12:22:32.870Z

Where's Wally makes Spot the Dog look like child's play.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-80374978901872057272008-11-10T23:14:00.001Z2008-11-24T12:24:51.700Z

I don't feel so goodI had fish for dinner It disagreed with me I was hungry... And it wanted to liveIn the end we compromisedI had sushi.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-14851966408306873362008-11-03T23:09:00.000Z2008-11-24T12:31:25.165Z

I'm tired of all these engineering works and improvement works ruining my weekend. Each week I buy my ticket at full whack and face penalty fares if I go out of zone. There's no excuse to travel without a valid ticket, and yet there appears to be every excuse to run a shitty service. Why does this not work the other way around? If my train is cancelled, where's my refund? I think I'm going to

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-15206352095870462742008-10-27T23:18:00.000Z2008-11-24T12:45:38.784Z

The dial on my microwave goes up to 30 minutes. 30 minutes? Surely that's just for show? We used to have a old Vauxhall Cavalier with 160 mph on the speedo. The only way it would have reached that is vertically. But no, the makers of this microwave actually believe you might need to heat something for half an hour. Cooking is a job for an oven. A microwave is all about the snappy reheats. Put a

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-54899559458914989722008-10-20T12:20:00.000+01:002008-11-25T12:20:43.853Z

It was just a collection of cards, notes and photos; worthless items really, but all of them sitting like a stone in my gut. I carried that box down the stairs and lugged it into the outside bin like a dead body in a carpet. I dusted my hands and looked around guiltily, expecting to be caught.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-10099089309077051402008-10-13T15:00:00.000+01:002008-11-25T12:22:10.236Z

So you have some milk.But you don’t drink it.And after a while it goes off.So now it’s yoghurt.But you don’t eat it.And after a while it goes off.So now it’s cheese.But you don’t eat it.And after a while it goes off.So now it’s stilton.But you don’t eat it.And after a while it goes off.So you throw it away.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-47388816858314244432008-10-03T19:00:00.000+01:002008-11-25T12:27:54.367Z

She is like a magic trick to meShe does thingsI don’t understandBut if I didI probably wouldn’t love her so much.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-90431223730195783632008-09-29T10:44:00.001+01:002008-12-05T18:39:58.518Z

All problems are relative;If you could just get rid of your relativesYou wouldn't have so many problems

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-41223661674651938042008-09-22T18:18:00.000+01:002008-12-05T18:19:23.173Z

My phone is on silentI keep it that wayThe day that got away

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-73564085850079256962008-09-15T23:00:00.005+01:002008-12-05T18:38:04.509Z

Neurotica      -- The glamourisation and glorification of the neuroses                                                    (See Woody Allen et al)

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-14078191928692803062008-09-08T08:05:00.001+01:002008-12-05T18:42:32.769Z

To wake in the death of the cityTortured by the souring of a party downstairsAnd the ever howling sirens Like God running his finger Round the rim of a glassWith nothing for it but to riseOn a black empty street sundayThe bus slushing water on my feetWater from the gutter of the streetAnother piss awful dayIn the death of the city

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-76587950048626339802008-09-01T20:01:00.000+01:002008-12-05T18:49:52.344Z

Clockwise. It's a useless term. A term that fogs the mind of me. We're going clockwise around the room, they say. I'm going cross-eyed picturing the hands of a clock horizontally. And what's anti-clockwise? Someone who really doesn't want to know the time? Why can't we just say we're going right? Or left? Or whichever direction clockwise is. We had a good system! Who messed it up with this talk

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-50326780195370459422008-08-04T12:25:00.001+01:002008-11-24T12:35:33.593Z

                         GON OUT                         BISY                         BACKSON                                 V.D.P.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-29157870846668733922008-07-28T23:06:00.004+01:002008-12-05T18:35:14.662Z

In the church I grew up in the pastor used to say that having hairs on the palm of your hand was the first sign of madness. Do you know what the second sign is? he'd then ask. Looking for them. To me, that about sums that place up; fill you with anxiety and then punish you for looking.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-80068809412741527282008-07-21T17:13:00.001+01:002008-09-05T20:46:11.506+01:00

if... Fear = Religion - God and... Faith = God - Fearthen... Faith = God - (Religion - God)so... Faith = -Religion

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-69287826204144399932008-07-14T21:03:00.000+01:002008-09-01T23:05:05.285+01:00

Before we met the period between first date and sell-by date grew ever shorter. Then we met. She had a clean way of speaking, nicking and clipping her consonants, and I loved her for it. On our first date our lips met, a claim she would later deny, but to this day I remember it happened. We had a rough ride. Choppy seas. A friend once told me, she'll come around. And she did. I was forever

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-65251148874808693202008-07-07T10:00:00.002+01:002008-08-27T10:08:25.878+01:00

In Hackney they have a 98p store. Not a pound store, or a 99p store, but a 98p store. What kind of a person walks into a 99p store and says, I'm not paying that!

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-58346355028095325132008-06-30T17:46:00.001+01:002008-08-27T09:59:40.035+01:00

Yesterday I saw a blind man using a disabled toilet. I didn't know they could do that. I mean I guess it makes sense, lack of sight is quite disabling. But does that mean the deaf can do likewise? If anything I'd have thought it was a bit cruel to give the blind access. I mean, really, a disabled toilet is still the same toilet, just in a much larger room. Hence far more difficult to find. But

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-84323156975321290012008-06-23T12:00:00.001+01:002008-08-20T09:29:20.999+01:00

The first time I saw him he was fresh, new, giving, you could tell he felt he had a gift and he wanted to give it, and once the applause had died down, if people dropped a few coins in the blue plastic bag, well that was all well and good.The second time I noticed a new edge that I would have picked up had it been present before. Now he wasn't dancing so much for the feel of the air as for the

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-53735198330797411482008-06-16T09:13:00.000+01:002008-08-20T09:30:02.386+01:00

Its the constant quipping that gets in the way, the set up and punch that's way below the belt. Create a situation, wait for the obvious and crucify it like you're the messiah. For the performer there is no pride to be taken from here. In essence the score is this: Here is a situation I have manufactured a thousand times, all possible results experienced and documented, yet, I shall allow you to

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-81853269989522522192008-06-09T23:59:00.003+01:002008-08-20T09:40:01.707+01:00

As I lose another year, I am still no closer to learning how to balance the craving for humility with the all-consuming desire of ambition. But at least I get a cake.

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6656890.post-37189355698316891252008-06-02T17:52:00.001+01:002008-08-20T09:13:11.361+01:00

It starts in the queue, as he pairs us off with pointing fingers. I'm assigned to the longest line, and unhappy with my lot I swap. It's not me he picks on but the Pole with the shaved head to my right. Back to your line, the line attendant barks, a shrimp of a man in a luminous yellow vest. Even though it's not me he's talking to, I can feel the shame rising, hot sticky anger spreading through

John van der Putnoreply@blogger.com