In Bed with Caitlin Moran 

or Saturday Morning 

The Latest ot CW Watch Back is now on CW WB 2019

 

Spring is....

2D6+CW15/3 in the company of Dr Lilly Stammler, Vul Daved Bull and His Holly Druidness Jey the Tailor, Sunday 17th March 2019

Magic and poetry at Primrose Hill with druids and friends.


On the Occasion of the 8 of March and this delightful article

The Time Magazine, 09/03/2019

Flowers, coffee and a gobsmacking cherry cake has been offered at Our Lady Caitlin's altar.

There are plenty of male vampire-artists who discretely suck the life out of the wo/men around them all together with maintaining them handily alive.

After all a testy source of wonder and perfection is more useful in tremor than still. Exemplary in this category stands my absolutely favourite Eric Gill. (I know - unrivalled competitor in the Pervert category).

Yet, there are also the zombies who eat peoples' flesh alive causing serious life-damages and/or death just to mention at the top of my head Picasso, Rodin, Cantat and Jagger - all of their cannibal-exploits up there under the spotlight, open to the public to witness, unpunished, applauded, unchallenged and unrivalled.

An illustration of our society's concept of WINNERS.


Cherchez la femme! Golden Heart Cherchez la femme!

Britain's Golden Heart - Caitlin Moran - gives a more clement and Almightyly-forgiving point of view than LAAF on Britain's Wrong Ambassador - Shemuma Begum.

The Times Magazine, 2 March 2019

Britain's Great Beast 666 - Aleister Crowley - had worn though "Compassion is the vice of kings: stamp down the wretched & the weak: this is the law of the strong: this is our law and the joy of the world" in his Liber Al Vel Legis.

Just by the by dear Golden Heart at the age of 15 I was much stronger than now. My brain, morals and physics were at an excellent height which was only bettered to perfection when at 35 (sadly for few years only).

Now let it be clear that LAAF too feels for Shamima. It thinks we should give the Wrong Ambassador what it initially wanted: a destiny greater than the average Bethnal-Green-Academy graduate.

Thus delivering her to justice, national or international; or creating the Begum precedent which frames the punishments for various degrees of sex-colaborations; or handing her over to the Dark Forces like Russia, Saudi or China by stripping her of nationality - all these scenarios serve her 15-years-old-self initial intent.

(If I was a Dark Force I would have immediately adopted Shamima and given her an exemplary second life. I would have made Begum a flag of my policies. Nikita in hijab quoi.

If I was Russia I would have given Shamima my last chemical inventions and subjected her to my last psychic technics until she became the world's first hujabed ice-skate-dancer champion. If I was China I would have taken Shamima to the Shao Lin monastry and supplied her with the best Beijing Conservatory piano trainers and made the first world concerting Shao Lin piano-monk - to this end all modern Shao Lin and ancient Chinese torture technics would have been applied. If I was Saudi Arabia I would have fished all ex-Isis Wives, put them through a televised re -education proces and formed the first Nurses on Camels Red Crescent squad and send it to Yemen - here the mere threat of 100 lashes by Abu Rasasa's own hand would do as a zealous enough stimulus. I would have basically rubbed Britain's stiff upper lip if I was a Dark Power. Hence if I was Britain I would have taken Shamima back home, discover her natural talents, during het stay in prison, and then subject them to a national referendum in order to find out in which of the talents I should invest)

Don't cry for Shamima Golden Heart: Let's give women what they want : Equal participation in history. Becoming a part of history though implies paying a personal price.

Let's make women visible so that we stop les chercher.


Don't Tinker Bella Badger - on Caitlin Moran's: A Political Epiphany?

Bella Badger's portrait - a memory of civilization lost amidst the Wild East.

Caitlin Moran's full article is to be read here:

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/caitlin-moran-a-political-epiphany-3n0rz6zsh

 

Ever since I began working for British passport I suspected that one should be slightly schizophreno-bipolar in order to be British.

 

Yet, the practical solution of CW's friend Laura caught me unprepared:

“You could just join the Lib Dems, but vote Labour. Money behind the party policy; vote behind the principled politician."

(There is something slightly French in this logic : election campaign with wife and kidz - Presidency with a model.)

 

Goody good.

More marginal than CW, LAAF will contemplate joining Women’s Equality Party then vote Green.

 

But as there is plenty of time to elections won't it be even better if CW and LAAF created a Party of Practical Humanists or Party of Enlightened Practitioners which will be sooner or later joint by all the good, noble and enlightened members of the currently existing political parties. For example when Catherine West comes knocking on Practical Humanists Party's door crying "Save me! Save me from this compromised Rose Party" we will, naturally  let her in as CW favorite. (Mind you CW, no compromise will be made for David BabyCheek Cameron!) 

 

Party of Practical Humanists will be joined by all those who wish to seek simple practical solutions to old political conundrums based on modern scientific thinking, new technologies and Enlightenment philosophy. Furthermore the newly consolidated capitals will need new political party to represent them. 

 

LAAF will later on try to add a practical problem. Whosoever resolves it might become the first honourable member of the Party of Practical Humanists. (If I only manage to put it in reasonable English. So far when I try only howls come out of my mouth).

Don't Tinker - Part II

The more I think about it the more I say to myself "We should stop mending our grandmother's dress (handed over from our mother) and tailor a new one on the measures of our grown up daughter else to say create the Party of Practical Humanists.

 

As well ass, pardon, as well as to the two parties responsible for the current state of affairs (Labors Tories) both parties should dissolve melting into each other in order to form a New Conservative Labors' Party (NCLP).

NCLP's members will be banned from all political activities for 10 years during which they will perform voluntary work for humanitarian organizations at home (5 years) and abroad (5years - 1year on each continent. I know it will be very hard to convince innocent countries to take them but we will think how to trick them into it when the time comes).

By 2030 the members of the NCLP will be allowed back into politics but with one function only - to support the party at rule (whichever it is. Most probably it will be the Party of Practical Humanists).

Only by 2040 will all bans and restrictions on the New Conservative Labors' Party be taken off, but by then The Consolidated Capitals' Monocracy would have banned all political activities anyway

 

If this (the ban of the NCLP from all political activities) is not done now, there is a strong chance that by 2030-35 Mostly Young Men Dressed in Black Clothing start marching the streets of London shouting silly unfeasible things like "Those responsible to court" (for reference please check Lukovmarch at Laaf on Tour)

 

18 February 2019

This month LAAF is reading Caitlin Moran online under the skirts of Vitosha mountain and sunlit Mont Black. 

Unusual

Thank you thank you thank you 👄👄👄

Saturday, 2 Feb 2019, The Times Magazine

It must have been hard for the naturally Happy Skunk to get blood-chillingly realistic, but yes, under the fine pink lace there is a brown-smeared arse.

And this fact should be widely known.

 

For a nation the following would be a useful exercise :

1. Pink glasses off, look around.

2. Pink glasses on.

3. Pink glasses off, look in the mirror.

4. Pink glasses on.

Start with 5 min a day. Gradually increase the duration of the practice until the time spent with and without pink glasses evens. Sustain this habit.

 

The real positive thinking is not in seeing the world pink, as it certainly isn't.

The real positive thinking is to see the world as it is; sew up your heart broken at the sight; go on and make it better.

As this is not an easy chorus, at times you might like to encourage yourself with cheerful shouts: "England! You spoilt rich bitch! I will teach you to behave as a noble lady!". 

 

WARNING : 

DON'T THROW YOUR PINK GLASSES AWAY. IF YOU DO THAT YOU WILL BECOME... FRENCH!

And we don't want that, do we?

IF YOU WEAR YOUR PINK GLASSES ALL THE TIME YOU'LL BECOME.... DONALDO TRUMPO!

And nobody wants that. 

. ...unless you contract the Chinese to the cloning of Melanya. 

 

 


The Times Magazine, 28/12/2018

2018 Besties

1. Private Eye - this year's discovery. PE liberates Laaf from the obligation to write about the subcontracting of the public sector and other slavery and poverty generating monstrosities.

2. Caitlin Moran. (Makes Laaf's day on a Saturday already seven years). The Happy Skunk (all friends real or imaginary have nicknames) makes English women look more like a part of the rest of womanity.

3. Other excellent, more or less English, wo/men: Elle Spencer - Laaf's first editor; Nadia Choucha - Laaf's surreal twin; Svetlana Kuznetsova - Laaf' Russian art expert; Illiana Stefanova-Stamenova - Laaf's editor; Antony Buonomo - Laaf's editor; Milo Milev- Laaf's editor; Lilly Stamler- Schauten - Laaf's editor. GiGi for her column London Date Night. Angelina Jolie for saying "The new rebellion is to hold to your values, understand policy and politics and fight for your fellow men" on Best of Today radio 4 show (28/12/2018).

4. Dogs. All of them and specially Artchy.

5. Calcedonia's yellow, green and blue socks and tights.

6. The Psychedelic society, a mind shuffler.

7. RevGenetics, a door into the future.

8. The Druids of Primrose Hill, a door into the past.

 

Read Caitlin Moran's full list here: https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/caitlin-moran-reasons-to-be-cheerful-d9np0q7xj

Artchy

Artchy


The Times Magazine, 24.11.2018

Christmas Coming?

The Triumph of the Good News shining on a garden-wall bush in West Londin

I just called my agent and told him "Find me clients! Book me! If possible for the whole festive period. The longer the shifts the better. Manchester, Liverpool, Aberdeen. You name it. I'll go. Just get me out of here".

 

Christmas is strange on this island with the magnolias and jasmines already in bloom. Like other trees and December roses too. This is The Triumph of the Good News. The message of new life and spring is already out there adorning bushes and trees.

 

Why cut northern pine trees and decorate them with wooden, glass, plastic, or tin foiled nuts and flowers, when you might as well look through your window and derive the same pleasure?

 

I guess, one could always imagine oneself in St Petersburg trudging through a three month thick snow cover with five more months of frost lying ahead. The trees stripped of their leaves and covered in icy crystals like diamonds when the -40 temps have sucked even the last drops of moisture out of their boughs, trunks and branches, shining and garlanded with the natural fairy lights of the ferocious Snow Queen.

 

Alternatively, I could go out on Essex Road in my pajamas and slippers, with an apple in my hand. I can close my eyes and keep them firmly shut. I can sniff the apple and visualize myself amidst the deeply frozen Hamburg Alster Lake, licking a toffee äpfel. I can stay like that for two hours and then, properly stiffened, run happily indoors... Then, who knows, I might be happy to see a pine tree with ornate yellow and red balls on it.

 

But honestly, in a country without 30 cm of snow cover, I would rather be out walking, moving, or working. People are weird sometimes, aren't they?

 

The proper Christmas celebration in this country should go like this: The whole family goes to the nearest blossoming flora with the Nativity scene set around it. They say ‘Thank you baby Jesus and Magi for planting us in a snow-free country where everything - people, goods, letters, horses, cars and coaches – has always been and is still able to move comfortably in a nose-toes-fingers-frostbite-risk free 24/7/52/12 environment’.

 

Then, having saluted the family and baby Jesus with a sip of whisky to get those rosy cheeks (obviously it is not cold enough to get the coloration naturally), all adults will go about for as much friend-visiting, work-doing, outdoor-playing as possible in order to show baby Jesus, the Magi, Mother Nature or whoever provided this blessing of excellent, never too cold, never too hot weather, which requires neither a siesta nor hibernation that they truly and really appreciate this gift.

 

I am becoming a proper English weather snob.

In this garden there is also bloosoming jasmine.

Armed with this logic, now you understand why after centuries of digilent Orthodox Christmas celebrating, (with no visible weather improvement) Russians eventually became communists, invented Дед Мороз (Ded Maroz, Pops Frost), gave him Снегурочка (Snegurochka, Snowly) - a pretty young assistant, and moved all celebrations from Christmas to New Year's Eve, but before that made sure they gave baby Jesus a good old spanking (which might have triggered global warming).

The Virgin Spanking the Imfant Jesus before Three Witnesses, Max Ernst


Dear Caitlin,

With Christmas looming on the horizon, would you be our First Female Santa?

Could you find a solution to how the working classes could achieve physical immortality? bearing in mind that based on current evidence, only the rich will be able to achieve it.

THE FUTURE STARTS HERE exhibition, V&A


About the TREE with passion like Geddy Lee

Condolence song:
The Trees, Rush


My secret mouth salivates My darker mouth had grown teeth I've got rings on my lower throat My squirrel is inpatient My squirrel needs feeding I have a playful squirrel My plum is ready for picking Ma prune est mûre My peach is juicy My peach is delicious and mossy I have grown a fruit of unknown description My oyster needs eating My oyster is making perls In my oyster the ocean of infinite pleasure is hidden My pleasure cup is full My chalice is brimming My flute is ready pop up the champagne My lips of love are smiling to you All my three pairs of lips are waiting for your kiss The guilty tears of Virgin Mary I have a funny fanny My fanny is funny Vulva Volcanicos Vulgaris (latin for pussy in its normal state and natural environment)

The Times magazine, in a bed somewhere in Islington at 10:02 on 20 October 2018

CW WATCH BACK

LAAF TRAVELS WITH CW

On the way to Paris, 15 October 2018; inspired by Modern Couples: Art, Intimacy and Avant-Garde exhibition


TaxShido or the Call of the Untaxable Slave

Work in progress

 

 

Watch this empty safe....


Saturday, 4 August 2018, The Times Magazine

Tutushido or The Way of the Ballerina

Istanbul, 1 August 2017, Sultan Mahmut II Tramway Stop. Rush hour. A crowded tramway. Stonefaced, bearded men stand at the doors of the carriage. I have to push myself in. The reluctance of acknowledgement of female presence reminds me that of Tehran.  It saddens me, Istanbul wasn’t always like that. A little bit later, I feel a gentle pull. A women is pulling my sleeve while pointing at the seat she is about to leave. She wants to make sure I sit on the emptied sit. Grateful I say; Teşekkür'.

Anonymous How to be famous reader, Queen's Square, 1 July 2018


A replica, with love, to Caitlin de Moranista

Caitlin de Moranista, Saturday Magazine, the Times

“Perhaps it’s austerity or the rise in “modesty” clothing. ...Maybe a designer somewhere met an actual woman with a bum. …(in 2018) women can put as little though, effort or discomfort into getting dressed as men - but still be absolutely trendy. ...comfortable, practical, pretty things”. 

Caitlin de Moranista

 

Lifebelt

October 2016. At a routine psychologist appointment, after a mission, one of the last questions is, 'Has your style noticeably changed as a result of your mission?'. Bang. The mental film projection is set off; starring me either in a white t-shirt and  sleeveless vest, both with an NGO logo - or naked. I see myself naked through the burnt-out-sleepless-hours behind the closed doors of the darkened room of an overpopulated rented house; I see myself naked in the bathroom of a hotel room, washing my duty clothes in the sink; naked on night swims after busy dusty camp days; I see myself waking naked in the already-hot dawn, putting the white t-shirt with the logo on again. 

Dressing up ‘normally’, after five months on a mission, turned out to be a quasi impossible thing. 'What do you mean?’, says the psychologist. She is very patient, 'Do you dress differently now in comparison with before the mission?’. I don't want to tell her that whenever I look at my ‘normal' clothes I feel like I’m in a dream. Clothes that look ‘normal’ stop looking normal once I get out of the house. I look down and see my legs wrapped in a dark blue, richly draped silk jumpsuit. Like for a wedding. Not normal at all for a Thursday, October morning, in London. But then I say, 'I still wear this’ and point to my Lifebelt. 

Despite it being largely meaningless, my answer does the job. She ticks a square. 

I bought it in Athens, on the first day of my second mission in Greece. 'They call it a Pussypurse in the States’, says the still pretty, old hippy, in American English while belting it on me. It’s black suede. I don’t hesitate. 

t’s for my personal belongings. They go like this: front left the juice, the cable, the keys; front middle, two mobile phones (personal and duty), lip balm; front right: portable wifi, cigarettes, lighter; inner middle, near the body: passport, hard currency, credit cards; back pack (over the bottom pocket) local cash (tickets and coins).

(The professional belongings go into the ten pockets of the sleeveless logo jacket. The only personal thing that goes in the sleeveless jacket are sunglasses. They are tiny as they go in the pen-pocket, next to the other pen-pocket where the actual pen lives.)

 Back to the Lifebelt, also known as Pussypurse aka Bumbag and whateverelsenot. It's popular. In the Jungle of Calle, on the Italian shores of the Mediterranean, on the beaches of the Greek Islands. It's popular among some of the tens of thousand Humanitarian Lara Crofts, that are there to: drag men out of boats, cover women with thermal blankets, carry children to mobile clinics, collect hundreds of orange false life-vests from polluted shores, drive MediBuses, inspect hundreds of pairs of hands for scabies and hundreds of heads for nits, cook food in massive cauldrons, distribute nappies, play with children, watch the seas with binoculars looking for overpacked tiny boats. 

 In a nutshell, they are very popular with the thousands of women who need the use of their two hands at once, at all times. Those Humanitarian Lara Crofts who think thoughts like, 'How do I keep this child busy while gynaecologically examining her mother?'; 'How do I get water going in the old fire station, where 188 people just arrived?'; 'How do I get the medication bag, together with the laptop and the patient out while the tent flies up as it’s blown by the torrential rain and wind?’; or, even, 'How do I get this pregnant woman up this slope?’… rather than ‘Now, where did I put my handbag?'. 

Yes, the Lifebelt is the sort of bag that keeps your hands and head free for work and useful thoughts. 

Concerning the physical benefits, it not only takes the strain off your spine, but also by weighing on the hips it liberates the vertebraes at the level of the lower back. But, whoever cared about health and physical wellbeing in fashion? So this last paragraph should be scratched out.  As a child I was more into the world news on the telly than into the goodnight children’s programme. Then, just like now, whenever there was a report from the scene of the event: earthquake, air crash or terrorist bomb, there would always be scattered shoes in the camera's eye. 'Why do they always go astray?’, I’ve wondered since then. Well, while the answer to this question remains unclear; the mysterious phenomenon explains why, when in the French jungle, on the Italian beaches, the Greek shores and throughout the camps of European mainland, the women and men of the humanitarian front line like to wear...

 Ankle boots

 … and, preferably, with laces. For those go well on wet rock and dry sand, just as much as on green grass and black asphalt and, above all, they never fall off by themselves. 

Ankle boots are not the best for running, it’s true, but that’s fine as you never want to run in camps, unless you provoke chaos; you just walk, but very quickly. 

 Ankle boots’ physical well-being advantages? They protect you from snake and insects bites. Also, from little stones between the toes and sand under the toe nails. The last can be scratched out, as whoever cared for health in fashion.

Ugly trainers and sportswear

 Now, just like the previous reasonable and practical fashion items; these two also come from the border-war-line-zone embedded on the Mediterranean shores and European mainland.  But the ugly trainers and eccentric sportswear represent the tails of the head described above. Or it depends on the point of view. Because, if the people running from war zones and dehumanising living conditions are the initiating force of the humanitarian effort, then they, together with their fashion, are the heads, while the humanitarians, and their fashion, are the tails. 

‘Anyhoo' (de Moranista), the ugly trainers and eccentric sportswear represent the other part of the equation: the pretty 19 year old boy lying on the couch in the medical tent with insomnia and medically unexplained pains in the whole of his body. He's wearing the sports bottoms borrowed from a younger neighbour, stretched tightly at his thighs and reaching slightly under his knees (he couldn’t go to clothes distribution being the sole carer of his older, paralysed by a barrel bomb explosion in Aleppo, brother) and this same paralysed brother's trainers (‘Fine with socks.’) are at least three sizes larger than his feet. 

(Unaccompanied minors that arrived last July, eight months later, still wear their summer clothes. Clothes money, still hadn't come through, for one reason or another, and they take turns to wear a single winter jacket belonging to one of them, inhabitants of a council hostel in Central London. This jacket looks different on each of them).

 That’s why they are ugly, these fashionable strange trainers and sportswear. Not because they are cheap, but because they are meant to fit somebody else. Imagine a camp of the size of a small Olympic village where, in order to arrive, boys and girls, men and women, grans and paps, babies and toddlers have competed in disciplines such as mountain jump, icy mountain river cross, desert-smugglers triathlon (stay en route to your main destination, don't get sold for slavery, stay fit to continue, despite being beaten and raped) be-not-the-one-push-off-the-dingy sea challange. And then, the trainers, oh, the trainers (see above, the ankle boots). There are no shoes that can stay put throughout the sea journey. At the bottom of Mare nostrum must lie a carpet of their shoes. Once the original shoes are lost, stage left comes the trainers of the younger/older brother/sister/friend. Ugly. Deformed from multiple users. Always damp from other people's sweat. 

So you have the heads and the tails, and the tails and the heads of the designers’ inspiration dear de Moranista. Come Friday, here are the Humanitarian Lara Crofts raiding Paris, Rome, Athens, the fancy Mediterranean islands, jumping off their logo-ed vehicles straight from the nearby fields or camps, into the bars they drink and then drive off with whosoever is there to dare check on their Pussypurse content. This from left. While, from the other side, via the bus/train station on the right, the handsome young men come in from these same camps or fields; with heels hanging out of their fathers' trainers and their shanks stretching far out of their younger sister's sports bottoms. Wild, curious, attractive, a different type of power.

This is the source of 2018 fashion. It's war time fashion. It's fashion in the time of cholera. Whoever has been there, on the shores of Italy, on the beaches of Greece, between the tents of the jungle; left a piece of themselves there, on the rocks, on the sand, on the sea; and then brought back a little fashion habit, a Lifebelt, an ugly trainer, that they'll always carry around and never leave behind. 

 For this is never the case, my beloved de Moranista, that ‘good’ is inspired by ‘normal'. Let alone in fashion. Once more, fashion is inspired by powerful, strange muses. Goddesses and gods in flesh and blood walking this old wretched earth.  Alien muses walking, this time, closer than ever to the designers' studios and catwalks.

Olympians by Dale Lewis