THE SPILL ON THE CHILL
One pastime conquered by the twenty-something generation is undoubtedly the chill. Back in the gilded old days of yore when somebody did nothing, they did exactly that: 'Nothing'. Regional variations included 'Nought', 'Nothing whatsoever', 'Sweet F.A.' or 'Bugger all'. But now, in this enhanced age of Professional Leisure Heads, experts in the ways of the horizontal daze, we have moved on (without moving at all). For no longer is Bone Idle Billy terrorized by scornful pejoratives such as 'fat head', 'Ne'er do well', 'lazy arse bone', he is now a much feted individual. Billy is an exemplar for our times. He is not doing 'sod all', he is 'chillin' out'. He is not engulfed in a permanent state of vegetation, of couch-potato-dom, he has perfected the art of slack, he be 'kicking back and relaxing to the max'. Billy is busy letting the world spin on his upturned middle finger. Billy is giving life the bird. And if you don't like it, you can sit on it.

So when did this sea change happen? When did the pursuit of nothingness become so all consuming? The answer may lay in these words. For not only are the cool populace encouraged into tortoise mimicry, they also read about it, they watch it, they play it, they hear it. They spend hours each week watching the MIND NUMBING FLICKER and the single figure IQs of MTV, absorbing the thought unprovoking money munchers that US Media Moguls dish out along with the trickle and drip of showbiz 'news' and 'star' interviews. And how about the artificially flavoured buzz of the multi-national sugar and brown water stew (otherwise known as cola) or the steroid enhanced burgers, the processed chicken wings, the MONOSODIUM GLUTINATE take away. All of these encourage leisure. Elevate the 'nothing' to the 'chill', the lounging around, staying in bed all day becomes a 'kick back session'. And the final culprit - the great, the godly, the revered magazine. Glorified toilet paper dispensing BLANK GENERATION wisdom to blanker minds.

In a world that truly reflected the people contained within it, the pages would be blank, the magazines as empty as the thoughts of those reading them.
So, taking my own cue…goodbye, I'm off to chill the hell out.

Every now and then we give a little space over to some frustrated dingo whose top is about ready to blow with all the steam he/she is cooking up inside. In short: the angry, the frustrated, the ranters. MR. ANGRY - do your angry thing...