Phil took Cecil to a clinic, in East Berlin
And gave him several skin grafts of his own skin.
Time grew Cecil stronger than ever before,
For his accident gave him the strength of not one sheep, but four.
instead of standing two foot six, Cecil was six foot ten
And in the place of hooves and teeth, there were claws and fangs.
Phil had saved a monster, but Phil thought that was great,
'Cos Phil Smith was a woossie, who'd never had a mate.
All his life he'd been picked on, sh*t stirred and attacked
And all he'd ever wanted was a chance to pay that back with

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

Phil went to the Brewer's Droop, his favourite pub
Where Phil saw seven yobbos eating their grub.
These seven blokes, with chains and ropes, had once tied Phil to a tree
And bashed him hard and fast and long with malice and with glee.
Phil yelled, 'hey you bastards!' and seized their curried beef
And grabbed their bottle of Jim Beam and smashed one in the teeth.
Phil ran out into the carpark; they followed him to a man
But then they froze in terror at what rose from Phil's van it was

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

Cecil sprang in fury and ripped of the leader's arm,
Tore into the spleen of the second, while biting the third one's bum.
The fourth man's head was ripped off, the fifth man lost his heart
And as the other two continued the blue, Phil laughed fit to fart at

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

The moral of this story is fairly plain to see:
I'm only a guitar player, but it means a lot to me.
Don't hang sh*t on my music and don't damage my pride,
For I am Phil Smith, and my van is just outside (and in that van is)

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

----------------------------- ----------------

My first fully-formed song, this work began in the hedonistic backyard squalor of a friend's home. It was a party day, and the headline band 'Pissed, No Thumper' were taking a well-earned break. I ventured onto the weed-choked concrete stage and, beneath a canvas-covered Hills hoist, unwittingly triggered a sequence of events that would change my life. Though little more than a recorded stream of consciousness, one can discern in the lyrics allusions to various themes of my life. This song works best using minor chords and a choppy reggae tempo.


Cecil the Radioactive Sheep

I've got a bit of a story now, to tell to you.
Outrageous, amazing, bizarre, kinky, but true
About a man who never had a girlfriend or wife
Who had a very special woolly friend... in his life.

A while ago in Russia, in 1988,
The Chernobyl power station exploded and sealed the fate
Of all the poor dumb animals living in its shadow
The radiation spared not one, not even the meadow of

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

Cecil was just standing there, eating grass,
When all of a sudden, he was up to his arse
In filthy, green and gold Chernobyl slime
Cool to the touch, but after a time
It corroded his wool and burnt into his flesh
The very fabric of Cecil began to unmesh
'Til all that remained, in a nearby trench
Was the disembowelled carcass, and the stench of

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.

Phil Smith was a concreter, construction was his trade.
Phil was brought in when the decision was made
To bury the Chernobyl fires of Hell.
'Bury the town! Bury the reactor! Bury the farms as well.'
Phil set to work with tears on his face,
For as far as he could see, all over the place
Were scenes of animals ripped apart
And one scene in particular broke Phil Smith's heart, it was

Cecil, the radioactive sheep.
I said Cecil, the radioactive sheep.


To be continued...

I said,

While quaffing

Mulled wine with Lady Marion,

'One envies

The vultures;

They drink

And smoke


And carrion'.

--------------------------

Naturally, members of the Inuit race also smell their own (and each other’s) farts regularly. Their geographic dispersion and the hostile environment in which most farts are emitted, however, means that even the most sociable Eskimo cannot hope to assemble a fart fragment archive comparable to those of his Western cousins.

Free from such aromatic ‘brain washing’, he is thus at liberty to focus on matters of greater immediate import, like snow.

Well, there it is. Let the academic world reel! Like any good scientist, I welcome vigorous debate of the concepts presented herein. How insipid a victory if I were to silence all at one stroke with the logic and intuitive ‘rightness’ of my theory? To borrow a metaphor from the sporting world, I say to dissenters: ‘give it your best shot!’

But beware! I am fully conversant with Herr Gustav Grogan’s ‘Reversionist’ Theory. For those of you unacquainted with this pap, my disgraced former aide de camp maintains that the molecular constituents of farts are of minimal value in cell construction and are expelled by the body for this very reason.

He further asserts that in urban environments, a form of fart-based ‘poison ball’ is being (not so) silently played out, with every fart consumed being ‘reverted’(read: hurled back into the ethereal melting pot) by ungrateful bodies.

Such reckless statements transcend incompetence to exit the realm of social responsibility. We need only consider recent atrocities by the terrorist group: ‘Farting with Franco’ for evidence of this dangerous folly. Using Herr Grogan’s ‘theory’ as their touchstone, these indiscriminate criminals claim that since any one of us could be temporarily harbouring fart molecules evinced by the deposed dictator, we should all be summarily executed for suspected treason.

Under The Feisty-Hassing Fart Molecule Retention Theory, of course, any human custodians of such molecules are either dead or too elderly to warrant persecution even by these hotheads.

A good scientific theory must do more than explain facts. It must lift mankind beyond itself - such that we can smell the roses and marvel at their blooms, as well as understand their maddening propensity for aphid infestation.

You be the judge.

END

Those of you familiar with the Carbon Cycle will have little trouble grasping my hypothesis which I have termed for common usage: ‘The Feisty-Hassing Fart Molecule Retention Theory’.
It goes a little like this:

As humans, we have sensory neurones embedded inside our noses. Molecules, sailing through our nostrils on the air we breath, land on membranes and trigger the neurones contained therein. When liberated smoke particles land, we smell smoke. When atomised perfume particles are present, we savour scent. And when freshly expelled fart molecules arrive, we detect a ‘fluff’.

Sensory neurones are also present on our tongues, giving us the delights of taste. They are triggered, for better or worse, by whatever substance is in our mouth.

Each day, especially during sleep and social intercourse, we breathe both through our nose and our mouth. Sometimes the smells we encounter are so strong, we also taste them.

The mouth is the first component of our alimentary tract. All that passes over the tongue and down the oesophagus enters our digestive system and is broken into simple elements for use by the body.

All our cells are regularly replaced, excepting those in our brains, teeth and in the dense regions of our bones. The cells we have in these areas have been with us for years. Like the best old friendships, they were formed during our salad days.

In the course of our lifetime, we come into contact with many of thousands of farts. Save for certain varieties of hermit (which I have deemed statistically irrelevant) none of us has been spared this stark reality. The proof is in the smelling.

Messrs. Phtang and Pchou’s excellent preliminary research suggests that up to 73% of farts encountered in Western urban environments are not attributable to the ‘receiver’. (Whether this is due to our predilection for air conditioning and ducted vacuuming is beyond the ambit of this paper.)

Whenever we have smelled fart molecules, we have in the majority of cases also inhaled them through our mouths and subsequently swallowed them.

In so doing, we consigned the molecules to our stomachs, which duly digested them for use in construction of new cells.

To an infinitesimal extent, therefore, we are all partially composed of disassembled fart molecules. Further, the permanent tissues of our brains, teeth and bones represent an archive of fragments from every fart we ever encountered during our growing years.

This is pivotal in the case of the brain, since this ‘race memory’ of fart encounters forms part of the very fabric of our consciousness (contrary to snow encounters, which are of course odourless). It is a small step to deduce, therefore, that we of the West are fascinated by flatulence because we literally: ‘have it on the brain’.

To be continued...

Highlights of a keynote speech given by

Use these haikus to promote hygiene in your

Tom glared with frightening intensity, as if about to strike her. His speech sounded scripted and automatic.

Down the stairs and into the baking afternoon. Tom stumbled across the road, a swarm of chatter urging him on. A van blared and swerved exaggeratedly.

Sighing, Tom dragged his hands over his face and pressed his eyes till they sparked with mosaics and lightning.

'Welcome back, fat boy! How're the handles going? I see we didn't make it to the gym again last night. Too stoned? Or too f*cked over from the ciggies? How long did we last this time? A day. Wooo you're scary when you set your mind to something. I thought you were smart. Smart c*nts don't smoke, do they? Guess you do. Feel that throat. Mmmm. Closed up like a pathology specimen. Furry teeth, leather tongue, cracking headache. Feel it? Yesss sure you do! Here. Here. And… HERE!'

The Gebbeth crouched between the wall and the tallboy, waiting for its hapless host to wake. Its haggard limbs spread spider-like over the yellow wallpaper - tense; close; strung for action.

Jenny was juggling on our balcony on Sunday afternoon.

To stay with Rachel until her exams,

Rachel was the subject of my first crush. Though our paths crossed repeatedly for two decades, I never found the courage to tell her how much I admired her. While I have certainly never had any desire to harm her, the song is a warning to be ever vigilant and to resist letting emotion overcome rational thought.

It was a slow, cool day in the shop. Bec and Feisty waited for customers. Both were used to it.

A stock cabinet stood at the top of the stairs. As he chose paperweights to replace the morning's sales, Feisty spotted a teddy bear jammed at the very back of the lowest shelf. An old, old stock item. Reverently he withdrew the bear and took it downstairs.

It was a slow, hot day in the shop. Bec and Feisty waited for customers. She was used to it; he was out of his mind with boredom.

I wrote this tribute while falling in love with the woman I would later marry. 13 years down the track, it's all still true. Fonnie is an extraordinary person with a huge heart and many talents, as her friends will rapidly attest. I'm a very lucky man! I hope you enjoy this love song.

Q. 6 What if one does not value immortality?

Q. 3 How does one avoid boredom when one is immortal?