What’s in a name?
So, you’ve read the introduction, you feel all cosy and welcome reading this new spangly blog with an odd sense of direction and no real drive to fully determine itself, but one thing still seems to be beyond you… what is the fucking deal with the name?
I hear ya, it’s a stupid name with no bearing to what we seem to be suggesting is going to be the remit of our writing. As such maybe a little story will allay your fears…
Its March 2nd and we’re going with a friend, Gandalf the Flat White to see Death To All hit Camden Underworld with Abysmal dawn in tow (which will get a post all of it’s own soon enough). We’ve already begun plotting towards creating a blog, I’ve just started playing Warhammer for the first time since I was around 13 due to the stupendous influence of Bifur and we have both had lengthy discussions about how we want to do more than vegetate in front of bullshit TV.
We’re sat in a pub, to be exact a chain pub that extends it’s reach the length and breadth of the uk which is fairly cost effective whilst sill provisioning a lovely array of rather delightful ales (in general). We’re talking and drinking and-shaboom- it’s time to empty my bladder.
I toddle along to the lavatory, eager to unleash the volumes of tea and coffee (that had been filling me during my hard fought day at work) which had been topped off with further, far more joyous, libation moments before (side-note: I state far more joyous but I’m not sure if I fully endorse that statement, a mean cup of delicious tea or coffee stands toe-to-toe with alcohol in terms of joy, just differently).
Upon entering the toilet I am not surprised at the cleanliness, this chain of public houses tends to have serviceable facilities. I am, however, taken aback by the décor; famous faces from bygone ages adorn the wall as if some kind of ‘who’s who of the 1930’s’ had been crushed into an off the shelf wallpaper. ‘This is something I have not seen in this chain before’ tumbles through my mind, as I proceed to the urinal furthest from the door and closest to the focus of my attention.
As I’m urinating I turn to look in more detail at the wall resplendent and I notice a figure looking at me intently,I realise it sounds like I’m talking about some kind of strange man lurking in the toilet ready to pounce any moment, it’s not. No, it is something in some ways more nefarious.
It is Sigmund Freud.
The picture is of Freud looking down towards his right shoulder and he is at such a height and in such a place that he is staring directly at my penis. Sigmund Freud is looking at my cock.
My mind races, what is this? Why is Sigmund Freud positioned on the wall of the urinal in this manner. Is the pub’s management alluding to something? Do they want me to notice Freud and hurry my peeing in a strange and twisted appropriation of pop psychology- that same pop psychology that has led pound shops to place card board cut-out policemen in windows. Are they suggesting I’m a urinal criminal, intending to go rogue Duchamp in the place and start writing all over their impeccably clean ceramic? Maybe it’s their own art, a statement of the current climate of unabated alcohol consumption, or even diminishing alcohol consumption, or maybe it’s… a fucking statement about the notion of alcohol enabling individuals to peel back their understanding of their own consciousness and focus on a realm of whimsy they otherwise forget they inhabit!? Just WHAT IS IT!?!?!?!?! Is this crowd control? What are they saying about the local denizens of the watering hole we find ourselves in….
Mangement 1: ‘these stupid intellectuals getting drunk in this place and spending an eternity pissing is causing havoc’
Management 2: ‘I know, they just start pissing all over the floor without a care in the world’
Management 1: ‘I think I have an idea… you know what those fucks will respond to…. FREUD’
I’m sure all of the above is merely insane conjecture on my part, I’m sure it’s absolutely innocuous, but fuck it, whatever the case Freud is there in all his glory and he’s staring at me piss like there’s no tomorrow.
I get myself back to the table and explain what I had noticed in the bathroom; both my compatriots find this humorous and pledge to see for themselves.
It falls to Bifur to be the first.
Off he shoots to the loo and in a short while his return is heralded with a glorious roar…
‘ dude, you’re totally right and… have you seen the look on his face. He’s judging you. SIGMUND FREUD IS JUDGING YOU’
Bam; queue laughter and discussion of how in reality that is absolutely what Freud would be doing and then imagine that cartoon light bulb thing happening… one of us (I can’t remember who, it may have been Bifur or Gandalf) shouts out… ‘that’s the name of a blog right there’.
Sigmund Freud Is Judging You, or more precisely, he’s in a pub in Camden judging all those who dare stand in front of him to piss.