Fear Of A Bearded Planet

Creatures of the Beardyverse - An Anthropology of the Net-based Muslim.

2011-10-25T03:01:00.007+01:00

The Freebeard is back and is wondering happened to the online Beardyverse?

I step away for a few months (alright - years) and the place is over run by more face fuzz than waxing convention. It’s mildly disconcerting seeing all this multi-faceted multi-faith cyber delinquency going on while I have been languishing at the Mummy’s service bashing through an advance thesis on follicle studies.

There has been one fantastic side effect to the journal bothering, however. I now have super powers. Yes, The Freebeard has acquired a force field. Not one of those fancy schmansy invisible ones reserved for pneumatic looking young people with names like Hurricane, Raptor or Milliband.

Nope, compared to those amateurs the FB has a real force field, manifesting itself in four inches of flesh-table parked around a centimetre below my chest and arriving before the rest of me by a few milliseconds. It’s a multi-purpose force field, repels potential wife candidates and serves as a handy resting place for a cup of tea. The Mummy is not pleased and is torn between not-cooking (thus banishing said force field and acquiring wife) or cooking ( the natural Mummy instinct). Trust a Yorkshireman to go for a two-for-one deal.

Returning to The Internets and the Beardyverse, I have realised I need to reacquaint myself with the species known as Muslimanicus Internetibus (yes this bloke would be unhappy with that standard of latin). There seem to be many of these characters around. Not that the Freebeard is jealous/bitter/annoyed in anyway of the freeloading upstarts that have taken his rightful place in the pantheon of Fuzzy-glory, or anything.

First a warning: the following descriptions may include gratuitous references to 1980s/ early 1990s pop culture and an attention span greater than a squirrel on acid.

Let’s begin with Muslimanicus Fidelis. The online brothers (or sister) from another mother (or father) who remind the Freebeard of the halcyon days where one would hang around the undergrad Common room searching for the meaning of life, giving up, and going for sandwich around two o’clock. In those innocent days, Muslimanic Fidelis was restricted leafleting very confused Japanese Students with instructions of Wudhu, small talk about Super Mario on the SNES and how Sony PS1 was the Dajaal.

These days we have Fidelis v2.0. The Freebeard would call it an evolution of the species but that might result in an angry facebook group popping up at some point. This demonstrates the change in Fidelis, the power of the internet and the ability to pay the capitalists-muslim-hating west for iPhones has increased the reach of Fidelis.

S/he is no longer limited to running after you on the number 73 bus to make his/her point, slipping on a wet big issue and wiping out two pensioners. No. Now a distributed form of delivery is open to my brothers. Verily they now have access to the longest and shaggiest of beard and invariably they have declared my face fuzz inadequate and worth of approbation.

Next on the list is Muslimanicus Profectus. If the Fidelis is the kind of Muzzie that keeps his/her beard long then the Profectus is the Muzzie with a flock-of-seagulls mop on her/her/its head and raffishly appointed stubble. They love to vogue (use wiki young people) around the place with the haste of Ben Johnson , skipping from glorious open minded cause to other glorious open mined cause. If they feel the heat from Fidelis they just blank them like Beverly 902010 and dig in for a Rumi inspired sufitastic love fest. The lack of beard allows much air kissing and Paris style “discourse” taking account , of course, of the post- colonial-pre-post-modern-milieu with defiant sheesha breaks thrown in.

If Muslamanicus Fidelis has the intellectual complexity of repeatedly head butting an anvil; then Profecti are an enigma wrapped in a cipher, launched into a 512 DES encryption algorithm, pumped into a particle accelerator, sent in to an alternate reality and then teleported back in time to play cards with your Gran. Whatever happens either you or they will require chemicals by the end of it. Usually illegal ones.

Though both Fidelis and Profectus were hanging about a decade or so ago, an entirely new species has also emerged - Muslimanicus Vetus Fonzicus. These gents, and invariably they tend to be gents, are men of distinguished beard. A decade ago the internet would not have made it into their lives, however time and the mobile phone put paid to that. In his day the Fonzicus was cutting edge cool, with signature rumbling call and distinctive hairstyle, one could even consider them an older version of the Profecti.

If the Profecti Muslims are Ben Johnson, the Fonzicus is Ben Johnson after rehabilitation and serving out a ban. This shows up when the intention to run with the mad young things is usually undone by a snap or a tweak where the brain failed to snap into place. There’s a fine line between the Fred Astaire and dad dancing, though this doesn’t stop Fonzicus skipping forth over it with abandon.

Finally we have Muslimanicus Totalis who are truly the greatest incarnation of the online Muslim. For all the types of half/full/twisted/patchy bearded Muzzies on the interweb – one Totalis can provide the karmic balance. You can’t help but love them. They peruse the web and shower it with salaams, rainbows, muffins, flowers, nausheeds., more salaams and lots of love. If one was describing them as photograph it would be kittens, with babies, painted in gorgeous calligraphy with a waterfall background. Yes, they’re that good. Literally.

It’s easy to be cynical about Totalis. The constant RSS/twitter/facebook feeds of “Jazakallhah”, “I love Ramadan” and “EID ..YAY!” may have enough sugar content to give Mount Everest diabetes, but you know this Freebeard is genuinely grateful for their presence in the BeardyVerse.

Now I’m off to get some tea to rest on my force field and listen to Zain Bikha...

P.S Latin names Fidelis, Profectus and Vetus.. Google translate is your friend and I have no idea what they mean either ;)

Getting out the Woggle

2010-01-11T21:38:00.008Z

There are times when one should be prepared. This motto was taught to the Beard-Grows-Free when he was a young stripling and was forced to sit through camp fire stories by the Akela while trying not to lose one’s woggle. Though even at a young age I was always a bit miffed at why one would require fire making skills when you could always nip down to the local estate on a given day and find police cars toasting away. It would come as no surprise that this particular fuzzy creature was quite happy in an urban environment.

As I have probably discussed before, this comes as no surprise to me considering the closest my ancestral history has come to a camp-life is Uncle Ali’s insistence on a Tom Selleck ‘Tache & Mullet at all times. Also one must consider that upon being confronted by mountainous terrain of speed bumps in the high street I come from stock that would be courageously heading for the Range Rover Dealership.

This brings me a bit of a conundrum that bothered me when I saw this particular headline.

Note my shock, horror, and carry-on based exclamations when the Daily Torygraph let it be known that children as young as seven are being trained into committing chicanery by the nefarious long-bearded types. The idea that “Around 10 primary school pupils” had been taken into the Surrey Constabulary’s Channel Programme – which disappointingly enough has nothing to do with French collaborators or perfume.

Apparently, the Plods of Suburbia had found some little rascal scribbling on his exercise book “I want to be a suicide-bomber”. I won’t pause for a moment at the quaint notion of a 21st century urchin managing to put together sentences that contain vowels, or wonder why he didn’t text/SMS the message to his teacher or even shake my head at the child’s inability to pick an appropriate violence-based role model.

These things miss the wider point. Surrey Constabulary have decided to re-educated the poor misguided younglings by offering them “football coaching and outdoor adventure courses.” Yes, fellow beard-lovers they want to send these little people off to grab their woggle and salute to Arkela and we know how successfully THAT worked with yours truly.

Gird your loins for 2010

2010-01-04T03:28:00.004Z

Welcome to 2010 my fellow bearded ones. It may not have escaped your notice that we have been blessed recently by the arrival of three snowflakes and a bit of cold air that has managed to cripple large parts of middleclass Britain.

Although one must admit that up here in the North of England it has been cold enough to for some northern-lasses to consider wearing more opaque tops for New Year’s eve.

One has also been shaken in Beard-central by the arrival of Al Qaeda’s new line in men’s lingerie. Yes, my erstwhile friends, we have seen the launch of the AQ’s Detonator Pants, as demonstrated by Mr O.F Abumattalab of Lagos, Nigeria. I believe he was taking a sabbatical from sending e-mails asking for help with recovering his “Friend’s” millions. Though, being the amateurs that they are, the branding on the pants was woeful and will surely leave them open to counterfeits flooding in from China. There are times when a gusset full of PETN just isn’t going to be enough to visually build the brand.

As with AQ's attempt to break into the footwear market, the effect was less Detonator and more roasted chestnut. Look on the bright side ... at least they have a theme tune

This also presents the FB with a problem. As you all know, your friend the bearded one, is prone to international travel. As a result I have a feeling that I shall be having more close encounters with the gentlemen in uniform than is strictly agreeable unless you’re a fan of The Village People.

The response from our esteemed elders in government is to use bodyscanners. For those of you unaware of the devices just think back to when you were a teen and you thought Superman’s ability to use X-ray vision was wasted on saving the planet. The Backscatter Scanner lets the highly underpaid comic-book fan - who is your security official for the day - use x-ray vision on your lumpy bits. It's a great opportunity to rehabilitate citizens who's only other contribution to society is the VAT paid on their late night cable TV purchases.

In the FB’s case this might be more of a problem for the poor sod staring at the screen, but may cause a few issues with people of a more private disposition. At this point the FB wonders if it would be appropriate to reclassify the phrase “Going Commando”.

Production Values

2009-09-07T17:09:00.001+01:00

Dear Jihadi-Video-Directors,

A polite request on behalf of the Freebeard. I must admit I have never been a fan of your productions. You really have failed to grasp the history of film and especially documentary making.

I know that we really won't see eye to eye on many things in film history, and you always seem to resort to trying to assasinate me, when I get to the bit about Goddard. I suspect, though, that might not be becuase of hatred of the man's ouvre.

But - moving on - I really have to ask you lot to sort out your production values. Alright the "documentary style" is all in, with the shaky camera a la Greengrass but , seriously, that dialogue. Who's your writer. The south london gangsta who wasn't hard enough for "Kidulthood"?

If you're going to go around "representin'" us poor muslims and make videos like this then please can you ask the world not to "mess wit da Muslims" in a refined and a Recieved Pronunciation manner. The finger jabbing doesn't work either - it's as if the guy is trying to press a lift button that's too high for him.

I mean, you're not really pushing the boat out here, it's just like those low rent knock-offs produced in the CIA backlot somewhere in Kandahar, Kansas.

Next time, try a bit of lateral thinking. How about a haiku - you know to bring in a middle class flavour. That way you could confuse Guardian readers as well as heap destruction on the evils of modern capitalism.

There is even on-site assistance, you could ask the MI5 guys watching you make the video which take works best. Anyway, remmember, even if you're pushed you could use Microsoft Moviemaker to add spice and drama to the whole thing - after all , the Devil provided the best tools for his minions.
FB

Mature/ Student : of Oxymorons and Learning Shock

2008-12-26T12:56:00.004Z

As no one actually reads my badly typed scribblings, complete with terrible spelling and pointless, puncuation. I have realised that the best place for me is academia. That way I can spend hours in hairsplitting conversation with high minded individuals and garuntee that I get absolutley no work done.

So, the FB has gone back to University. This is more traumatic than you think. I was under the impression that it would involve careering on the infromation-super-highway of knowledge, via a few coffee shops and dozing through lectures. I was wrong.

That old tactic of leaving the book somewhere near the bed and betting on the words making their own way into your head by the time you woke up in the morning - busted. I had to open one. Even worse. I had to open more than one.

The worrying thing is that when I open the books the words decide to swap position and head off in the oposite direction to where logic is suppose to take them. It's as if they decide to hold campaign meetings when the book is closed and carry out their dastardly plan to make me look daft(er) when I get round to staring at them like a man who handed Bernie Madof the keys to the safe.

I also had the impression from my undergrad days that Mature Students had the right to sit in the corner and pontificate in their wise way to the (rather attractive, doe eyed) undergrads as a service to the field of knowledge. This would compensate for the ravages of time and high-carb diet, of course. It was a cunning long-run strategy (see I was awake for at least five minutes of Economics) that was derived by my genius and, as usual, was a noble(read halfwitted) failure.

I have had the opportunity to meet new and varied people from all around the world who have given me such joy. I will be introducing them to you lot later.

More importantly, as we would say in the current economic climate, there is a loss of capital in the FB market and I can say the following quite happily when faced with Potential-Mother-In-Law types:

I am currently unemployed. :)

Regrowth - Return Of The Beard

2008-07-31T21:24:00.001+01:00

Dear Readers (yes I know that the only entities read this are the four and a half voices inside my bald head that resonate on the odd occasion.)

I am very very sorry for the age that it has taken me to get back to writing the unerringly dodgy missives about my non-life. I hope to correct that on a more regular basis.

Anyhow. I have been travelling the world in search of enlightenment and self-awareness, usually in seat 40C, with variously weird people sitting to my left and closer the emergency exit than I would like them to be.

This had two major effects on my life. The first is that I have been able to experience the depth and breadth of our fine race, all the way from shiny Dubai to the tip of Africa. I have even been to the depths of the primitive, rustic backwoods of civilisation but we only stopped over in Kansas due to a tornado warning.

The second was a period away from the Mummy. A mixed blessing. One being away from her wonderful spirit was sad. The interruption of the regular rhythms of a close symbiotic relationship symbolised by the immortal words "Come and eat. Ohh and lose that belly" was quite depressing.

This was in no way whatsoever offset by her inability to ambush me with more suitable matches. Being at 30,000 feet (very high for metric people) in a pressurised cabin, with the globe rushing past underneath, made insanely difficult for the Mummy to sneak in surprise visits from a collective of moustache wearing dudes with questions about property - which was, erm too bad.

Anyhow, those days are soon coming to an end. I will be ground bound again and enjoying a more sedentary life. And I have many many stories to relay to you ... but not quite now. The Mummy says we have to go and visit some old friends.

FB versus Pharoah Part One

2006-12-25T12:37:00.000Z

Cultural difference is a wonderful things and the FB is not averse to celebrating it. In the spirit of adventure, exploration and because I wasn’t paying for the ticket I decided to culturally explore Egypt. Yes, culturally explore, nothing else I’ll have you know my erstwhile (and no doubt imaginary) audience.

Learnt many a wonderful things in Egypt, not only did the Pharaohs built magnificent pyramids, constructed huge monuments and generally left a stone relief of their greatness in every nook but they did a lovely line in Scarab chocolates and natty Tut Aknh Amun headdresses. This was backed up by superb customer service and special prices – just for me. Its one small step for a similie but a giant leap for clichés everywhere.

I also discovered the universal phrase of the ancients that would put all your cares to rest Get your incense out and say “Don’t worry. It will be OK”. Everyone from Taxi Driver to General Manager can relax in the knowledge of this phrase.

Torn Jacket. “Don’t worry. It will be OK. I fix”

Three days to leaving Cairo, where’s my jacket “Don’t worry. It will be Ok. Shop Open. I fix”.

Two days to leaving Cairo, where’s my jacket. “Don’t worry. It will be Ok. In shop, shop open. Open. I fix”.

Night before leaving Cairo, where’s my jacket, “Don’t worry. It will be Ok. Shop Open. I fix. I get”.

Seven hours before flight, report to police, police say, “Don’t worry. It will be Ok.We bring jacket or we bring him and jacket”.

Four hours before flight police ring back, “Don’t worry. It will be Ok. Pick it up at hotel”.

See. One ancient phrase. Problem solved. Of course my other cultural learning I wil share with you next time.

The Case Of Gay Cayote

2006-10-06T13:42:00.000+01:00

There are sometimes where the Great One reminds you that all those musty traditions that seem to hang around and re-inforce themselves could be a heck of a lot better than the modern replacements

Let me show you how.

Now the FB was fortunate to be hijacked by the Mummy on yet another wife fishing expedition. I was ordered to dress nice, perform the obligatory ritual of self immolation – trying to fix my hair to cover up the joke my biology was playing on me by removing it from strategic locations – and try not to let my flu get in the way of it all. Even the virii it seems were listening to the Mummy and beat a retreat for the five hour ordeal.

Of course we arrived and the show began.

Now what should have happened was that Aunty and uncle welcome you. Aunty hives off with Mummy. You and males of family discuss stuff as any previous posts will show.

I should have known that on one of these visits I would cross into some weird hinterland of cross cultural dynamics that would give Roald Dahl cold sweats. As we sat down and the tea was ordered the Perspective Mother In Law (PMI) took her seat firmly in front of me. The prospective other half (POH) also turned up. No male relatives. Hmmm intriguing.

“So what do you do?” Okay fair enough question. I answer.

“Ohh that’s far away. What do you all by yourself…..” I prepare to answer, slowly put the tea down and before I can start..

“You haven’t got a girlfriend over there to keep you entertained?” I start coughing. Trust me it wasn’t the flu. Make a quick check, mummy hasn’t notice, POH looking at floor.Phew. Maybe no one noticed.

“Well I hope you’re not gay”. I was beginning to realise what it was like to be Wyle E Coyote.

Being me, of course, I toyed with the idea of standing up, loosening the second button of my shirt and proclaiming “No Madame. I am not of the gay. Bear witness to my glorious length of beard and the flamboyantly rampant chest wig. Surely you can see that I have many a young nubile nymphette as my conquests and I have come here to ask you for your permission to ravage your daughter.”

The mummy managed to sail through the entire thing like an Ice breaker with strategic use of her adaptive hearing and mystical attention span. Needless to say the next few hours ground on until we made our excuses and left.

On the drive home, about 10 miles from Huddersfield, she peered out at the Pennines and said “So what did you think then?” At that point I swear I saw a psychotic blue bird go whizzing past the car yelling MEEP MEEP.

Balls

2006-07-03T16:13:00.000+01:00

My muslim brothers, you have let yourself down. You have let the corrupt western superpowers and the dajaal drvie you to distraction and have forgone your own identity.

Really, on the green battle fields of Deautchesland where we should have conquered and riegned supreme, you made like an Englishman and flopped horribly by failing to qualify for the round of the 16 in the World Cup.

We all know that Football as the infidel likes to call it was actually invented by Abullah Bin Kora, who was a lesser known student of Al Kindi, who took his study of the sphere to new levels. To prove the perfection of his theories he would balance it on his foot while reciting mystical thoughts.

Now look at the bearers of the herritage. Iran and Tunisia. Couldn't meditate with a sphere is you paid em - erm if your name is Moggi you probably did. Only the noble warriors of Ghana took the idea to the next level only to undone by the blind linesman of genoa.

I think its the lack of beard. Our footballers should grow really long beards and harness the mightyness therein. Then atleast when the take a throw in the otherside will be heading for the bunker.

Time for RoboRef

2006-06-23T13:58:00.000+01:00

I'm getting abit tired of the whole refereeing nonsesne at the World Cup. Actually most football matches so here is a suggestion.

We need to build a Ref central at Fifa headquaters. It should be ten stories below ground and only accessable to PE teachers and bank managers - the Refereeing Special Forces.

It needs to bluetoothed an Wi-Fi'ed up to every football match on the panet. ESA should launch special Joga Robotica Satellites postioned around the world with themal imagers, radar phtography and real time cameras. They should be able to zoom in on any ball being kicked around the planet.

The results to be played live into a Referee command centre where every game being played can be displayed accross the spectrum and anlysed. REferees will be plugged into the WHISTLE mainfraim like the highly trained operatives only known to exist in the Pentagon and episodes of 24.

Each ref will be biological altered to be able to display statistics and replays directly into the brain and therefore avoid confusion or mistaken decisions. They will accelerated hearing and quicke reflexes to be able to bring justice to the football fields. Shock referess will be deployed to sunday league games if the standard of referee is below par to restore balance to the black and white.

Of course there will always be a fourth directive should the Refs revolt and start making proper decisions on their own. If I told you I'd have to kill you....

Up a Poll

2006-06-23T13:05:00.000+01:00

This survey was published in the Gaurdian. Apparently muslims are spending lots of time hating the west. Specially british muslims, really hating "The west.

We are actually really jealous. No seriously, we are just bursting with more green than flubber factory. There's so much to be jealous about.

Only in the west can you have the freedom, the democarcy, the cultural advancement to create phenomenons of beauty and poise such as Sam Fox. The icon of love and grace that the Bollywood industry took to their hearts. Only in countries where art is greatly appreciated can you have such explosions of colour as Chrisitna Aguilera. The pint size pop princess with the floral hair is an aphrodite for our times.

If only muslim youths could pose with such pretentious elegance as Chirtiano Ronaldo while the rest of his football team leave him unruffled by passing the ball away from him so he can demonstrate his Picaso like brilliance.

We try you know? We do. We tried to build Las Vegas but without the tits and gambling. We called it Dubai. So far its not working.

We even tried to wear leather jackets and expose our chest hair like the great Hasslehof, to no avail.

You can't blame us for hating the west if you make it so hard to attain perfection.

Standards Are Slipping

2006-06-20T16:47:00.000+01:00

What happened to good old Britannia.

It's all gone to the pure bred grey hounds I'm telling you guys.

There was a time when Her Majesy's Constabulary of Plods could be relied on to deal with the immentnet threat of Pakistan flag waving darkies appropriately. It would be a quick round up, a feel of the little constable, a bish , a bosh and on yer way to your nefariously ethnic lifestyle young fellow me-lad.

In the hallowed days of the Blue Witch Lord LackBeard Thatcher, the Police would alway be keen to ignore any cries for help for brown people, they would diligently ignore any illegal goings on of the immigration kind and, in true honour to HRH herself, continue to trouser lots of notes of large denomination with her head on it while doing all of the above.

The rot really set in when they went all Blairite on us, with Community initiatives and recruiting brown police men amongst other dark and evil recommendations thrust upon them by the flip-flop wearers of Islington.

I thought they'd returned to their Miner bashing, Irishman abusing pomp when they drilled MR Jean Charles De Menzes for the crime of not wearing a suicide belt and threatening to read his Metro in plain sight of white people. Having made up for all those years of laying off black people by pumping 5 or more rounds into him, normal service looked to have been resumed.

But I was to be dispointed by the boys in blue flack jackets.

It all started off really well. They were in there CSI/SWAT stylee with the heavy duty Nazi helmets and the shiny MP5 machine guns. To top it all the had the BIG EFFING Battering ram. They hived off a family for twelve hour to ask really meaningful questions like "Do you eat curry?"

Then the piece de resistance, they smashed their way into a darkie house and hit pay dirt. Lots of dodgy dudes with bad Beards, bingo, out came the guns and bang.

But alas! What is this, our highly trained officers missed the dude. Well they got him in the shoulder. Amatuers I tell you. Honestly, no 10 bullet bursts leading to multiple hits, no, one shot in the shoulder.

The boys in blue have dissapointed us for sure - I blame the polenta and IKEA for this evil.

Sorry Guys Life Intervened

2006-06-20T16:40:00.000+01:00

I would like to appologize to you guys. If anyone is actually out there, yes even you viagra selling spam bot not that I would ever need such services. Liek the title says life intervened. I moved , again, I had some serous tuff happen and life has slowed down.

Now that all that has passed I hope to return to the fray and humourously chat to myself with absolute abandon although I'm still not buying Madamme spambot.....

Wica Basket Case

2005-09-26T11:04:00.000+01:00

Huzzah tis the return of the FreeBeard, of course none of you actually noticed that due to DirectHex’s inept management of my word docs I have been missing from the internet for a while.

But as you know the FB’s life creeps along at this petty pace – how petty, let’s say its as petty as shoe tossing in the Man U changing rooms. Not quite as pointless as the Royal Family but sailing pretty close to that wind.

The major event in the FB’s life moving house. Or , ehem, moving out from Mum’s house. Although not as radical as the other hemisphere as our old friend Dx has managed but let’s say to a major metropolis a few hours car ride from the Mum – which could be many continents as well as Mum is concerned considering my little Fiats’ front wheels are tickling the ground. This is despite the two Van loads of gear that I shoveled into my one bedroom studio over the week. Of course Dx is prolly sniggering considering most of the gear is his and it makes ominous bleeping noises when you turn it one.

I have pointed out to mum that I've been to University in London, and I did live on my own but it doesn’t seem to register. She just points to the fact I picked up Dx as a friend and things have been looking dark ever since.

....Anyhow having negotiated the mean Motorways of the UK, gained three points on my license by a Cop in hysterics about the fact my Bluetooth earpiece had run out of charge cos of mum’s tracking phone calls, I finally moved into my new pad.

I have a problem though. I think the neighbour likes me. No, I’m serious. She keeps inviting herself round for coffee. When she introduced herself it was accompanied with a quick waft of her hair which left her perfume trickling on the cold night air. Certainly got my attention, and knocked out the cat sitting on the wall behind me. So, the FB has a bit of a problem, seen as the nieghbour wants to get hot and sweaty with the FB – no you muppets – she wants to go to the gym with the FB. Put the bench pressing jokes away you morons. Jeez, talk about having your mind in the gutter. I must say she is quite pleasant to look at. However, will my over-active imagination survive the exposure to a sweaty nieghbour? One doesn’t know.

It is interesting though that the woman is into Wicker , which I thought was a bit strange considering that the only thing Wicker i had been exposed to was the mums multicoloured roti holder and my uncles really classy wicker chair backs for his new S-class merc. It turns out that this is not the wonderful art of straw fiddling but the full on Buffy-esque art of Wica.

All sounds abit pointy horned to me - you know - pentagrams and stuff. but I'm sure when she was exposed to the full glory of the FB’s fat rolls she's going to summon the daemons of acacia avenue to banish me into the netherworld - or move house.

Stakes at the ready.

Sorry For The Delays Folks - Blame DirectHex

2005-08-13T19:06:00.000+01:00

There have been complaints at Freebeard central, located in the heartlands of Bradford, via Mogadishu ( and If that doesn’t get the boys from MI5 round here for a quick curry I don’t know what will – maybe they live in fear of mummy clipping them round the ear), we have received reports via the Directhex underground e-mail railroad (somewhere in South Africa) that certain female readers of FOAB have complained about the masculine bias of this blog.

I must admit I’m really sorry, but short of an accident at the hormone factory that results in the dumping of 100% concentrated estrogen in to the FB’s drink there’s very little change of the old point of view, and put that bloody pair of shears down Madame.

I must also apologize for the absence of FB writing for a few weeks. My resident tech guru and all round whiz has got himself a job in South Africa, where he is, no doubt, trying to negotiate the retrieval of his car headlights with some bored hyenas. Things like that happen to DirectHex. Some call it willful, some call it fate, but Directhex leads an interesting life. This is the man who travels through US airport security with a backpack containing enough technology to give Q wet dreams and then gets frustrated they DON’T search him. He’s planning his next trip with a fake beard, kafiya, and a “JIHAD” t-shirt. That kind of sums up Directhex.

So getting to the point – Mr D-Hex will a bit slow on the updates. Knowing him, he’s probably fixed up one hyena with a Bluetooth headset and got the other one e-mailing to relatives in the London Zoo.

Yes, I know. If he does a Crazyfrog we’ll have to kill him.

Whats So good About 72 Virgins?

2005-07-18T20:30:00.001+01:00

All those wonderfully informed scholars on the news channels are convinced that all the motivation for seeking martyrdom is 72 eternal virgins.

Now that seriously makes you wonder.

I mean, from a personal and entirely frivolous point of view, 72 eternal virgins sounds like some seriously hard work.

Just think about it.

You'd have to find 72 eternal father-in-laws to seek permission from.

There would be 72 eternal mother-in-laws, then there's the 72 eternal wedding nights with every single aunty that you have ever known parked outside your room door (while you ..erm ..get on with it..), making comments that you wouldn't think would be part of the aunty lexicon and generally eternally partying till very un-aunty hours of the morning.

Talk about performance pressure.

Then there's the 72 eternal virgins themselves. They'd better be an eternal Harrods to by the eternal blooming chocolates and flowers to deal with it.

And the rub of it is... you have to do it again.

Granted this would be in your own personal palace with all the abundance of the eternity...

but you have to do it again, 72 times.....

now if there were 72 slightly older women with a penchant for loft living and ..... we wont go there....

but at the end of it all.. at the rate this FB is going.. by the time I up sticks and the world breathes a long sigh of relief when i shuffle of it... in the unlikely event that I get to top level..it'll be 73 Virgins.....

Behold - Tis The Mummy!

2005-07-16T00:34:00.001+01:00

Arranged Marriage: Part 2 – The Mummy Inquisition

After you’ve been to the Subjects’ house there is always the joy of the inquisition. If you’re lucky you can avoid it till you get home. If you’re sly you can manage to have several friends round as you arrive and suddenly head out of the door to do something before mum gets a chance to get the torture equipment out – namely tea and snacks with the potency of ultra-dependency heroin.

However, if you’re stuck on a journey more than 5 minutes long , then the questions will flow your way as soon as you settle at 70mph in the left hand lane ( honest guv).

“So what did you think?”

“Of what?”

“You know. What did you think?” At this point one start imagining a little red button marked overboost, a talking car and some very speeded up film to get you home as soon as possible. For some people you could add chest hair that could double as a wildlife reserve and a number one hit in the German pop charts in the 1980s but we digress.

“The Tea was fantastic.” This is followed by a clip round the ear. No matter where she sits in the car, she will clip your ear. Get used to it; try not to hit the HGV while you do it.

“I mean the girl, you dolt.”

“What girl?”

“THE Girl”

“There was no girl”

“Who delivered your tea?”

“The Tea Fairy.” Clip

“That was the girl you idiot”

“Ahh right. Good tea delivery.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Tea got delivered just fine. Tasted good too.”

“What do I bring you with me for?” She gasps. You look at the road ahead and try not to say , to learn about property prices in 1976.

“Did you look at her?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“You told me not to look at girls.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look” The slightly uneasy feeling rises in your stomach from the idea that your mum is telling you to flirt.

“It’s against our culture to look at the unmarried girls in someone’s house and religion too. So I concentrated on chatting to her father and brothers.” The strain on the good boy act can be heard creaking like bad rigging from sinking ship.

“You’re such an idiot” Mental clip round the ear, “You could have said thank you or something. There’s no harm in that”. Your MUM is TELLING YOU HOW TO FLIRT. Avoid truck, slow car down; don’t toy with the idea of annoying the BMW stuck to the back bumper by dabbing the brakes.

“But you told me to behave properly.”

“I did, and you behaved properly.” The pause after the sentence could be translated as my son is such innocent(if only....) dolt. The motherly pride and the need to mentally clip round the ear is causing tension enough to worry earthquake watchers.

“So I should have looked at her.”

“NO! That would be rude.” Credulity elastic alert.

“SO I was right.”

“Maybe”

Three junctions and two speed traps later.

“So what did you think?”

and on it went, and then more tea at home..

Events In London

2005-07-16T00:33:00.000+01:00

When I don't need to say anything I leave it up to my better .. the LFM has it down.. click on this

Why Songs About Relationships Could Hurt More Than Your Pride...

2005-06-26T10:30:00.000+01:00

Credit to the man ...at last a use for Celine Dion...

"The Canadian superstar's bombastic cover of Eric Carmen's 1970s hit about loneliness is the audio equivalent of the fire-bombing of Dresden. Celine's vocal histrionics surpass the blood-soaked psychic fury which slaughters the prom-goers in the movie Carrie. Had Ms Dion been around during D-Day, the Allies could have dropped her off at Omaha Beach with a PA system and have her sing All By Myself until the German infantry bayoneted themselves."

by DirectHex

Is Change Good For THEONION.COM?

2005-06-25T12:36:00.000+01:00

Ahhhhhhhh! No one can here you scream in your own bedroom. Specially when everyone is out.

The Onion - veritably good sarco-news source - a trooper of many years against the po-faced inequities of World News has changed into TheOnion 2056. Its been futurized!

Hmmmmmm .. I don't know ..will this do for The Onion what the futurizing did to Seaquest DSV ( yeah I know it was crap ..but it managed to get crapper ..and yes i know I'm a saddack for watching it) ...

This is the old version http://theonion.com/index.php?issue=4124.

The new version is linked above...judge for yourself..

Just as I was about to ask DirectHex to update it on my links bar too....

Sex shuts down the brain

2005-06-22T02:00:00.000+01:00

So Science has given the FB a clue to why the otherwise inexplicable phenomenon of NGPB takes place. It’s one of the mysteries of human behavior that intrigues the FB , mainly because the FB has been on the receiving end of this through his many years on this planet – I’m not telling you if I’ve been on any others or not.

NGPB or Nice Girl Prick Boyfriend is something that I am sure many of you have come across.

It’s a pretty serious disease. It usually involves a really nice girl. Guys, you know the kind that we are talking about. Smart, funny, attractive, able to hold a wondrous conversation at level that make you think your oxygen intake was just sucked up by a passing fleet of school mums in their SUVs.

The kind of girl, that you spent most of you adolescent life writing lists about in the back of the tatty exercise book , alongside weird drawings of spaceships and the plan for world domination – alright not world domination , just not getting beaten up by the riotously funny rugby lads. Of course world domination is easier.

The usual pattern is that after you get to know this person, and after several hours of stunned reverential silence, you find out she’s got a man. Then you discover a few days later that so called man is actually proof positive that Darwin was wrong about Human evolution. This guy is obviously a rogue species that peeled off the accepted timescale somewhere near Australopithecus.

I find that this is a universal phenomenon that crosses cultures and boundaries. I once knew a lady from north Africa who could speak Seven different languages – that’s 7 more than I can manage on my best days (why do you think I type ). She collected academic qualifications with the same ease I pick up spam, or her boyfriend picked up other women.

“ Ah but you see , in the 21^st Century we cannot be constrained by the paradigm of the uniform one partner relationship…”, I’d quote more but I think by the time she threw in her fifth Nietszhe reference my brain was yelling “mind the gap”.

Credit to her about one thing though , Mr Knuckles got his nether regions rearranged by her elegant Gucci slippers one day after she saw him shifting her flat mate's paradigms.

A two for one demonstration of the NGPB phenomenon.

What’s worse is that poor old schlubs like the FB can spot the Prick Boyfriend at 20 miles but any protestations from us get treated like the Trojan dude who said “hang on a minute don’t you think it’s a bit early for the Greeks to be giving us lavish twenty foot carved statues?”

Of course when we see the biker/hip-hop wannabe/ Indian movie star/ ragamuffin / fake label wearing blonde highlighted creature ( I’ll stop there before I go green) from the nexus of the underworld making his slow slimey way through the atmosphere toward us with said hot lady on arm - things look bad.

It’s like the moment when the serial killer gets loose and those teenagers decide to take a holiday in the abandoned house with the tool shed full of power tools. It’s just going to head downhill from there on.

You see at that point we wonder if these wonderful women had their brains switched off at some point – now we know.

Want good loving ? Ask the father

2005-06-16T18:01:00.000+01:00

Or musings on Arranged Marriages Part 1 : The Meet

The Preparation

As the Freebeard as been single for a while now, by now we mean since the dawn of the Jurassic period, the FB’s mum has taken it upon herself to introduce me to the joys of the arranged marriage scene.

So on about one hour’s notice the Mum marches into where ever I happened to be stationed – usually my bedroom – with an address and the command “get ready to go, now.” It’s the sort of command that involves brushing up nicely and generally having the goatie in precise geometric trim.

If mum would have her way of course the goatie would be history and she would have her cute little boy back – failing to realize in her utterly motherly way that the last time the FB looked like that was when he was eight and the cake was on the table. The cake is still on the table – though most of it is recycled onto my belly, but we digress.

The Ritual

What usually happens is you turn up to meet the family and then:

You sit and chat with the father / brother / uncle about subjects that would make the entire contents of a Styrofoam warehouse look like cutting edge comedy. You drink tea. You eat snacks – while trying to look dignified. This utterly fails when faced with the stickiest and largest Jellabi on the planet which is designed to deposit about 50ml of syrup on your trousers just below the groin.

There will be no picture of the prospective woman that you have to spend the rest of your life with hereafter referred to as the Subject. The will be no hint of who she is or what she is doing. That discussion is going on in the women’s section. So your mum is doing the intelligence gathering.

You probably will not see the subject. If they are Punjabi the subject will be out of town.

If you are lucky enough to have a glimpse. DO NOT LOOK. (unless you want to scupper it – see below).

It is preferable that before you embark on this that you undertake courses in body language – especially ones that decipher the subtleties of tea tray placement. This is the only way you will be able to determine whether or not the individual in question is interested or not.

Basically in the four hours that you a bored rigged you have to work out whether you want to have rampant baby making sex with the Subject – by talking to her dad.

In the conversation you have to fit in as much nonsense about how wonderful you are as it is possible.

The Get Away
TAKE NOTE. This is the point where you can subtlety scupper any chances. For example:

a)If the father of the Subject is busy going on about property – you could introduce a bit of pseudo-marxism and anarchism by questioning the notion of property in the first place. He’ll probably ignore you, but when “the debrief” happens after the meeting – he’ll think you’re a dangerous modern creature that will not take advantage of his daughter. Result.

b)If the brother of the subject starts enquiring into your single life when you were at university you could slip in some detail about the nightlife –subtle of course – you don’t want to come across as a turbo-nutter-hardcore-ibiza-loving-club bunny (only as a last resort). WARNING : this could backfire as the brother might think you going to be cool to have around and convince the dubious father.

c)Upon seeing that the family might actually be decent people and there is a danger that you might like them, then the only other option is to resort to Islamist rhetoric. THIS IS THE LAST RESORT AND COULD BACK FIRE. They could really like you and start ringing up the local mullah

d) Stare like a lascivious squady at the subject – guaranteed to send you packing.

Coming Out or Not - The Awakening of the Beard

2005-06-07T21:54:00.000+01:00

FB Discovers Himself

It was the summer of 1998. The FB was attending a conference of the New Labour Youth Commando Units held in the tropical paradise and den of inequity that is Blackpool. Well it is for us who hail from the North of England – like most of the population of Mirpur, Kashmir.

Unknown to myself this was going to a moment of pivotal awakening for the FB. I had just been elected to Student Union officership by the esteemed multitude of the three stoners and one Bhuddist who bothered to vote. As a result the Labour Party invited me to Blackpool for indoctrination, alchoholism and shagging. Bit of a three for one deal I thought, in the days before I had any sort of beard growth what so ever, so off I went.

Of course for the FB this ended up being a non-for-non deal. The indoctrination didn’t work because to some extent my deep disenchantment with Tony Blair was deep at that point and there was a no alchohol because it was one of those vices that sounded better done by some one else.

It was at that point I made a startling discovery. It was something that seemed to make sense of my life and some of the uncomfortable experiences that I had had as a child. I realized that I was different from everyone else and would have to spend my life as an outcast amongst those people I had spent all of three months with.

This all started back at school. I was a public school boy and went to prestigious institution that had a long history of distinguished men. It was a single sex school and was fully steeped in the traditional English past times of playing rugby and having pointless functions for rich parents.

It was with the first stirrings of testosterone in my bloodstream that I began to sense something within me was different. You see there were certain things I just couldn’t do any longer in the presence of my colleagues.

There were passions that were painfully hidden and couldn’t be controlled no matter how hard I tried. I looked for some sort of advice but as we were at a highly exclusive public school the cultural reinforcement was so strong that one could not get away.

By the time I had left school and gone to my liberal university I had thought I had covered it all up but that summer in 1998, while members of the future Labour NEC sat in drunken stupors on the concrete of Blackpool pier – it finally came to me.

I am hetrosexual.

You see from an early age I knew I liked girls. I was attracted to the opposite sex but in 10 years of public school I couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

I was the brown boy – the darling of all my white friends. They were jealous of my minority status. I would get invited round to tell tales of how culturally different I was and would get special dispensation on Muslim festival days. Everybody would come up to me to tell me how they respected my culture and were proud to have me as their friend.

Then there was the sexual tension of it all. Being a public school we always participated in jolly japes in the changing rooms such as slapping each other with wet towels. The problem was that I just wasn’t attracted to any of it.

I had to pretend to enjoy having some red faced berk whack his wet towel on my backside. I mean it was impossible to pretend that I didn’t enjoy sharing the room with other naked men pointing at each others lower beard growth and laughing.

Artistically it was hell too. I was forced to join in the public school past time of wearing Women’s clothing on stage and squeaking my lines for the sake of entertainment. As editor of the poetry magazine I had to make sure any entries weren’t overtly in praise of women. I almost let slip in an English lesson when I failed to spot the homo-erotic allusions in the last scene of Othello – I had to hastily cover it up with some blather about the blade.

When I got to University of course, I thought things would get better. I was sorely mistaken. I was a left wing public school boy and couldn’t last long with any sort of respect within my fellow left-wing university students if I let them know. So I sublimated it into the metrosexual milieu of the Fresher life.

So, in Blackpool, the camel was waiting for the straw.

It arrived in the shape of the President of the Nation Union of Labour Lovers. He slipped up to me in the middle of a really interesting rendition of Hit Me Baby One More Time and planted a hand firmly on my inner thigh.

It must have the years of suppressed rage and the decades of self denial that left him with a pint of Orange juice (with Ice) on his face and looks of disbelief in the faces of those around.

Tell you what though. Since that time. I have felt whole. Released from the pressure of lying to myself and free to be truly who I want to be.

Sure, I got stares from the odd person at the Fabian society, and I could no longer officially call myself a left wing liberal with any great authority, and any invitations for dinner and dancing at Downing Street were cancelled.

It was freedom; the freedom to destroy all the Elton John CDs in my collection – what joy; no more need for the fake homosexual experience story; no need to look all interested and understanding when being told about various uses for a cucumber; freedom to talk about Spartacus without mentioning the Oysters scene; freedom to curse Graham Norton for the no-talent bottle blonde git he really is; and ultimately freedom to follow the path of the FreeBeard

Now that was an interesting road …..

Dooowah those summer days

2005-05-30T19:02:00.000+01:00

Ahh my fellow woolly ones, tis a fine day.

The Sun is out, the birds are doing the chirping thing while dodging the traffic, the children are skipping joyfully from car to car keying them with lovely wavey patterns – and FB is pissed off.

I generally get this way on summer days because the moment the bright yellow bastard pokes his head round the near-eternal cloud cover of the Albion’s skies all the ladies decide to shed fifteen layers of clothing and become, erm, immodest.

This was worse when I was un-gainfully employed by the British Government as a student, mainly to keep their embarrassing unemployment figures hidden.

It was really unfair too because how was a fellow with time on his hands and a final exam the next morning suppose to do some pretend revision with nubile first years parked on the grass wearing approximations of clothing made out of dental floss. If the low-rider jeans were engaged then it was a case of statutory use of sunglasses to prevent loss of sight.

Now when I was a full beard it was even harder. I don’t know what it was , but there would always be one really really gorgeous young European girl who would come over to my leafleting spot and talk to me about what I was doing.

Was this crazy eurochicka trying to get a taste of the mad and bad world of the Kefiya cowboys? Was she enraptured by my mighty beard which made the white men of her native land look puny? It was hard to figure out in between trying to preserve one’s Din and doing a flag pole impressing under the Jilbab.

Eurochicka would asked deep and searching questions while gazing up very intently into the eyes.

Then my mind would be formulating these complex arguments. Weaving thread from the depths of Derrida, whacking a bit of Niel Postman, honing it all with some Chomsky and then I would want to round off with a Sayyid Qutb or Hasan Al Banna. Well, that was between thinking about taking this woman and converting the heck out of her in various ways to the ways of islam.

All this hormono-testostero-acitivy would naturally lead to the pinnacle of human eloquence which would be ultimate answer. “Yeah , erm , that’s a good question.”.

I swear I chewed through some of those leaflets to stop the wailing and gnashing ofteath.

So now I have abandoned the way of the beard and am looking for some sinful excitement to entertainment my gelatinous self. I find that all the young nubiles have descended on my life because its sunny.

There are girls in slinky tank tops, cut away dresses, low-riders with shiny G-strings that threaten to bring down a passing jumbo, t-shirts tight enough to qualify as corsets and muchly taken care of body parts for all the world and FreeBeard to see.

I hate summer.

XXX Hot Beard Action

2005-05-26T00:03:00.000+01:00

FB has a conundrum. A long time ago, in the time of two bladed razors and shaving brushes, FB used to get real excited by the flash of flesh provided by the learned publications of the Paul Raymond. The thought of Sean Young, even Demi Moor ( yes yes we are putting the boat out here) revelaing an outline in the dark recesses of Channel 4 would have made the FB very happy.

Now the prospect of a Channel 5 "documentary" on people who happen to be famous and very nude has me reaching for the remote to find something historical read out by Simon Schama in the middle of a down pour.

It's not just that. I find the prospect of "non-stop xxx hot lesbian bungee jumping cork tying action" and suchlike on the internet mind numbingly dull. I even suspect that had I been on the set of Swordfish where Ms Berry gets her sunscreen down would have had me yelling "FFS put some clothes on , you'll catch your death!"

Even some of the more radical examples of nekid gymnastic I have seen (all in the line of duty as a IT technician cleaning up corporate machines ...honest....) don't have an effect. The brain kicks in with thoughts like isn't that a nice patio behind the blonde with her mouth full. Sometimes I have even had to dig out some books on mechanical physics and human biology to work out what the heck s going on.

And lets face it , even if I was a innercity , hoodie enable, drug addled pev, the prospect of thinking of Isaac Newton would be a real passion killer.

I really don't know what this means.

Maybe I'm getting old or in the latter instance heading towards becoming a pantomine queen - or even both. Howeve the Newton thing might disprove the Queen theory - we shall see.

How does this bode for the future? On my wedding night am I going to turn to the new wife and say "that's a really nice place for a tattoo, love, do me a favour and put the kettle on."? I hear that this is suppose to happen after a few years of marriage and also involve moving her out of the way of the TV because the Cup Final is on.

Who knows I haven't got there yet, but the omens are a bit foreboding.

I have tried to find an answer to this from the nigerian man who keeps trying to sell me viagra via my email but to no avail.

Beard must be stroked in contemplation....

Sex And The Single Beard

2005-05-23T23:34:00.000+01:00

Now you see I used to think that the whole problem with finding a girl that would tickle my fuzz was a clear case of misunderstanding. I used to while away my teenage years while tickling my own fuzz thinking about the perfect Sharon Stone-esque amazon would be applyting the approriate level of tickle after a deep undertstanding of my soul, my motivations and my heart's desire. Let's face it despite the intellectual framing the hearts desire pretty much came down to Sharon sans her coulots.

As the years grew long, and the beard arose from my chin like the fresh sprouting of barley for some hero to stroke in a Ridley Scott film. I began to view the eventual tickling of said fuzz as the wholly spiritual union that would bring me closer to the ultimate truth of life and the universe and only a woman of purity would be able to do it.

Ofcourse, now I realise it's cos I am too damn ugly to get a shag.

We do have an appaling image as a bunch of frigid anti-sex mullahs in the old Sun newspaper doesn't reelly help. According to the new orthodoxy the muslim male would prolly explode in a white froth if touched by anything lithe and humanly female. There are supposed to be areas of Saudi where blunt instruments would be applied to the nether regions if venturing anywhere near the female half of humanity.

I won't be uncharitable and go on about the various South Asian stories about Emratis and their prediliction for nubile boys. Some say that in oil rich regions Michael Jackson is truly King.

Moving switfly on before the impending Fatwa from Yusuf Qardawi on Al-Jazeera.

I have a point for all those western swinging , free loving, drug smoking, liberal media - muslims not having sex in a rampant manner is historically inacurate. When it comes to humping , Muslims make camels look like beginners.

Example - SPAIN. Before the muslim armies got over there the Visigoths ruled the place and were blonde haired and blue eyed. After 800 years - nada.

Wonder how that happened? Wall to wall shariahtastic rumpy pumpy - thats how. They built the Alhambra , did poetry and each other by the looks of it.

So get off the old sterotype folks.

Anyway - this doesn't help the beard getting the fuzz tickled.

Now being male, muslim or otherwise , the self tickling thing has got boring. So now I'm on a quest to get it down.

As a result I have rejected the former fold of the full beard and downgraded to a goatie for medium level sinning. Now i know my former full bearded gents would disagree with my choice and I can see their moral and legal point of view. No doubt there are some huge bellows that are stoking large coals for the lower fuzz.......

But dudes, I neeeds the fuzz to be tickled and thats an urge I can no longer fight......

I am BEARDED FEAR ME!!!

2005-05-23T22:55:00.000+01:00

Howzer folks, this FB is going glo-blah on the world wide web. My mission, should my other personalities chose to accept it, is just be free the Beard.

For too long now, the beard has been held prisoner by those who intend to use it for ill-purpose.

I used to be one of those opressing the beard. I used to be one of those guys wanting to put all women behind a viel and wear short trousers.

I tell you now its one hell of way to feel guilty about looking at some some fine woman-age.

Now I keep the beard of of remorse, shame and cos the chick love it. It's just rest of my flabby self they have a problem with. No doubt some serious gym session will sort that out.

Shout out to my mate Directhex for helping me out with the webpage , even though he hates my FreeBeardedness, he's like the voltaire of beards. Hates my beard but love my right to flaunt it.

Stay Wooolly.
FB

FB