Wide Of The Mark Book Review: Catch-22

I fucking love books, I must have about 14 of them by now. When I'm sober, straight and not too tired (and of course, not fucking that hole I cut into my mattress), I like nothing better than to curl up and read the shit out of one of my books.

To express my love and eternal dedication to this often overlooked art form, I've decided to do a series of book reviews on this site. I'll start with my 12th favourite, Catch-22.

Catch-22 - What's The Catch?
Most of the action in this book (such as there is) takes place on an American bomber base either on the Island of Pianosa, famous for not being anywhere near big enough to hold a bomber squadron, or the Island of Pisona, famous for not existing. In many ways, this strange duality is a running theme throughout the book, so perhaps I didn't need to invent an example of it by getting the island name wrong. Never mind, let's continue.

The anti-hero of the book (I haven't seen the film so can't comment on that) is one Joseph Yossarian - note that the character's first name is similar to that of Josep "Baby Eater" Stalin. Is this intentional? It seems unlikely, as this book doesn't deal with Communism in any way. An interesting side-point though.

Note that the author of the book, J. Yossarian actually spent time in WWII flying bomber planes and so it is highly likely that Mr. Heller is Yossarian. In which case, it would seem wise to avoid dinner parties with him as he is barking mad. By which I mean a fucking fruit-loop. As is common with many semi-autobiographical novels, one is intended to grow a fondness for the lead character, demonstrated when many of the strange things Yossarian does are explained by the narrator in perfectly sensible terms. Was this the introduction of the so called "super-anti-hero" or would that just be utter fucking bullshit? I don't know.

Yossarian is a captain in the previously mentioned bomber group - the 256th Squadron. Note that this is some sort of weird hexadecimal joke that I don't quite understand, highlighted for the idiots by the author using the line "two to the fighting eighth power". This has something to do with the number 100 but the real message is clear - computers (thinking as they do only in hexadecimal) will one day take over the world with their evil robot bombers.

Considering that this book was written in the 20th century, this is a hugely impressive prediction from the author and he could be considered ahead of his time in shouting out the warning of upcoming world doom at the hands of misanthropic metal monsters, if one were so inclined.

Now to the main point of the book, The Catch, Catch-All or Catch-22 as it is referred. This is clearly another metaphor for the robots, which take on the guise of all authority - the police, Yossarian's superiors and Religion. With these influences under their control, human will is reduced to zero and slowly but surely the evil tin men's plan continues. The book ends with a truly apocalyptic vision in chapter 39, when all the whores have been chased out of Rome by The Catch (the robots). A frightening concept should it ever bear fruit.

Sadly, Catch-22 offers no solution to this dilemma. What a fucking lazy prick the author is. It really saddens me - anybody can criticise, not everyone can offer a solution. I can only suggest that the book should be rewritten to include a solution to The Catch.

Another important theme is that of personal integrity - such as Milo refusing to steal supplies from the base without a highly twisted justification of doing so, in order that his conscience is clear. Later in the book Milo even bombs his own base, having been entirely corrupted by the greed that really runs the war. I'm not sure how this ties into the killer machines, perhaps it is simply a passing comment that mankind is destined to fail due to his own failings or something clever like that.

In summary, Catch-22 is quite a good book and I would recommend it alot to anyone who likes books.

Biting The Hand That Feeds PO'P

I have been busy with some contract work for Phones 4 U lately and would like to say that anybody suggesting the following:

• They are all stinky heads with arses made of rotting garbage.
• Are in league with the Masons and running a scam to control the UK populace.
• Are made of metal (underneath their ugly, ugly face masks) and programmed to kill.

Will have me to answer to. Furthermore, nobody should avoid buying phones from incompetent dung sluts with tenuous grasps on reality, little to no customer service and a penchant for buggery of small animals. Categorically, nobody should buy off the internet instead.

I even buy my cigarettes via the internet, well outside of what I'd normally consider fair play, as the NHS will have to stump up the costs of leaving my cancer and AIDS ridden corpse in a dirty bed in a dirty ward to die at some point, short my generous contributions to their coffers.

However, when I can buy tabs from elsewhere in Europe, pay tax on them there, have them packed up and shipped over here for half the price I can pay over the counter, I say "fuck you, new labour, go hang your fucking shitty heads in shame at the mess you're making of this place, you utter fucking wankers."

Then I light up a Marlboro Red from a packet with the health warning printed on in what, for all I know is fucking Aramaic, open a bottle of vodka and let the good times roll. Before muttering some more about our shitty government that some unknown fucker voted in and how much I hate Phones 4 U. Oh, and everybody else on this fucking shitheap we call Earth.

Peter's Fall From Grace

PO'P NOTE: In the "there's always one" tradition, there's always one story that you can't find a good way of telling so that it winds up funny, entertaining, or even pukeworthy. That's this one. I've tried four or five times and the end result always reads like a Jamie Oliver cookbook - absolute fucking shit dished up by some cockney wanker on a scooter, who will be up against the wall as soon as I get a minute spare. But it's getting on my tits, so here goes again.

At the end of the second year at university, the time had come to fly the nest and move out of the large shit-factory we had called home since starting our courses. Proper, real houses were found, rented off dodgy shitbag landlords who you suspected you would one day find stalking round your place, searching through the women's underwear drawers. I was only in there looking for a pen - he was up to no good. But I digress.

The moving experience was somewhat lengthened when the back window of our shitmobile (my car) was inadvertently smashed by AB. Stupid fucking whore. This forced me to stay in the old place for one last night of drinking and ultimately caused my downfall. Exit Peter - off for a drink.

Some hours later, somewhat lubricated I returned to the building and decided that a souvenir was required. A large sign on the wall of the property seemed ideal - its location around 10 feet up in the air just made things interesting.

The first stage of the mission was a perfect success - I rested a divan bed base against the wall, climbed on top and unscrewed the bottom two screws. The action moved on to the top screw - fuck, it was rusted solid and I quickly turned the head into little metal shavings.

LE and his car swiftly came to the rescue and a rope was attached to both the sign and LE's bumper. LE revved his engine and slowly drove away. The rope took the strain. The sign creaked. The rope snapped and flashed past me like a dead goldfish off a motorway bridge and towards LE's car. A new plan was formed.

Climbing the bed base one more time, I grasped the sign firmly in both hands and pulled like fuck. Pulled a little more. Pulled, to quantify, really fucking hard. Finally I was the victor - the target was in my arms. A short-lived joy ensued.

Realising that I now had no purchase on the wall and a fair amount of momentum away from it, I did the only sensible thing and fell down onto the concrete car park floor. This hurt far less than I expected and also seemed to result in my being unable to get up. Still, some panicking females helped me back into the house, where MW kindly assured me that my wrist was fine.

It is a sign of how fucked up I was at that point that I listened to him, as he is a well known retard and normally not a doctor. I set him on fire once and it took around 30 seconds for him to even notice, never mind react. Still, Dr MW's advice heeded, I bent the broken wrist backwards to fit it into a bowl of warm water, passed out, then woke up and popped off to bed.

This was immediately followed by a night without sleep thanks to the now agonising pain in my arm. I got a total of 10 minutes rest that night when I tied a bag of frozen peas around my arm - the pain subsided and I started to snooze. Then get cold and wet as the frozen peas fell out of the open bag and into my bed.

When I eventually visited a hospital the next afternoon, the little piece of bone that sticks out just below the base of my (and I'll assume your) thumb had wandered off and camped out in the divot between my little and ring fingers - it actually looked like a little dome tent made of flesh. Sadly, this meant that the nurse had to move it back into place (by pushing like fuck on my arm) before sticking me in plaster.

Oh and some prick of a doctor smacked me on the broken wrist with that big sheet of lead they put over your nuts to stop your jizz getting fried when they X-ray you. I nearly got thrown out of the hospital for trying to "reason" with him. By which I mean throwing the lead sheet at his face.

AB was the only one with enough presence of mind to collect the sign after my fall and still has it to this fucking day. That fucking bitch broke my arm and stole my sign. Justice will ensue one day.

PO'P NOTE: Yup, that telling worked out pretty shitty too. It was a funny story in real life though and I still can't do anything useful with my right arm. Not a thing. Or my left. But that's probably because I'm a useless shitbag who couldn't be fucked if my cock depended on shit, or something, rather than because I broke it.

PO'P EDIT: In light of today's events I can provide a preview of some upcoming articles:

• Stupid people should not try to discuss global politics with Peter.
• Religion is fucking retarded (and not involved in anything to do with 07/07).
• Why did the terrorists kick off on a day we couldn't confuse the yanks with?
• People who tenuously use global events to further their cause should fucking hang.