DAISY CAMPBELL PIGSPURT’S DAUGHTER

My messy and enthusiastic ruminations on Daisy Campbell’s astonishing one woman play “of note”

I could compare Pigspurt’s daughter Daisy Campbell’s Pigspurt’s Daughter to two things – actually given the human imagination i COULD compare it to ANYTHING, law of fives and all that, but for the sake of your sanity i’ll hone it down to a mere two – one of them would have to be Daisy Campbell’s Pigspurt’s Daughter, the map being EXACTLY equal to the terrirtory (o.n.o.). The other comparison would be with Malcolm’s Number; the largest number that has been thought of by a human brain, a number so big that if you were try to cram all the digits into an area the size of said brain, the resulting information would be so densely packed that it would create a singularity – a black hole.

Except in this case the numbers aren’t just the mere digits with which our feeble monkey minds can barely tickle the surface of a reality, but living, breathing, farting, screeching, guffawing, IDEAS bursting forth in slow motion then sped up again to the approximate digestible speed (o.n.o) until you, dear listener, think you might have just done a beef tea blowback you’re laughing so hard.  And the ideas that we find so densely packed here would never squish down into something as pedestrian or as metaphorically joyless as a Black Hole, THIS version of Malcolm’s number (which we….should we call it ‘Daisy’s number’ or the more unruly and therefore more appropriate ‘Pigspurt’s Daughter’s number’?) THIS version of Malcolm’s number is all about Light – the forthcoming Buddhist Apocalypse squeezing aaaaaaaalll notions from aaaaaaall creations, evri wan sum ting into an octarine pinpoint of light, a new dawn, a new day, a new life, a new anything. You thought Ken Campbell was creative? did you? did you? That the constant bullying goading and cajoling to exact the tipytoppest of performances which he always expected from his performers (I was sat right at the front, about a Ken’s eyebrow away from Daisy, but I REALLY kept wanting to shout “speak up a bit!”) (Daisy Campbell is not quiet, it’s just the family way to heckle performers) , and seemingly moreso his daughter (“Have you done anything of note?” he would lovingly sneeringly inquire at her at family get togethers “Have you done anything of NOTE?”) was actually some kind of madcap jealousy that someone else somewhere else could be having a different experience to him and MIGHT KNOW SOMETHING INTERESTING THAT HE DIDN’T.  

Topics covered in this homage to almost definitely the maddest and funnest and most always challenging dad in all of creation may or may have included; wearing rainbow knickers on your head to absorb the pronoia rathar than deflect tinfoil’s paranoia, disappearing up your own father’s arsehole, your own father disappearing up your own arsehole whilst you’re wearing his old soiled fatsuit, Robert Anton Wilson –  the omnipresent prophet of our age, God(dess) as a mushroom and sentiently directing the affairs of our world right under our noses (which are shaped like bums),  J.R. Bob Dobbs and The Church Of The Subgenius (this isn’t mentioned) (“they”re supresssing our rights to freedom of speech!) (which is why they is burning money), money burning, Ken Campbell, Big Mind Therapy, flying saucers (of course) (not really), gastromancy (using your bum for divination purposes), all the world’s a fnord and all the men and women merely players (being played by mushrooms), digging up a corpse so that you can burn the bones and insert the ashes into a brick in the forthcoming People’s Pyramid (Bill Drummond was present at tonight’s performance, and Bill doesn’t impress easily, but I GUARANTEE you that Daisy is a massive hero of his (and should be of yours too) and right where he is sitting now he is whispering to himself “what the fuck is glowing on?”) , the different kinds of art made by Doris The Parrot, Marshall Mcluen’s masterclass in story, my life as a nit-nurse, not being prone to hyperbole but WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SITTING HERE READING THIS WHEN YOU COULD GO AND DO SOMETHING LESS BORING INSTEAD? The Forthcoming Buddhist Apocalypse is forthcoming, don’t you know? The Eschaton is being immanentized – not out there as previous maniacs have tried to suggest, but in HERE, right now, everywhere and everywhen, underground, under the soil on top of your head, there’s no need to worry – we’re already dead

At the end i bought a brick. It cost me a hundred pounds that i can’t affnord. That Daisy Campbell is one hell of a saleswomen. All she needs is The Pipe.  And there we sit watching it all uncurl, howling with laughter, monkeys banging at Her evolutionary obelisk. The Time is now, brothers and sisters, the time is now. Right where you are sitting.

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