I wrote this a while ago and was sort of, holding back from posting it as some people may just view it as a dejected bitter rant hating anything to do with 'happiness and love'. It most certainly isn't, it's me standing up for people I know who are often trodden on and ignored, this is for you delightful folks.
Imagine if you had no arms or legs, no limbs whatsoever, you couldn’t help this; you were simply created that way, born into a sad little life where all you could contribute was being a makeshift coffee table or a poof. Are you in the mind of limbless potato person? Good, now imagine you often get wheeled out into town on the back of a wagon or something and you see all the bipedal limbed folk out dancing doing their daily routine, just jumping about and dancing and whatnot. This is obviously going to upset poor stump boy, no argument here. NO ARGUMENT I SAY! Now imagine if a lot of people go in front of stumpy boy (or stump woman, metaphors are not sexist here) and do various acrobatic manoeuvres right in front of his face, back flips, skipping, the conga, all with full knowledge of stumpy person’s sad lifestyle of being essentially a human paperweight. To me this is what public displays of affection are like if you’re awkward, introvert or a not as-cool-as-everybody-else-like-totally individual. You simply lay slack-jawed and shocked as these overt generic selfish bastardos gleefully flaunted their social status and general attractiveness with all the overt theatrics, genericism, and over the top ‘bullshit’ emotional attitude that modern society somehow deems acceptable and, depressingly enough, necessary. It’s apparently necessary to wear your love life and sexual status on your sleeve like some arrogant scarlet letter whilst declaring it to the world with all the vigour and ignorance of a religious zealot on the high street. And as stumpy you simply had to stand there and take it...well, sit there....lie there...STAY there. You simply have to take all this brash forwardness and almost spiteful behaviour, because if you were to be upset or annoyed and succumb to, EMOTIONS AND DAMN HUMANITY, you’ll be labelled as ‘depressing’ and ‘irritating’, all the while wanting to lash out and strangle these bastards. But you can’t because you’ve got no arms...freak stump boy you are.
This elongated smack to the face of a metaphor is essentially how I feel about public displays of affection, the bitter lonely curmudgeon I am. I’m not referring to hand-holding or the sort, I mean the full on acts that if done in public in the 16th century would probably have gotten you dismembered, I’ve been in groups of people where a couple have pretty much done all 4 bases and then go round for another game, (Urgh, crass terminology there I know) all whilst ignoring the awkward and quite offended reactions of their friends around them. People whose sentences usually consist of their love lives or feel that everybody in the immediate surrounding area needs to know all about their sex lives as if it’s information on par with John Lennon getting shot or a plague of mole people about to rise up and enslave humanity, with small pockets of human resistance fighting back these subterranean flea-riddled overlords. (But that’s enough about the south! HAHAHA! OH SNAP!!!! HAHAHA! FEEL MY PRIDE FOR MY GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION!!....anyway).
I’m not against the whole notion of relationships and admiration, very much the opposite. What I am against is those who flaunt it like their some sort of fucking deity, making less-successful people feel quite bad about themselves, the sort of people who aren’t as confident or appealing as most fellows. I’m rooting for you, you hapless losers. (I’m allowed to say that). And why on earth do people get irate and tell these people to ‘stop being depressing’ ‘cheer up’ as if we’re a liability and only putting this on, that we have some instant joyous-switch like some melancholy robotic bastard child, I’ve noticed that some people aren’t helped when friends dismiss them or berate them for feeling lousy, this also probably isn’t helped by the fact a small minority of people flaunt their ‘happiness’ in their faces like completely ignorant fuckbuckets. The fact these people are content and satisfied is terrific, but no right to lord over those who aren’t as lucky or act better than them. Even Hitler had a girlfriend....I know that might work against me as well, but sod it, I like that insult.
There are also the folks who complain about stuff to people that hardly compare or are beyond ignorant, like going up to a crippled person and saying your legs itch. What’s that? You have to get up early on Valentine’s Day to spend the day together? Fuck off, I call Valentine’s Day ‘Thursday’, I think that shows who has the bigger right to complain here. Know what else is fun? Complaining about how much of a dickhead your ex was to somebody who has feelings for you, yet you won’t give them any chance whatsoever. Yeah that’s terrific for them isn’t it, tell them that somebody who you actually went out with was a complete utter fuckpot, it sure won’t make them feel in anyway depressed nor self loathing at how they’re apparently not as good as that. Whilst you’re there list the amount of guys you’ve ‘gotten with’ and lament the fact that ‘nice men’ are as hard to find as the holy fucking grail. I’ve never understood this myself, when I’m nice I come across as being a ‘friend’ whilst when I try to pull of this attractive confident dickhead routine I come across as...well a dickhead, no gimmicks here.
To me, being single for a very long time is almost like being Charlie in ‘Charlie in the Chocolate factory’, whilst everybody else lives in houses and with reasonable wealth, you’re stuck in some crammed turgid shack devoid of any hope and joy, instead replaced with general melancholy and mild racist ramblings from the legions of elderly cramped in one bed. I wondered why Charlie’s family didn’t simply kill the elderly relatives and consume them, I mean they obviously contributed nothing and spent all day confined to a bed, this would be a release from their depressing useless lives, and for a few months it’d stop the rest of the family living on a soup made of splinters, old beano issues and their own sweat and blood. But...that’s just me, which may explain my lack of relationships and BACK TO THIS ARTICLE! WOAH! SEE THAT?! Trippy right?! A total 360 there you shocked person you, fear my literary genius...
Anyway, in defence of all those hapless, shy, awkward individuals I say to the minority of you who I’ve spent the past 800 words ranting about (the rest of you are fine, have a collective high five or celebratory salsa) this.
We don’t care for a list of unusual places where you’ve had sex in a conversation where it serves no context whatsoever. We don’t care how you ‘love each other for life’ because you’ve simply confused it for lust towards the first individual to smother your mouth like a starving vampire. We don’t care for photos of you ‘getting off’ with your retard farmhand of a significant other. We don’t care if you haven’t seen each other for 29 hours. We don’t care if it’s your 5th month anniversary or any other fucking arbitrary date as if you’re the ‘rain man’ of relationship statistics. We don’t care for a list of why you love each other more than oxygen. We don’t care for you subtly asking us what we’re doing so you can reply with how amazing your day will be. We don’t care for you making a child when we’re trying to talk to you. We don’t care for the sheer contempt you may show on others. We don’t care for your numerous facebook albums that you parade in our face of you on the verge of fucking like lustful morons. We don’t care at all...seriously, but hey. What the fuck do I know right?
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Chocolate rain on your parade
PANIC! RUN FOR YOUR VERY LIVES! ROLL OUT THE CAPRET FOR THE FOUR HORSEMEN! It’s the pinnacle of existence and the world is teetering forward into the pitch black abyss of nigh annihilation and tortured despair! Whatever shall we- Wait? What? That’s it? That’s all that has happened? All this bother and fuss is over.....Cadbury being bought over? That’s it? A chocolate company has been bought by the second largest candy, food, and beverage Company in the world? Surely that’s...well good isn’t it? But no, for some reason patriotism has suddenly emerged in anybody who’s ever had a curly Wurly as if it were embodied by Richard the bloody Lion-heart.
I honestly don’t get what all this outrage is about, nobody is losing their job (Else Cadbury wouldn’t have accepted the offer you blithering idiots) and the food isn’t being removed, you’re still going to be able to gorge yourself and take away your lifespan with Dairy Milks and Bournevilles, you don’t buy one of the most successful companies in a country and discontinue everything that made it what it is, it’s pretty much the opposite of business management, along with exploding shoes and a sequel to ‘White Chicks’. If people would all take their head out of the collective arse and look at this for a second, they might see the shiny bewildering possibilities as a result of this. One being more food available, and as humans we should flock to this idea like delighted and whimsical folks. You know every time you go to America and come back, lecturing us with ‘how varied and amazing and cool and super mega awesome’ the food is, describing it like treasures beyond our primitive hut-dwelling, porridge eating society, almost as if you’ve discovered fire, if fire lowered your lifespan dramatically....even though it technically can...but that’s beyond the point. Kraft are going to use Cadbury as an outlet for their products that sell so highly throughout the rest of the world, I’m looking forward to seeing what new foodstuffs I can negligently stock up in case of a nuclear outbreak, forgoing spam and corned beef for whatever piques my pithy interest.
You know Oreos? Those biscuits that everybody faffs about with instead of simply eating (IT’S A BISCUIT NOT A DAMN RUBIX CUBE), guess who owns them?
Yes, it’s the harbingers of doom and despair, Kraft, what’s that? You enjoy Oreos and are ignorantly aware of the irony of you rallying against a company who bought you them?
I suspected as much, as I’m a poor man’s Poirot.
(This is not a bloody Puzzle Piece)
What seems to be possibly the main gripe here is that ‘CADBURYS IS BRITISH AND THEY IS TAKING US OVER!!’ which whilst being stupid is also stupid....not to mention stupid.
Nobody seems to give a toss when football teams such as Arsenal and Leeds are populated predominantly by players who aren’t even English, let alone able to speak the language properly or have a name I can pronounce. Nor do people care about driving Hyundais instead of Jaguars, Jeeps instead of land rovers or American Bikes instead of bloody penny farthings, whilst our culture is dominated by American TV, stars, news, and music. Christ, the Black eyed peas are on par to have had more number ones than Queen or The Rolling stones, well respected and renowned British musicians, where was all this fucking British Pride when these tedious talentless fartbags were invading the British shores?
Then there’s the Facebook group, the small rabble of resistance fighters against the totalitarian crushing regime of the Kraft Empire, like a culinary bloody Star Wars. As if Facebook has done anything for the world but make sex offenders do less exercise, there’s this blathering ‘OH BUT WE GOT WISPA BAAAACK!! WISPA!! WISPAAAA YARGH!!’.
Yes that may be true, but bear in mind this was an individual chocolate bar not a £11.5 billion economic takeover, they’re not going to care for this Facebook group as they clearly would have heard the remarks made when they ANNOUNCED they were going to try and buy Cadbury, these groups are just trying to close the barn door after horse has already bolted, changed his identity and murdered the farmer.
Pithy arguments and ironic logic isn’t going to stop this, and this isn’t some major catastrophe that it’s being painted out to be, this will IN NO WAY negatively affect your life in any way possible, unless you get off on saying ‘Cadbury’, in which case you can do that on your own...weirdo.
I’m usually a cynical person I know, but I honestly see no harm in this whatsoever, in fact it has more opportunities for new food and products being available, which in today’s society you assume would be a good thing. I have no problem saying ‘KRAFT’ and it’s not as if they’re going to change the names of food to over the top Americanised monikers, a dairy milk won’t become a ‘AWESOME BAR’, a boost a ‘EXPLOSION WE SAVE YOUR ASS IN WORLD WAR TWO SNACK’ nor will a curly wurly become a ‘FUCKING MORON IN OFFICE FOR 8 YEARS’. It’s not as if we always say ‘Cadbury’ before the word anyway, they’re well enough established to lose any gimmicks.
Hell, I’m sure life would be 6% more interesting if people asked for an ‘Explosion bar’ anyway.
I honestly don’t get what all this outrage is about, nobody is losing their job (Else Cadbury wouldn’t have accepted the offer you blithering idiots) and the food isn’t being removed, you’re still going to be able to gorge yourself and take away your lifespan with Dairy Milks and Bournevilles, you don’t buy one of the most successful companies in a country and discontinue everything that made it what it is, it’s pretty much the opposite of business management, along with exploding shoes and a sequel to ‘White Chicks’. If people would all take their head out of the collective arse and look at this for a second, they might see the shiny bewildering possibilities as a result of this. One being more food available, and as humans we should flock to this idea like delighted and whimsical folks. You know every time you go to America and come back, lecturing us with ‘how varied and amazing and cool and super mega awesome’ the food is, describing it like treasures beyond our primitive hut-dwelling, porridge eating society, almost as if you’ve discovered fire, if fire lowered your lifespan dramatically....even though it technically can...but that’s beyond the point. Kraft are going to use Cadbury as an outlet for their products that sell so highly throughout the rest of the world, I’m looking forward to seeing what new foodstuffs I can negligently stock up in case of a nuclear outbreak, forgoing spam and corned beef for whatever piques my pithy interest.
You know Oreos? Those biscuits that everybody faffs about with instead of simply eating (IT’S A BISCUIT NOT A DAMN RUBIX CUBE), guess who owns them?
Yes, it’s the harbingers of doom and despair, Kraft, what’s that? You enjoy Oreos and are ignorantly aware of the irony of you rallying against a company who bought you them?
I suspected as much, as I’m a poor man’s Poirot.
(This is not a bloody Puzzle Piece)
What seems to be possibly the main gripe here is that ‘CADBURYS IS BRITISH AND THEY IS TAKING US OVER!!’ which whilst being stupid is also stupid....not to mention stupid.
Nobody seems to give a toss when football teams such as Arsenal and Leeds are populated predominantly by players who aren’t even English, let alone able to speak the language properly or have a name I can pronounce. Nor do people care about driving Hyundais instead of Jaguars, Jeeps instead of land rovers or American Bikes instead of bloody penny farthings, whilst our culture is dominated by American TV, stars, news, and music. Christ, the Black eyed peas are on par to have had more number ones than Queen or The Rolling stones, well respected and renowned British musicians, where was all this fucking British Pride when these tedious talentless fartbags were invading the British shores?
Then there’s the Facebook group, the small rabble of resistance fighters against the totalitarian crushing regime of the Kraft Empire, like a culinary bloody Star Wars. As if Facebook has done anything for the world but make sex offenders do less exercise, there’s this blathering ‘OH BUT WE GOT WISPA BAAAACK!! WISPA!! WISPAAAA YARGH!!’.
Yes that may be true, but bear in mind this was an individual chocolate bar not a £11.5 billion economic takeover, they’re not going to care for this Facebook group as they clearly would have heard the remarks made when they ANNOUNCED they were going to try and buy Cadbury, these groups are just trying to close the barn door after horse has already bolted, changed his identity and murdered the farmer.
Pithy arguments and ironic logic isn’t going to stop this, and this isn’t some major catastrophe that it’s being painted out to be, this will IN NO WAY negatively affect your life in any way possible, unless you get off on saying ‘Cadbury’, in which case you can do that on your own...weirdo.
I’m usually a cynical person I know, but I honestly see no harm in this whatsoever, in fact it has more opportunities for new food and products being available, which in today’s society you assume would be a good thing. I have no problem saying ‘KRAFT’ and it’s not as if they’re going to change the names of food to over the top Americanised monikers, a dairy milk won’t become a ‘AWESOME BAR’, a boost a ‘EXPLOSION WE SAVE YOUR ASS IN WORLD WAR TWO SNACK’ nor will a curly wurly become a ‘FUCKING MORON IN OFFICE FOR 8 YEARS’. It’s not as if we always say ‘Cadbury’ before the word anyway, they’re well enough established to lose any gimmicks.
Hell, I’m sure life would be 6% more interesting if people asked for an ‘Explosion bar’ anyway.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
I am man, hear me complain.
I hate Macho men. I hate them to the point I want a small asteroid to hit them in the face, obliterating it till it ironically resembles a giant vagina. And wherever they’ll go a huge parade of irony will follow them like a cartoon raincloud reminding them how incredibly ignorant and borderline pathetic they are. LOOK KIDS, ITS VAGINA FACE MAN!! Let’s laugh and throw rotten courgettes like he’s a leper, although one who enjoys Nickelback and finding convenient opportunities to remove his shirt. It’ll be like The Elephant man for people who have the ability to appreciate more aspects of life than proclaiming to the world you have a penis; probably a small one that needs to wee all the time. Take my petty wrath you self- conceited cabbage men you. And hopefully other macho men will uncontrollably try to fornicate with the face of said monstrosity, delicious Irony...mmm.
There are certain things that men aren’t allowed to do apparently, certain acts or opinions that somehow parallel the intellectually butchered thought processes of Idi Amin or Charles Manson.
What’s that rationally open intellectual male, you enjoy the works of Joni Mitchell or Annie Lennox?! But they don’t have wee-pipes! YOU’RE NOT A REAL MAN!! These feeble minded cries of ‘injustice’ are usually followed by, what has pretty much become a stock insult, ‘hand in your man card’. As if you’re Dirty Harry being asked to give in your gun and badge because you ‘don’t play by the book’. Well sod books and reading for that matter, (ironically often used by Macho men, unless it’s NUTS. Sports AND bewbs?! Truly an elysian fields of testosterone)
You like female musicians? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t drink beeer? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t furiously masturbate to the sight of 11 overpaid Neanderthals kicking a ball like children in the Middle Ages did with a cabbage?! HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!! YARGHHHH ETC
Sod your man card; I’ll be here learning how to count beyond 10 without the aid of a popup book. As I’m writing this I’m currently eating salt and vinegar crisps and listening to Thin Lizzy singing, SHOCK HORROR, a love song. Better retain my credibility and punch a stranger before my testicles shrink like oranges exposed to radiation. I’m pretty much a very awkward male, I can’t run a few meters without passing out and I’ve pretty much gathered I’m as attractive as an Autopsy footage, but at least I can appreciate things more evenly regardless of gender, intelligence or the amount of ‘EXPLOSHUNS’ involved. I’ve pretty much convinced myself the only chance of me getting a wife is if I have her shipped overseas and taught English from a crude cassette tape.
And while I’m here in your head, I also despise those soft-spoken ‘good looking’ men, those indie landfill farts, those smug pretentious bastards, those women-stealing, somehow irresistible flesh wastes. The guys who wear a Revolver shirt yet have never heard of Paul McCartney, the self-conceited mopes who never remove a scarf, as if they’re a post-op trying to hide her bulging Adam’s apple, the smooth talking arseholes who wear brown trench coats inside as if they’re in an S.S tribute band. Yeah, those pillocks. Somehow women find this irresistible, as if these idiots can mentally latch onto their ovaries like some crude ‘cronenberg’-esque perversion. Everything they do is to get women or because they love themselves more than Narcissus in a room full of mirrors and portraits of his arse. It’s sadly sets the stereotype of ‘pretty face over anything resembling a decent personality’ that women are often accused of. Eventually women will realise how hollow these men are and ditch them once they see them for the smug Easter-eggs they are. And then who’ll they come running to??! WHO I ASK?!...
...Not us in any bloody way, but the tossers at the start of the article. Because this world is a cold and tepid place where mediocrity thrives...only tuna sandwiches and Def Leppard redeem us.
I am man, hear me complain.
There are certain things that men aren’t allowed to do apparently, certain acts or opinions that somehow parallel the intellectually butchered thought processes of Idi Amin or Charles Manson.
What’s that rationally open intellectual male, you enjoy the works of Joni Mitchell or Annie Lennox?! But they don’t have wee-pipes! YOU’RE NOT A REAL MAN!! These feeble minded cries of ‘injustice’ are usually followed by, what has pretty much become a stock insult, ‘hand in your man card’. As if you’re Dirty Harry being asked to give in your gun and badge because you ‘don’t play by the book’. Well sod books and reading for that matter, (ironically often used by Macho men, unless it’s NUTS. Sports AND bewbs?! Truly an elysian fields of testosterone)
You like female musicians? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t drink beeer? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t furiously masturbate to the sight of 11 overpaid Neanderthals kicking a ball like children in the Middle Ages did with a cabbage?! HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!! YARGHHHH ETC
Sod your man card; I’ll be here learning how to count beyond 10 without the aid of a popup book. As I’m writing this I’m currently eating salt and vinegar crisps and listening to Thin Lizzy singing, SHOCK HORROR, a love song. Better retain my credibility and punch a stranger before my testicles shrink like oranges exposed to radiation. I’m pretty much a very awkward male, I can’t run a few meters without passing out and I’ve pretty much gathered I’m as attractive as an Autopsy footage, but at least I can appreciate things more evenly regardless of gender, intelligence or the amount of ‘EXPLOSHUNS’ involved. I’ve pretty much convinced myself the only chance of me getting a wife is if I have her shipped overseas and taught English from a crude cassette tape.
And while I’m here in your head, I also despise those soft-spoken ‘good looking’ men, those indie landfill farts, those smug pretentious bastards, those women-stealing, somehow irresistible flesh wastes. The guys who wear a Revolver shirt yet have never heard of Paul McCartney, the self-conceited mopes who never remove a scarf, as if they’re a post-op trying to hide her bulging Adam’s apple, the smooth talking arseholes who wear brown trench coats inside as if they’re in an S.S tribute band. Yeah, those pillocks. Somehow women find this irresistible, as if these idiots can mentally latch onto their ovaries like some crude ‘cronenberg’-esque perversion. Everything they do is to get women or because they love themselves more than Narcissus in a room full of mirrors and portraits of his arse. It’s sadly sets the stereotype of ‘pretty face over anything resembling a decent personality’ that women are often accused of. Eventually women will realise how hollow these men are and ditch them once they see them for the smug Easter-eggs they are. And then who’ll they come running to??! WHO I ASK?!...
...Not us in any bloody way, but the tossers at the start of the article. Because this world is a cold and tepid place where mediocrity thrives...only tuna sandwiches and Def Leppard redeem us.
I am man, hear me complain.
Monday, 16 November 2009
"My rant: The true story"
Keith Richards has an autobiography planned for release in 2010, now that as a statement might seem very unsurprising, one that makes you say ‘Oh right, cool’ but nothing to make you stand up and pay attention like a meteor about to collide with the planet. But, when you look at other autobiographies on the shelves, and the current trend surrounding them, then the fact Keith is releasing his next year is a monumental shock when compared to the current tepid and mostly pointless releases that cram up the shelves. For starters, Keith is a man whose blood system consists of 80% Columbian export, Zeus knows how he’s going to even remember what happened 20 years ago, let alone last Saturday; I won’t be surprised if the book is essentially one page consisting of
“40 years ago I wrote some songs with Mick...I played a Pirate...I think it was a Pirate...yeah, definitely was a Pirate. Then I wrote this...I sure do love drugs, yes I do”
Keith is the sort of person destined to write an autobiography, because he’s essentially bursting at the leathery seams with highly interesting and fascinating anecdotes, although it’s likely he’s got far more brilliant ones that have been lost in the haze of inhaling things other than ‘Vic’. The shelves are currently host to books by reality TV stars and pointless attention whoring morons, and occasionally somebody of note will pop up amidst the ‘Chantelles’ and the ‘Hiltons’, such as Julie Walters or Michel Parkinson, but it’s very rare and far too few, like finding a skittle in a mountain of lard. The fact people honestly read these books is just dumbfounding, I highly doubt that Chantelle from BB had an early life chock full of zany exploits and armchair gripping tension, unless at some point during her teens she was enlisted to fight a war against a subterranean race of Lizard people. They usually consist of 50 pages smeared in generic social trite and scum that most people have either experienced or know somebody who has, such epic page turners along the lines of “OH I HAD A HARD LIFE WITHOUT A BOYFRIEND” “MY JOB AT MCDONALDS WAS AN AUSCWHITZ OF CONSUMERISM”, those old chestnuts, whereas Parkinson has in depth recollections of his friendship with Muhammad Ali, whilst Richards will undoubtedly have some wonderfully revealing stories of some of the best known musicians of the 20th century. It’s as if people read these ‘I actually think people care’ autobiographies to make themselves feel better about their own lives, be it a tedious job or an unfortunate lacklustre social life; by reading books by people such as Jodie Marsh you can at least feel far more intelligent and a better person, simply for guessing how many times she used spell-check on each page alone. It’s like a Victorian gentleman kicking the shins of a shoeshine boy before beating him with his cane, although for a tenner, and it makes you realise that anybody could publish an autobiography and slap ‘MY STORY’ on the end, that’s right even you! GO NOW! WRITE A BOOK! It’ll no doubt enter the top 10 because our current society is nothing more than celebrity hungry amoebas, stripped of any rationality or sanity!
That’s another thing that irks me, the “My Story” tagline, as if we had no idea that a book featuring the punch-worthy mug of Pete from BB would be about him, but we assumed it’d be 200 pages of dirty limericks and a crude retelling of Morgan Freeman’s rise to fame, before descending into wacked out conspiracy theories with titles along the lines of ‘CRACKERS, ALIEN BOG ROLL?’, thanks for patronising us Pete from BB...you idiotic lout. Another ‘shocker’ about Keith’s autobiography, alongside Parkinson and a small minority is that they’re releasing them long after middle age has come and gone, Keith will be 66 when his book hits shelves, so that’s pretty much 50+ years of his life in this book, what a damn autobiography should be. Katie Price is 31, and has so far released 3 autobiographies, THREE; she’s pretty much beaten the meaning with a large rod and set it alight. That’s probably one for each boob (The third is Peter Andre. HAW HAW), and at a rate of one every 2 years it’s going to rival Dan Brown for ‘Book that makes my brain physically hurt every couple of years’. Every 2 years, that’s just ridiculous, it’s a BIOGRAPHY OF HER LIFE not a bloody horror franchise, although....
No, easy jokes later. But yes...I’ve sort of lost track of where I was heading toward now, oh bugger. I blame Jordan and all the other self obsessed cesspools of image over talent...
I was going to end this with a predictable joke about me going back to writing my autobiography, but I’ll save that for my second rant about the same damn thing in 2 years.
“40 years ago I wrote some songs with Mick...I played a Pirate...I think it was a Pirate...yeah, definitely was a Pirate. Then I wrote this...I sure do love drugs, yes I do”
Keith is the sort of person destined to write an autobiography, because he’s essentially bursting at the leathery seams with highly interesting and fascinating anecdotes, although it’s likely he’s got far more brilliant ones that have been lost in the haze of inhaling things other than ‘Vic’. The shelves are currently host to books by reality TV stars and pointless attention whoring morons, and occasionally somebody of note will pop up amidst the ‘Chantelles’ and the ‘Hiltons’, such as Julie Walters or Michel Parkinson, but it’s very rare and far too few, like finding a skittle in a mountain of lard. The fact people honestly read these books is just dumbfounding, I highly doubt that Chantelle from BB had an early life chock full of zany exploits and armchair gripping tension, unless at some point during her teens she was enlisted to fight a war against a subterranean race of Lizard people. They usually consist of 50 pages smeared in generic social trite and scum that most people have either experienced or know somebody who has, such epic page turners along the lines of “OH I HAD A HARD LIFE WITHOUT A BOYFRIEND” “MY JOB AT MCDONALDS WAS AN AUSCWHITZ OF CONSUMERISM”, those old chestnuts, whereas Parkinson has in depth recollections of his friendship with Muhammad Ali, whilst Richards will undoubtedly have some wonderfully revealing stories of some of the best known musicians of the 20th century. It’s as if people read these ‘I actually think people care’ autobiographies to make themselves feel better about their own lives, be it a tedious job or an unfortunate lacklustre social life; by reading books by people such as Jodie Marsh you can at least feel far more intelligent and a better person, simply for guessing how many times she used spell-check on each page alone. It’s like a Victorian gentleman kicking the shins of a shoeshine boy before beating him with his cane, although for a tenner, and it makes you realise that anybody could publish an autobiography and slap ‘MY STORY’ on the end, that’s right even you! GO NOW! WRITE A BOOK! It’ll no doubt enter the top 10 because our current society is nothing more than celebrity hungry amoebas, stripped of any rationality or sanity!
That’s another thing that irks me, the “My Story” tagline, as if we had no idea that a book featuring the punch-worthy mug of Pete from BB would be about him, but we assumed it’d be 200 pages of dirty limericks and a crude retelling of Morgan Freeman’s rise to fame, before descending into wacked out conspiracy theories with titles along the lines of ‘CRACKERS, ALIEN BOG ROLL?’, thanks for patronising us Pete from BB...you idiotic lout. Another ‘shocker’ about Keith’s autobiography, alongside Parkinson and a small minority is that they’re releasing them long after middle age has come and gone, Keith will be 66 when his book hits shelves, so that’s pretty much 50+ years of his life in this book, what a damn autobiography should be. Katie Price is 31, and has so far released 3 autobiographies, THREE; she’s pretty much beaten the meaning with a large rod and set it alight. That’s probably one for each boob (The third is Peter Andre. HAW HAW), and at a rate of one every 2 years it’s going to rival Dan Brown for ‘Book that makes my brain physically hurt every couple of years’. Every 2 years, that’s just ridiculous, it’s a BIOGRAPHY OF HER LIFE not a bloody horror franchise, although....
No, easy jokes later. But yes...I’ve sort of lost track of where I was heading toward now, oh bugger. I blame Jordan and all the other self obsessed cesspools of image over talent...
I was going to end this with a predictable joke about me going back to writing my autobiography, but I’ll save that for my second rant about the same damn thing in 2 years.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Clubbing
A short piece I wrote for my Creative Writing coursework, based on a fictional character during an awkward situation.
This is essentially how I feel about said subject, and the events are pieced together from various 'excursions'....
We opened the door and I knew immediately I wasn’t going to enjoy this night, I didn’t know why exactly but I knew I wasn’t going to be enthralled for the next 3 hours, perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of this place and the feeling of dread on par with somebody running at you with a samurai sword and a disgruntled expression or hearing the words ‘now on BBC one, the ONE SHOW”. I’d done it, something I particularly never liked the look of or appealed to me, I’d been dragged clubbing, forced even! With trite excuses and a large amount of guilt tripping along the lines of ‘it’s my birthday, you’ve got to come!’ I was coerced into either going or being viewed as some sort of social misanthrope who refused to comply with the wishes of somebody on their birthday, in this day and age that’s on par with shooting the person in the knees apparently. I should have tweaked that I wasn’t going to enjoy this when I saw the mass of people queuing outside; for the record, the only thing I’m willing to queue for is Thunder Mountain at Disneyland or a booth to hurl chip fat at David Cameron. One of my friends re-assured me that this large amount of people meant quality, I recall him in the queue trying to get me interested.
“Come on Damien, loads of people are queuing outside, it must be good!”
“You could say that about Nazi polling booths or tickets for Girls Aloud”
I fell on deaf ears as my 5 other friends queued up anyway, reluctantly I followed suit. After about 10 minutes of queuing we finally made it to the front and all my friends were let in, as they neared the door a hand pushed in front of me and one of the bouncers spoke in a low, generically gruff voice.
“Sorry mate I’ll need to see some I.D”
Bull-honky. I clearly looked over 18, it was because I was wearing jeans and a Thin Lizzy shirt; I was being discriminated against because I wasn’t dressed like a French working girl or a member of Spandau Ballet. I fumbled around in my wallet whilst doing my best to mumble under my breath irately in a form of pithy rebellion; after shoving my I.D in his face he nodded and I rejoined my friends. One of them pushed the front doors open, bringing me back to the first sentence, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this in the slightest; about a hundred people were all confined to the dance floor, hardly any space between them all as they attempted to ‘dance’, this consisted of girls pretending to pole dance and the men throwing up gang symbols whilst rooted to the spot. I turned to my friends.
“I’m getting a drink”
“WHAT?” Holly motioned with her hand by her ear; the music was louder than I’d thought, even though it seemed to be just below ‘battle of the Somme’. I made a crude drinking motion and walked to the bar and was greeted by a cheery blonde barmaid.
“Hey can I help you?” She smiled, it seemed pretty fake.
“Umm, Oh, just a coke please” I blurted it out like a social cripple asking somebody on a date, I figured I’d rather be sober and have my wits about me at this place; seeing as everybody else was pretty much drunk like a priest at an orphanage, it’d give me some small moral victory. The barmaid returned after a minute or so and laid a small glass in front of me.
“That’ll be Two fifty please”
“Oh I’m sorry, I ordered a coke”
“Yeah...it’s two fifty” her expression became one of exasperation as she mentally assumed I was an idiot.
“Two fifty?! I ordered a coke not shares in Disney”
“Hey It’s a club, what do you expect?”
“You’ve got me there”
I grabbed my overpriced fizzy pop and spun around, my stomach lurched a little bit. My friends were gone; they’d completely vanished from their previous spot and had presumably dispersed into the crowd. I had no intention of standing at the bar by myself like a Dad at a school disco so I decided to seize the day and charge headlong into the crowd of dancers to find them. I pushed through the crowd for about 15 minutes, muttering “Excuse me” and “Sorry” to everybody I nudged, which in this environment was ALL OF THEM. Half way across something latched onto my arm, I spun around and was confronted with a girl who’d obviously had far too much to drink; she’d obviously just turned 18 and was relishing the chance to replace her blood content with vodka. She gripped at my shirt with all the intensity of somebody having a fit and dragged me towards her.
“HEY! LET’S DANCE!!”
“Sorry, I’m looking for my friends”
“I can be a friend”
As much as my self esteem would have loved getting hit on by somebody far too drunk to remain upright, I passed up her offer by pretending to dance only to fall back into the crowd and disappear like a groovy ninja, spending another 10 minutes navigating the place. When I made it to the edge of the dance floor I saw what can only be described as my friend’s huddled like a batch of giggling teenage school girls.
“Hey guys, thanks for ditching me”
Totally ignoring what I’d just said, Steve, a less than intelligent, stocky friend of mine cried out
“DAMIEN! Jack’s pulled!”
“What...a muscle?”
He then grabbed my head and spun it in the direction of my friend Jack, or more importantly, the obviously intoxicated sixteen year old wrapped around his face like some crude, whorish scarf. They were kissing with all the enthusiasm of, well, two drunken strangers who shared a mutual love of having no morals. They continued this for about 5 minutes, my friends cheering with all the enthusiasm as if it was some sort Roman blood-sport, only to suddenly pull apart, whereupon Jack then whispered something in her ear. She was obviously less than delighted at what he’d said, perhaps it was her shocked expression, or her cry of “PERVERT” before flailing her arms at him and skipping off to her friends. Jack stormed over and without stopping by us walked to the door
“We’re leaving, it’s my birthday and I want to leave”
Relieved I led the charge out of this place, like X fighters triumphantly escaping from the exploding death star. It’s pretty much lines like that which show I’m not the sort of person for these places...
This is essentially how I feel about said subject, and the events are pieced together from various 'excursions'....
We opened the door and I knew immediately I wasn’t going to enjoy this night, I didn’t know why exactly but I knew I wasn’t going to be enthralled for the next 3 hours, perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of this place and the feeling of dread on par with somebody running at you with a samurai sword and a disgruntled expression or hearing the words ‘now on BBC one, the ONE SHOW”. I’d done it, something I particularly never liked the look of or appealed to me, I’d been dragged clubbing, forced even! With trite excuses and a large amount of guilt tripping along the lines of ‘it’s my birthday, you’ve got to come!’ I was coerced into either going or being viewed as some sort of social misanthrope who refused to comply with the wishes of somebody on their birthday, in this day and age that’s on par with shooting the person in the knees apparently. I should have tweaked that I wasn’t going to enjoy this when I saw the mass of people queuing outside; for the record, the only thing I’m willing to queue for is Thunder Mountain at Disneyland or a booth to hurl chip fat at David Cameron. One of my friends re-assured me that this large amount of people meant quality, I recall him in the queue trying to get me interested.
“Come on Damien, loads of people are queuing outside, it must be good!”
“You could say that about Nazi polling booths or tickets for Girls Aloud”
I fell on deaf ears as my 5 other friends queued up anyway, reluctantly I followed suit. After about 10 minutes of queuing we finally made it to the front and all my friends were let in, as they neared the door a hand pushed in front of me and one of the bouncers spoke in a low, generically gruff voice.
“Sorry mate I’ll need to see some I.D”
Bull-honky. I clearly looked over 18, it was because I was wearing jeans and a Thin Lizzy shirt; I was being discriminated against because I wasn’t dressed like a French working girl or a member of Spandau Ballet. I fumbled around in my wallet whilst doing my best to mumble under my breath irately in a form of pithy rebellion; after shoving my I.D in his face he nodded and I rejoined my friends. One of them pushed the front doors open, bringing me back to the first sentence, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this in the slightest; about a hundred people were all confined to the dance floor, hardly any space between them all as they attempted to ‘dance’, this consisted of girls pretending to pole dance and the men throwing up gang symbols whilst rooted to the spot. I turned to my friends.
“I’m getting a drink”
“WHAT?” Holly motioned with her hand by her ear; the music was louder than I’d thought, even though it seemed to be just below ‘battle of the Somme’. I made a crude drinking motion and walked to the bar and was greeted by a cheery blonde barmaid.
“Hey can I help you?” She smiled, it seemed pretty fake.
“Umm, Oh, just a coke please” I blurted it out like a social cripple asking somebody on a date, I figured I’d rather be sober and have my wits about me at this place; seeing as everybody else was pretty much drunk like a priest at an orphanage, it’d give me some small moral victory. The barmaid returned after a minute or so and laid a small glass in front of me.
“That’ll be Two fifty please”
“Oh I’m sorry, I ordered a coke”
“Yeah...it’s two fifty” her expression became one of exasperation as she mentally assumed I was an idiot.
“Two fifty?! I ordered a coke not shares in Disney”
“Hey It’s a club, what do you expect?”
“You’ve got me there”
I grabbed my overpriced fizzy pop and spun around, my stomach lurched a little bit. My friends were gone; they’d completely vanished from their previous spot and had presumably dispersed into the crowd. I had no intention of standing at the bar by myself like a Dad at a school disco so I decided to seize the day and charge headlong into the crowd of dancers to find them. I pushed through the crowd for about 15 minutes, muttering “Excuse me” and “Sorry” to everybody I nudged, which in this environment was ALL OF THEM. Half way across something latched onto my arm, I spun around and was confronted with a girl who’d obviously had far too much to drink; she’d obviously just turned 18 and was relishing the chance to replace her blood content with vodka. She gripped at my shirt with all the intensity of somebody having a fit and dragged me towards her.
“HEY! LET’S DANCE!!”
“Sorry, I’m looking for my friends”
“I can be a friend”
As much as my self esteem would have loved getting hit on by somebody far too drunk to remain upright, I passed up her offer by pretending to dance only to fall back into the crowd and disappear like a groovy ninja, spending another 10 minutes navigating the place. When I made it to the edge of the dance floor I saw what can only be described as my friend’s huddled like a batch of giggling teenage school girls.
“Hey guys, thanks for ditching me”
Totally ignoring what I’d just said, Steve, a less than intelligent, stocky friend of mine cried out
“DAMIEN! Jack’s pulled!”
“What...a muscle?”
He then grabbed my head and spun it in the direction of my friend Jack, or more importantly, the obviously intoxicated sixteen year old wrapped around his face like some crude, whorish scarf. They were kissing with all the enthusiasm of, well, two drunken strangers who shared a mutual love of having no morals. They continued this for about 5 minutes, my friends cheering with all the enthusiasm as if it was some sort Roman blood-sport, only to suddenly pull apart, whereupon Jack then whispered something in her ear. She was obviously less than delighted at what he’d said, perhaps it was her shocked expression, or her cry of “PERVERT” before flailing her arms at him and skipping off to her friends. Jack stormed over and without stopping by us walked to the door
“We’re leaving, it’s my birthday and I want to leave”
Relieved I led the charge out of this place, like X fighters triumphantly escaping from the exploding death star. It’s pretty much lines like that which show I’m not the sort of person for these places...
The Cinema Experience
I saw the Transformers 2 movie earlier this week and thoroughly enjoyed it, as I’m a man with a penis. It had gotten a lot of bad reviews when released though, most of it aimed like a scathing longbow towards the plot....yes, in a movie consisting of giant robots beating seven shades of crap out of each other, people expected a plot. This is (apart from missing the point more than Abu Hamza at Laser quest) extremely pithy, like complaining that Jackie Chan movies have bad acting or Porn doesn’t have brilliant mise-en-scene. It appears that society hasn’t progressed to the p oint of a collective intelligence where people can assume a movie a) Based on a rocking awesome 80s cartoon b) By Michael Bay, has a plot that doesn’t measure up to whatever neurotic relationship-crisis farce Woody Allen is vomiting out. ANYWAY, before the movie started there was the expected advert warning people not to record the movie on their phones, as it’s a criminal offense apparently on par with murdering a family and eating their innards whilst pissing on the Queen. I say let people record the movie on a tiny, low quality, tinny sounding fart of a machine that essentially simulates the effect of watching TV whilst banging your head on an anvil; in fact, the government should have a special branch dedicated to recording the most recent movies on a crappy Japanese phone before uploading them to a legally appointed site. Want to know why? Because people will watch them at home, idiots mostly, massive DNA abusing idiots will watch these movies. And because of this, it means these idiots will not be at the cinema when we decent folk want to see these movies, think of it; no imbecilic teenagers shouting terrible insults at the screen, no rustling of food, no beeping of sodding phones, no prick at the front who does some ‘ironic’ dance when ‘The final countdown’ plays in an advert and assumes he’s the funniest man in the history of the entire bloody world, whilst everybody else wants to stab him with crude shives fashioned from a bag of revels. (This is silly, as everybody knows they’d make a much better suffocation device). By taking these people out of cinemas I reckon the enjoyment level rise by at least 38%, and while we’re at it let’s get rid of adverts all right? This is simply out of a form of impatience in all honesty; I’ve paid £5 to see a movie, not sit through 20 minutes of shameless corporate whoring that I get on TV/The Internet/sides of busses/ some man carve into my arm in the street. In fact this is probably counterproductive for the companies; imagine being at a Morrisons or something and browsing for well, food obviously, you go to grab some Bertolli olive oil only to suddenly have your brain scream like a madman “Wait a minute, this was a 3 minute advert at the cinema, delaying the arrival of that wacky yet quasi emotional Judd Apatow movie I paid to see!! SOD OFF BERTOLLI! I’M GETTING CLOVER! THEIR ADVERTS MAY BE RIDICULOUS TO THE POINT OF SELF MOCKERY AND EMOTIONAL BLUDGEONING BUT AT LEAST THEY DON’T PLASTER THEM ALL OVER THE SCREEN AT THE CINEMA!! So yeah, morons and adverts, let’s do our best to eradicate these from the cinema experience like some foul pestilent little cockroaches.
Also Transformers 2 is bloody terrific.
Also Transformers 2 is bloody terrific.
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