Rusty Stream

The Diary of Joseph Cooper - Day 1 It's a little cold for this time of year. While the sun shines majestically over the tops of houses that surround me, the cold bite of the strong wind acts as a reminder that it's not quite summer yet. I ask myself if I will live to see the summer. A neighbour walks by my front door as I smoke my cigarette, a greyhound is attached to the other end of the leash. I've often wondered why Greyhounds walk the way they do. Some dogs drudge along slowly, others have legs so short they seem to be in a constant sprint. A greyhound walks gracefully, with tiny invisible springs attached to it's paws it lightly bounces along the surface below. It treats every step like a ballet recital. I finish my cigarette and head back indoors. It is as good a day as any to convince people the World is going to end. I suppose I should document why I think the World is going to end, just in case post-apocalyptic ants which have grown to the size of farmyard animals develop the ability to read. Did you know that ants will bridge a gap between two ant-hills using their own bodies? Of course you did, you're the Ant Overlord who has learned to read. I hope you enjoy the planet I once called "home", it really was much nicer before it ended. Aesthetically, anyway. There were beautiful sites, both land-made and man-made. On your travels to this document you will no doubt have visited many landmarks, none of which resemble what they once did. Unfortunately they were smashed in the face by nuclear war/global warming/skynet* (*delete as applicable). The green trees, the blue sky, the oddly rust coloured stream near where I grew up. It was full of discarded shopping trollies and surrounded by a thick forest which would've made it an ideal site to commit murder or rape. When I fell from a tree swing head-first into the orange goo; it's a memory I will have fondly remembered and forgotten by the time this is read. It's very difficult to remember a dream. There's a brief period when you first open your eyes after sleeping where it's difficult to distinguish whether your dream was actually real or not. You may have been flying through the air at great speed, enjoying a night out with friends, having frantic sex with a famouser you are never likely to meet, or maybe you've played so many video games that when you sleep you replay the game, in perfect detail, in your head. The dream I had last night was different, in the way this particular situation has never happened to me before. I remember it being very bright and wet, as the light glanced off the green leaves of trees towering above me and shot straight into my eyes. The ground was soil. I checked my feet for mud. I noticed a line of ants crawling up the side of a gravestone, just generally going about their business. I lifted my head to see a hill covered in grass. A man was standing on it's top. I knew before my sight could recognise the figure that it was my father. I walked over at a slow pace but my feet were carried quickly by an unseeable current. We were both sat on the hill when he told me the World was going to end in 30 days. I awoke slowly, but quickly tried to make notes of what I had just witnessed. A few scribbles to remind me of the moment, and the feeling. The feeling was that it was too real to have been a dream. Perhaps my subconcious travelled to an alternate reality. I've pieced together all I can from what I remember. All I know for certain was it felt like a warning, a very heartfelt warning. Maybe this is what I need to give my life a little direction, a purpose. I can't escape the feeling that this really happened, and I can't just ignore the feeling in my stomach. It's possibly the curry I ate last night. The World is going to end in 30 days. I will try and call a few close friends and advise them of what I have experienced. I am quite certain they won't believe me. I need to visit my father too.

The Morbid Curiosity of Man

I was walking through Asda car park when I spotted around 6 full carrier bags spinning quickly through the air. They were attached to the arms of a woman who had just tripped on a kerb, and faceplanted on the concrete soon after. Fortunately I was far enough away that I didn't feel obliged to offer assistance, meaning I could piss myself laughing at the calamity. I wished I could've gotten that moment on camera.

What would we do with a device that could record our every moment? Something is inserted into your brain or eye socket giving you the opportunity to keep and share whatever you see or do with the rest of the World. It's not too far removed from what we currently do with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and other social media means. We chronicle nearly every moment of our dull lives and share it with people that aren't really bothered.

@ValveCannon - "I just had a shit. It smelled like shit"

@TurdJunction - "Oh wowzers, look at what I've just eaten. LOL" twitpic shows snapshot of a tired looking ham sandwich

@HammerSmashFace - "Haha, just heard Eddie Murphy is dead. AGAIN! RT!

The difference would be you could live video feed directly from your life onto your TV screen. Realistically, are we far away from such a technological development?


The better of you will notice that I'm taking my lead from a couple of TV shows; Futurama, and Black Mirror.

Futurama series 5 (I refuse to count the feature length episodes as a separate series) episode 3 was called "The Eye-Phone" and featured a product much like what I mention above. Bearing in mind the show is set in the year 3000. Although it partly focusses on the behaviour of those people that love Apple products so much they would marry one given a chance, the main story centres around the ability to gain popularity through recording your life and posting funny clips to YouTube. It's one of the better episodes of the series and I recommend you watch it (available on US Netflix).

Episode 3 of Black Mirror is called "The Entire History of You" and, rather than the fun japery of the Planet Express Crew, this looks at a different kind of human nature when employing the "record your life" idea. It takes things a step further and leads you down a very dark corridor, and is tremendous viewing if you want to study the morbid curiosity of our being. The whole chuffing episode is available online to watch for free! Free, for fucks sake. You're still reading this fairly poor effort? Here, lazy person, is the link to the episode, copy and paste it into your browser. No excuses. No "I'm a Celebrity". Just watch this. Now. http://www.channel4.com/programmes/black-mirror/4od

Hopefully after that gentle push you've watched some truly excellent, thought-provoking television and returned to see if my writing gets any better in the second half. I wouldn't hold out much hope. My brain has been addled by a diet of exercise lately and it seems to be stifling my brain. However, like Hitler, I'll push forward.

You ever see those posts on Facebook where someone hasn't logged out and their mates have accessed it writing something fucking brilliant like "I love the cock", or the ever-popular and entirely original "I'm Gay". However dull, these "jokes" are generally a bit of harmless banter. From time to time we spot one which might just be a little more sinister, like a boyfriend who is posting on his girlfriend's Facebook status. They will post something mildly humorous (see above examples) but what they are really saying is "I have accessed your Facebook account just so you know I can check your messages at any time". Something not right there at all, but there are a lot of people out there who would do it as well given a chance. Checked your partner's phone to read their text messages? Gone through their bag? Put their underpants on your head, cut up all of their clothing and danced through their till receipts? You're not alone. Ask yourself, what is the best outcome, what do you expect to achieve? Most likely you find nothing. That's because most of us lead a fairly simple life and we are trustworthy. Then you're left feeling guilty at the fact you didn't trust them in the first place. So you check again in a few weeks because you're now convinced that they must've expected you to check so deleted anything incriminating. Or maybe you find something that confirms your partner has been doing something extra-curricular with your best friend. Which basically results is colossal fuck ups for all concerned. Just imagine if you could access all your partners thoughts and memories on a hard drive? There is no winner here. You will be left with only a hollow victory, taking nothing but a grim satisfaction that you were right. Think Geoff Tipps shouting "Well at least I won that one". That's you, that is.

While it would definitely be fun to record someone tripping over a kerb, slipping slightly on a wet surface, or being attacked by a feral cat I'm not entirely convinced that such an advancement in technology would benefit our people. We're just not ready. Still, if you could've seen that poor bastard falling over in Asda car park!

50 Shades of Shit

Bit of an easy title really. Not particularly happy about it. I initially thought "50 Shits of Shit" so feel free to name this piece with either of the titles given. You know, whichever sums up your feelings about this book. Can't go a day this past month or so without hearing a female talk about this, or more specifically the main guy Christian Grey (who, for the purposes of this collection of words will be known as Christian Shit). I would like to point out that I have only read 8 pages of the first book and will not be reading any further. However I have heard much of the story being told in my office, and detailed descriptions of the sex people and their sex acts. It is quite obvious that although it is written from the perspective of a woman it has very little to do with her, rather the sexual charms of her counterpart. Mr Shit.

The 8 pages I have read are laughable, and I mean laughable as in the sheer disbelief that something could be so poorly written. It's like a 5 year old being asked to imagine sex with an older sibling and then ordered to write about it. I've heard from the sorry sods who have read all 3 books that this doesn't get any better and the novelty of sauciness is soon replaced by the boredom of repeated sexual encounters described in the repeated unimaginative ways. But rather than berate someone who has sold millions of something, no matter how poor, I'm more concerned with the female reaction to Mr Shit.

He is unfathomably handsome, rich and a narcissist. Oh, and he is also a dominant sexual being. So dominant the females in his life should be nothing more than sex slaves bending, both figuratively and literally, to his wants and needs. I'm sure there's plenty of females wondering what my point is, and some males too who would like their women to be submissive and plain. But how far would you really be willing to go if this was happening in your real life? Of the many faults I can only imagine Mr Shit has there are two which I actually know about, and they are enough to make someone's toes curl to the point the actually dislocate and reach your knees.

1. "Hold tight, baby". When I asked to read some of the book in question I specifically asked for a part with sex in. The scene was in a lift, Mr Shit gets buckled into Miss Bland ripping her underwear and hitching her skirt up, the manly bastard. Just before he penetrates her with the fleshy nozzle of his man-fork he says those words. "Hold tight, baby". I laughed until I stopped. This is obviously an example of the poor, unskilled writing I mentioned earlier but women reading are supposed to be daydreaming about being in this situation and I have to ask you, seriously, what would you do if your partner/boss/brother gets you all hot and ready for a cockslam and says those words. Those exact words. Your ladyparts would shut quicker than Joseph Fritzl's cellar door when he hears his wife coming down the stairs. And rightly so. No-one of sane mind would want to hear that, and any man who feels comfortable saying that should be physically removed from the area, and then from life itself.

It does say a lot about the character but it says even more about the women that read the book and find Mr Shit to be an attractive suitor. The man is so confident in his ability to fuck that he has lost control of his brain. I am of the opinion that even if he was the God of Fuck and he had a massive cock capable of latching onto your g-spot it couldn't be enjoyable as those words would still be haunting your head. Honestly, what a fucking dick, thinking he can get away with saying whatever he wants to a bird. The writer and the character certainly don't understand the epic amounts of effort and luck it takes a man to get into that fortunate position in the first place and I'm sure that there isn't a man reading that would waste all his hard graft by saying something so fucking ridiculous. Ladies, I don't have you pegged as a shallow lot. Honestly some of you are actually intelligent people with valued opinions. If you would be willing to ignore these words for a shot at money and sex then tie this rope around your leg and throw yourself from this moving train, allowing your face and tattered vaj to be dragged for 20 miles over hot sharp gravel.

2. The Sex Contract. Apparently Mr Shit is not content with getting his legover and being grateful for the opportunity like us mere mortals. He draws up a sex contract, a list of things he not just wants, but actually expects from Miss Bland when they take part in horizontal jogging. 1% of me understands why this would be necessary. Sex games are dangerous, just ask Michael Hutchence, who you can't ask because he's dead from a sex game. Drawing up limits and boundaries seems like a safe way to take part in this book about a woman being dominated by a man and his sexual requirements. Forgive me if I'm wrong but sometimes the best part about sex, apart from actually getting to have sex, is the spontaneity. The simple fact that you don't know what is going to happen next is what makes it fun and desirable, and you're certainly not going to get that if you have to stop just before you kiss someone to give them a list of demands. "As much as I would like to continue with this exchange of fluids I just have to ask you to read, understand, and accept this list of sexual expectations. By signing you are agreeing to take part in whatever I deem necessary, will most likely include some, if not all of the aforementioned list". The mood would turn quicker that that time I turned up at a child's funeral wearing my clown outfit.

The whole idea is preposterous and reeks of a person that is not interested in the person he is having sex with but rather what he can actually get her to do. One of the things sticks out more than the rest, for me anyway. A part of the contract states that, should he want to, he will fist the girl in her arse. Just so we're not under any confusion here I mean he wants to take his actual fist and insert it into the place in which she shits from. That is simply one of the worst things I've ever heard in my entire life, and I once sat through a whole episode of "King of Queens". I am of medium build and height and my clenched fist measure 5 inches across. I'm certain that there will be some liberal minded females who have took a cock up the arse before, and I'm pretty certain that even the larger of cocks could only be a couple of inches wide. Not talking about mine, of course. Unfortunately I fell out of the penis tree, misunderstood the whole process, and purposely avoided contact with every branch on the way down. I've had a few memorable shits in my lifetime which have been colossal in size, felt like they were coming out sideways and certainly enough to make me weep. They could only have been a couple of inches wide. All of the above points to the fact that something registering 5 inches in width should not be inserted into anyone's arse.

Apart from it being unnatural in the physical sense it is also the idea of someone who's brain just wasn't wired up the correct way. I can understand that mental stimulation is a very important part of the whole disgusting act of sex. Different smells and sounds and feelings can provoke numerous different responses of arousal. The strangest one for me was the time I was about to have sex out the back of a fish shop and I jizzed in my pants due to the smell of the fat fryer. The expectation is also a fun part of the process, knowing that from when you kiss a certain person there's a probability that at some point you will get the chance to spunk in her face and run away laughing your head off. What sort of person gets turned on at the thought of arse fisting, seriously? Regardless of whether you're the fister or the fistee it can't be pleasurable. The excitement of expectation would be replaced by fear of having your arsehole turned from small opening to mouth of a yawning dog in a matter of minutes. Am I the only person thinking this is just fucking weird?

I think we can all agree we have covered something pretty disturbing here. Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that women still find this man attractive to the point where they have scornful thoughts and actions towards their respective partners for not being exactly like this cretin. I'm sure that females will defend themselves by telling us he has many other great and desirable qualities, that in the book Miss Blandy McBlandpants actually opposes the act of arse fisting and has it removed from the sex contract. But that isn't the point. The point is he actually thought about performing this act and suggested it, and you still fantasize about him.

And that makes you fucked up.

Sally and The Moon

It started off as a joke. We were driving home from a lovely date on a Tuesday night. Tuesday was always date night, a middle of the week time when neither of us had plans, and it was cheap tickets at the local cinema also. The moon was larger than usual. Actually, it was probably the same size as it always is but it certainly looked bigger. It was glowing somewhere between yellow and orange. I imagined the Sun on the other side of the World forcing its rays upon the Moon that we could see. “Oh you terrible Sun”, it would say, “I am meant to only shine white and grey yet I can’t resist your brightly lit charms”. It was certainly strange to see the Moon in this state. The mist of a black cloud would float past it now and again, giving it an eerie look, like it had decided to grow a patchy pubescent beard but disposed of it almost instantly after seeing how shit it looked. “That moon looks amazing tonight, but also very creepy” I said to him as he drove me home. “Yeah, amazing”, he responded. “You know what I heard”, he continued, “It’s coming to get you!” He then broke into his signature infectious cackle, like a child being constantly amused by its own stupidity.

He was always amusing himself at my nervous disposition, making good-natured fun of me at every possible opportunity. I would always laugh too as laughter is what brought us together. He liked to make people laugh, and I liked that he made me laugh. As much as I admired his physical attributes, when we broke up it was always the laughter that I missed, and despised the silence that replaced it. If I ever mentioned something looked creepy or sinister his stock answer would always be “It’s coming to get you”, said in a high-pitched voice and always followed by a chuckle direct from his belly. Most things wouldn’t bother me, like the time he told me that Pennywise the Clown from Steven King’s “IT” was waiting for me in the back seat of my car, although I did have to check upon entering the vehicle. There was something different about this night, something about the Moon which had latched onto part of my brain. I had no fear that it was actually coming to get me. Surely if that happened it would take out half of the World as well, but that didn’t stop me thinking about it. The image of this moon would always be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, waiting for me to shut them at night.

Then he died. You don’t expect to hear bad news on sunny days. TV and Movies would suggest that heartbreak can only be delivered under a raincloud and grey skies that would depress even the happiest of idiots, yet there it was as I stood looking out of my window when I took the phone call from his father. I remember not crying, and feeling bad about it. All I remember from the conversation was “steered from the road” and “it was too late”. All I remember was the sun shining as it sucked all the enjoyment from the World.

I suppose the funeral was as good as could be expected. I tried to talk with his friends as they walked by me but all I could see was black ties and blank faces. The Sun was shining that day too. He always said that he wanted to walk in front of his own Funeral car, a grin on his face as he marched to his rest suspended by strings in a macabre life-sized marionette show. Upon reaching the graveside he would rip away his trousers to let the whole World know he would be buried in his “Invincible Iron Man” undershorts. I never could quite work out if he was serious or not, and this was part of the intrigue he gave while we were together. Never malicious, always mischievous. He was laid to rest by the sounds of Chopin, Prelude 15, “Raindrop”. It accompanied a trailer for one of his favourite video games, and was very fitting. If anything about that day ever could be.

The next few weeks were filled with numbness, like I had fallen asleep one day and forgot to wake up. I felt most definitely awake on this particular night when I visited the Chapel of Rest. The room was covered in wood panelling and despite the varnish all you could smell was the cold of death in the air. I was dressed in black, but a yellow and orange veil covered my face. I didn’t notice this till I looked down into the open coffin and laid my eyes upon him through a rusty tint. His eyes were closed, he looked peaceful. I stood there for a few moments not knowing what to do with myself, and wondering if he would spring back to life like a zombie and lunge towards me. I immediately thought about how ridiculous that sounded in my head and in an attempt to lighten my own mood I gazed across his still body wondering what underwear he had on. As I chuckled to myself I noticed the beginnings of a grin creep across his face.

I opened my eyes at this point in shock. Had it all been a dream? I was in my bed, in my room, and wearing my pyjamas. I sat up quickly and my mind began to catch up with itself. I frantically tried to recall what my subconscious and I had just witnessed but before I had the chance I noticed a similar glow covering my body, the same as my dreamed veil. I was being bathed in a dull fire, my skin displaying the embers left behind before it extinguished completely. I turned my head over my shoulder slowly, my eyes wide, and I saw it staring back at me. The Moon was as large as the night we first noticed it together, that same colour was filling my room. It got closer. I got to my feet and took a couple of small steps towards the window and opened it. It was growing in size as it seemingly flew ever closer to me. As it appeared to be scaling the rooftops of nearby houses I realised that this couldn’t be the Moon, it must be much larger in real life. Were my eyes cheating me? I had woken up, I couldn’t still be dreaming? I stepped back from the window fearful that it would crush my house and me along with it, but it slowed and eventually stopped. I cautiously approached my open window once more and stared in sheer amazement at the sight before me. A smile appeared across its face, and opened. “Hello, Sally” it said, “I’ve come to speak with you for a while.”

I questioned my reality once more as it was now not only my eyes that were deceiving me but also my ears. Despite all of this that was supposedly happening, and how impossible it was, I felt strangely comforted. It was now glowing a brilliant white, with patches of grey streaking through its face. Its smile was welcoming, and its voice sounded deep and commanding, well-spoken but softly subtle. While the air would usually be cool on a dark night I was surprisingly warm. With this feeling surrounding my well-being I opened the window and stepped out onto the canopy below which sheltered my front door. “What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked. While I felt quite comfortable I was understandably nervous about addressing a planet. “We can talk about whatever you wish, my dear girl,” he answered. “A perk of being the Moon in the night sky is that I can hear everything and everyone, and fortunately I am a very good listener.” I thought about what I wanted to say next but found that I was tongue-tied in my own head. His voice was quieter than I imagined. Up until now I only thought of the Moon as a cold rock that appeared over a cover of darkness. It was a signal of spoiling my fun as a child as when the Moon came out it was time for bed. My opinion, however, was changing.

I slowly sat down with my legs crossed; the canopy was dry and leafy. While I got the impression the Moon in front of me was patient it looked at me expectantly so I said the first thing I could think of: “You’re not as big as I expected.” Its smile grew larger as it let out a quiet laugh. The smile looked so familiar. It stayed quiet for a few seconds and to interrupt this I spoke again. “I mean, you are pretty big but I was taught from a young age that you were near the same size of the Earth. So how can you now be 100 feet tall and wide and floating in front of me outside of my house?” He gazed upon me with eyes that looked like craters formed over 1000s of years but the smile never shifted or broke. “I think the answer is obvious, don’t you?” he replied. “This isn’t real, is it? I’m imagining this while I’m sleeping, aren’t I? It must be impossible” I answered very quickly, the thoughts in my head now spilling out of my mouth. “Some of what you say is indeed true, and I’m sure you could’ve guessed this from when I first began to travel to where we are now,” he said knowingly, “but just because you might be dreaming doesn’t make this any less real”.

A few moments were needed for me to process what I had just heard. There was only one way I thought I could be sure of whether this was real or not. I definitely wanted it to be real. I got to my feet and reached forward with a trembling hand and an open heart. The Moon seemed to know what I was thinking and rotated towards me, as if to lean its non-existent shoulder in my direction. As I touched the Moon I felt exhilarated and excited, overjoyed at the fact that if I could touch it, it must be real. It looked solid and cold but felt soft and warm on my hands. I reached out my other hand and took hold. Before I knew it I was scaling the Moon until I reached the top. The craters looked up at me and it asked me to sit. It wasn’t until I noticed my house getting smaller that I realised we were rising into the sky.

We spoke for what felt like hours as we drifted slowly through the air. It was like a first date except comfortable with easy conversation, no awkward silences and no expectation of sex at the end of it. So nothing like a first date at all, really. He told me his favourite films were a mixture of sci-fi and comedy; he enjoyed rock music but also classical strings. We glided gracefully over houses and fields and rivers as I opened up to him about my childhood dreams, my teenage ambitions, and my first love. He was right, he was a good listener. I got the feeling that he wanted to hear what I had to say, and I was going to say everything I could. I felt liberated by my new friend after weeks of having little feeling towards the World and I wanted to enjoy the experience of life once again. However with the experience of life comes the experience of death. As the Sun started to rise I noticed the first signs of that orange colour appearing on the Moon, like a pretty girl’s cheeks blushing from a boy she likes paying her a compliment for the first time. I was instantly reminded of my dream, the Chapel of Rest, the smile starting on my boyfriend’s face, the shock as I was startled awake. I hadn’t noticed we had stopped. I looked down and it was there, and as the Moon started to descend I felt my chest tighten. He landed and said quietly “Don’t worry, you know why we’re here”. He was right.
I climbed down his face and stood on the wet grass, a cool breeze brushed against my face and pyjama shirt causing me to hold it down. The grave was before me. I knew it was his as I closed my eyes to hold back the tears which were brewing inside. The grave was etched “Never Malicious, Always Mischievous”. My new friend told me “It’s ok, it’s what we are here to do”, and I began to cry. There was no more shock in my system, no more tightness in my chest as I sobbed. The water from my eyes gushed down my face and I felt relief. From my experience this night I realised that I had to get passed the feeling of emptiness. Move on from this but not forget him either. I couldn’t spend my days in an awake coma, hoping that one day the weight of grief would just subside. The enlightenment made me feel slightly embarrassed that it took a chance meeting with the Moon for me to realise this. “Don’t be foolish”, he said as if reading my mind, “Don’t ever think that this was a happening of “chance”.” I placed one hand on the gravestone and smiled, and placed my other hand on the Moon before we rose up into the sky once more. “The Sun is rising”, he said, “and I must be going”.

We arrived back at my home and I jumped back onto the canopy outside my room. I turned with my arms outstretched and although I knew I couldn’t reach the whole way around a planet it was important that I showed my affection and gratitude. I realised, with his help that the finest way to remember my lost love was to laugh and smile as much as possible. Just because I wanted to keep moving forward with my life did not mean I would have to forget where he was. With one foot inside my room I turned and told the moon about the first time me and my boyfriend had experienced him together, the colours and the size, the fact that he was coming to get me. The Moon smiled once last time. “He was right. I was always coming to get you”. It sounded so different, so comforting coming from him, like a verbal hug had just wrapped its invisible arms around me. The smile disappeared and he flew away just as the morning was greeting my neighbours with a new day.

I lay down on my bed and slipped under the duvet. While my eyes were sore I closed them with ease. I was safe in the knowledge that the Moon had come to get me, and that it would always be watching over me from the night sky.

Unlimited

Greggs the Bakers. It's not a real bakers. I know this because I once had the unfortunate job of packing frozen sausage rolls into plastic pallets so they could be dispatched to the shops in your local high street. I lasted a single 12 hour shift and it has to be the worst job I've ever had. Worse than the time I handed out flyers on Northumberland Street for STI awareness dressed as an exclamation point. I bet there are people reading this thinking "howay man Burdis, divvent pick on Greggs", and I'm not really. I fucking love the place. But pre-packed frozen sausage rolls put in a wass oven in a shop does not conjure up the image of a traditional bakery. There is no man wearing a hat that looks like a sexual hybrid between a muffin and a pale white giraffe. I still go there mainly for the stottie cakes. For those who aren't aware a stottie is a large circular bread bun about an inch thick. It's incredibly chewy and makes for great salvation when you're stuck with fucking tinned soup for lunch because it's the week before payday and you can't afford Burger King. A stottie is also a slang term for an erection, for example "Did you see that picture of George Clooney in his underkegs recently being surrounded by sailors? Cos he had a wass stot on". While I haven't had the pleasure of sampling Clooney's Stot I have had my fair share of stottie cakes. I bought one today and while standing in the queue I noticed they were selling a "Limited Edition" Chicken Curry Pastie". I asked myself "What in holy fuck makes it so limited".

Limited edition Pasties, man, really? You look everywhere and someone is selling something that's supposedly limited edition. Limited edition computer games, limited edition underarm deodorant, limited edition toothbrushes. It doesn't really make much sense. What makes them limited? Why are we so fascinated by something that's apparently limited?

Consumerism is a two way street but with specifically designated roadworks. People sell things, we buy things and everything travels smoothly along Consumerism Street. The roadworks are advertising and peer pressure, we hopelessly feed on both of these things without even noticing. Somewhere along the way we lost sight of why we went to the shops in the first place and now we can't enjoy a corned beef pastie anymore. It's just what the common folk eat. We must eat the limited edition pigeon shit pastie, watch as I laugh with flakes of pastry spilling from my uneducated mouth onto the regular editions below. Sellers know that we're going to spend money even if we don't have it so why not mark up the price by a few pence and tell us something is limited edition so they can squeeze that last few quid out of your giro.

So if everything is limited edition doesn't that just make it regular again? Ah it's ok, they will just start creating "Deluxe Editions". CDs are the fucking worst for this and musicians should be fucking ashamed. An album is released and people buy it, listen to it, and hopefully gain some enjoyment from it. The band will tour before and during this album release and pop a few singles out along the way. Not that singles really mean anything anymore. Remember when a band would release 2 singles and on each one you would get some new tracks or live performances and they would only be £1.99 the week before it entered the charts? Unfortunately music downloads have killed the b-side. So they tour and it finishes and it's certainly too much to ask them to release a new album, surely. They still have to spend the money they got from the album release. So they knock out a few tracks and repackage their original album as a "Deluxe Edition". You read it like that and it's fucking ridiculous. If you have songs that weren't good enough for your album they shouldn't be tacked on like some unwanted child at a Christening. If they are good enough then you should be making a new album with them.

One thing that needs clearing up is the definition of a "Limited Edition". This term should be reserved for an item that carries a number, and not a relatively high one either. When they are sold that's it, it will no longer be available. The buyer has a numbered edition of whatever they have purchased and it really is limited as it is one of a kind. Things that are only available for a limited time period are not limited editions. The burgers you buy from McDonalds are not limited editions just because they changed the type of sauce that goes on them and are only available for a month. Homeware products, food, clothing, any number of other things they can stick this label on are not limited because there is an unrelenting supply of them. Please try not to confuse the two differences.

So the next time you pass Greggs and you decide to pass up on the old faithful Corned Beef in favour of a Limited Edition Dog's Bladder and Turkey Neck Pastie just remember it's not the food that's limited, it's your brain function.

Dough-not

I think we all know what to expect by now, why you're reading this, and why I'm writing this. The exaggerated angry man act is plain for everyone to see. Things annoy me, the words spill out of my brain, I litter it with swears and try to make people laugh until they shit themselves. I sincerely hope none of you shit yourselves. Due to my own stupidity I ate a Double Pepperoni pizza last night, covered in jalapenos and mustard. My intolerance for spicy food is only matched by my ignorant attitude towards it resulting in my own close-call situation. If my toilet had legs it would've packed up and fucked off a long time ago. Probably kicking me in the shin on its way out the door. Things annoy me, things annoy you, but much like the Match.com adverts prove there is a level of annoyance which simply gravitates quickly to another level. There are things out there which seemingly melt your brain in frustration when you see them or hear them. If your brain melted you could simply tilt your head to one side and let it slide out, oh sweet release.

Milligans Bakery stands on the corner of Sunderland Rail Station in the City Centre. It does tremendous cheese pasties. A note to all other bakeries out there; we do not want our cheese pasties in a mixture of fluffy potato. We want them oozing with heart-clogging cheesiness. At £1 a pop they are a cheap handy snack. They even do 2 for £1.85, a 15p saving which is, unlike the pasties themselves, not to be sniffed at. The sniffing is part of a required examination to ensure the pasty is not swimming with hot sperm or hiding a rogue toenail. Not that it would stop me from chomping it down. All the 15p savings will go towards my impending heart surgery in later life when the NHS no longer exists and we all require private healthcare at extortionate prices.

Standing outside Milligans there is a poster. It is of a plump child's face biting down on a sugary doughnut, with the slogan "Go on, treat them". The child looks in ecstasy, like he is poisoned and this treat holds the antidote. It's similar to a man's expression of extreme satisfaction after shooting his load or shooting his cat. I actually had a photo of this poster however my barely awake brain decided to delete it instead of emailing it to my computer. It will come of no surprise to you that I reprimanded myself by shouting "You stupid bastard!". I shouldn't give myself such complicated tasks for 15 minutes after waking up, as it results in mistakes like the time I turned up at work wearing odd shoes. Anyway you get the idea, kids fat face shows inexplicable amount of happiness at sweet food all under the banner of explicit and persuasive instruction to the parent/guardian/Clyde the Orangutan from "Every Which Way but Loose".

This poster annoys me to breaking point. Like I've mentioned before there's a time when sweary tantrums just won't do and all you can muster is a shaking of your head from side to side as you feel your spirit breaking. The kid is obviously fat, like quite a few children nowadays. Lack of exercise, too many distractions like the internet and games and mobile phones, and lazy uneducated parenting has resulted in an epidemic of fatsos. It would be good news for the World's over-population, lowering the average lifespan of a human if it wasn't for the fact that medical advancements mean we can live longer no matter how filthy and horrible we are. The only physical problems we will see is a mass of bad backs from carrying huge coffins to their early graves. I've laboured this point before though, so if you wish to read more on fat kids, put this into your eyeballs:

http://buckshotgeorge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/see-saw-that-broke.html

This is more about the slogan that adorns the poster. "Go on, treat them". A parent has been shopping all day with their children in tow, screaming and shouting and knocking things over. Generally acting like titheads to all around the. The parent is at the end of their tether, but then they see the poster. Go on, treat them. This person requires little persuasion, and takes their orders like a good slave. The kids get a "treat" and the parent gets a few minutes peace before it all starts again. The makers of the poster should be fucking ashamed of that slogan. The parents should be ashamed that they are so willingly strong-armed into such a greedy plot. It's fair to say the child is being treated to a life of ridicule and disappointment due to their overweight size and debilitating diabetes.

I would like to be in attendance at that kids funeral. I would rip my own ears off, surgically attach them to the side of my gonads and do an elephant mating dance right in his mother's face. It might not be proving any point that she can draw from but its most definitely what she deserves. Milligans? I hope their offices and bakeries burn to the ground leaving no survivors or remains. Except for those glorious cheese pasties.

Anything Can Happen

Zombies and Vampires. Can't swing a fucking undead cat without hitting one nowadays. Not in actual life, you understand. But on the telly, in books, computer games, the "talkies" at the cinema. Although they have been around for an age it seems pop culture has taken a real liking to them in the 21st century. It's a strange thing to like; Vampires are near invincible undead creatures that feast on us humans, Zombies are near invincible undead creatures that feast on us humans. If they are on a page or behind a TV screen, maybe it's ok for us to be fascinated by them. We are safe on the other side. Or are we? The respective groups are currently most popularly represented by Twilight and The Walking Dead.

Twilight is a love story. It's also fucking shit. It tries to humanise Vampires. I wasn't aware we were being too prejudiced against them? They have unbelievable strength and power and the ability to live forever, but our stories are too cruel and hurt their feelings so why not make them more human in an attempt for the general public to relate to their struggle? The problem there is the humans they are being related to could be replaced by cardboard cutouts with speech bubbles attached showing phrases such as "I'm a miserable cunt", and "Oh look at the new Volvo". The Cullens "cure" Vampires of their urge to kill humans for their blood, teaching them control so they only have to chin animals instead. They sparkle when hit by sunlight. Yes, that's correct. They sparkle in the sunlight. Vampires usually meet a flaming demise when hit by the rays of the sun but here the author thought it would be a bright idea to make them look like a gay disco queen from the 1970's. The Cullens probably have Donna Summer's Greatest Hits on their Pink iPod shuffles. The stupid twats. It's just so fucking bland. Like a clear glass of tap water and a slice of white bread being thrown against a blank canvas.

The Walking Dead on the other hand is a different breed. It takes advantage of what is a tremendous time for serial drama programming. We are fortunate that for every stupid fucking horrible TV Talent show that is made, there is something else out there to watch instead. Because of their length and depth and sheer amount available we have a huge back catalogue of shows we haven't seen. I really do urge you to try one. You will have heard your friends talking about "24" "The Shield" "Dexter", "Twin Peaks", "LOST". Pick one, or any other of the hundreds available, and try it. If all you watch is dumbed down TV for the masses, then you can only expect to become as dumb as them. If you would rather watch Simon Cowell's clay-face say "It's a yes from me" while a Westlife "stand-up key change" plays in the background then please close this page and shut down your computer. Preferably by putting your face through your monitor so the glass blinds you. You really don't deserve the gift of sight.

The Walking Dead is brilliant. Coming from such a rich source material and having such a dedicated fan base it would've been difficult to fuck it up. It has the human element, like Twilight, but gives you characters you actually care about. It puts them in seemingly real life situations. It's not a show about zombies, but rather a show about humans and how we would react if placed in that situation. The pace is slow and builds real tension. It's not just about fighting zombies, it's the feeling that every corner you turn could be your last. Everyone who has seen a monster movie must realise that the feeling of knowing the monster is out there is far scarier than seeing it up close. I concede that zombies are fairly one dimensional and you would struggle to make a TV series based solely on their output. Vampires can talk so they can take an active part in films, such as Twilight, but that doesn't mean they should. Like giving James Corden a microphone, sometimes it will end in tears.

What I take from The Walking Dead, the most gripping real aspect, is the question "what would you do?" How would you survive, really? The thought provoking side of this show leaves you with these questions. Some of the instances are extreme, like being faced with a loved one who has been turned. Could you do the right thing and finish them off? Think about your partner, your children. If you had to could you damage their brain with the first blunt instrument available? It also details the lesser asked questions about your survival, and that is where The Walking Dead shows it's worth! The problem isn't zombies, the problem is other humans. I would like to think that I would help people, I've helped people all my life and pride myself on my outlook. That's not to say that I'm foolish enough to forget that there are some evil people in this World. Like it or not, you would be forced to rely on the kindness of strangers, regardless of whether they enjoyed TV talent shows or not. Actually, if I was given the option of safe haven in a place where all the people wanted to watch TV talent shows I think I would take my chances with the undead.

You can dismiss all of the above though, it's just not going to happen. Is it? Think about how far we have come as a race of people. We can clone animals. We cn put men in outer space. We can create biological warfare. As humans we push ourselves to the very limits of our imaginsations, whether for good or bad. I'm not saying you should prepare yourself, but always remember; Anything can happen.

Cat-like. Fat, Like?

I'm unsure who coined the phrase "Cougar". It was probably some daft cunt like Samantha Jones from Sex & The City. Whoever it was, you can probably guess what I would like to do to them; murder them until their teeth fell out. For those unaware in our modern world a Cougar is an older woman, probably 40 something who put her life on hold while she chased a career, using the attentions of men her same age, and older, to her advantage. She is motivated by money, power, greed, and designer accessories. She got to 40 and realised that she was missing the ultimate accessory; a toyboy. Named after the predatory cat (of the same name, funnily enough) she pounces on her young prey and fucks the living shit out of him, possibly without regard for his safety or her dignity.

Lets get one thing abundantly clear; no woman should ever, EVER refer to herself as a Cougar. The term Cougar should be reserved for use by people taking the piss out of the daft old strumpets stupid enough to think of themselves that way. If you think Cougar is a cool, hip way to describe your post-divorce exploits then lets face facts, pet, you're just too fucking old. So old that your tits, face, and arse went South, along with your sense of propriety, a long time ago.

The Cougar is a beautiful feline creature. It is found at the far reaches of the World, using it's cunning and stealth to secure it's targets. A reclusive cat that rarely bothers humans. It sounds and looks like a seriously classy animal, and rare to see in most areas of civilisation.

The "Cougar" you're likely to encounter is a little different. They are likely to be plastered in far too much make-up in an attempt to hide a face that has more cracks than a fist-punched mirror. It's a common animal, most likely drunk and clinging onto the end of a nightclub table or a fucking wass kebab. It uses brash nonsense, a shit sense of humour, and over-powering intimidation to corner it's prey. Most times they will be classy enough to ask you to buy them a drink before dry-humping your leg. Unfortunately they are not a rare sight.

I described a Cougar as a woman of business, which immediately brings images in your brain of a bird with nice clothes, a no-nonsense attitude, and a Mulberry clutch welded to her arm. A bit different to my description of the cougar you're likely to encounter. That's because the term has been twisted. That's correct, a shit term invented by some shit face has been made even shittier. It's now acceptable for any woman over the age of 35 to start describing herself as a Cougar. As you may have gathered, I think it's a term that should be put to bed and shot while it sleeps under the covers. Like an elderly grandparent. However I have to concede that if you are a high-powered, motivated, successful woman who has purposely foregone a life of family and real friends and you happen to have pulled an attractive younger man, it might just be acceptable (by other people, not yourself) for you to be referred to as a Cougar. If you are a 50 year old chain smoking work dodging fatty sitting in your pyjamas, and to rebound from your failed marriage you take advantage of your neighbour's 15 year old son while your 5 kids are at school, a cougar you ain't.

So if women our own age are out desperately trying to ride the pole of a younger man, where does that leave men? We should be thankful. Do you really want to end up with any of the women I have described here? For years men have had to endure the whinging line from women everywhere, "how come when a bloke shags loads of women he's a "legend", but when a woman does it she's a slag?" Aye, trap shut, bint. Now we can respond "how come when an older woman bags a young lad she's a "Cougar", and when I lashed that 17 year old temp from work all over I got a disciplinary reprimand and was labelled a "perv?" Women, you want Cougar? You're going to have to let "Slag" go.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the age difference, here. If you are with someone you care about, or even just with someone you have great sex with, then age shouldn't really be a question (within legal limits, I hasten to add). Love can be found in a number of different places. At work, in the supermarket, in a bar, at someone elses wedding. Who's to say that it can't be found in the damp, musty old claptrap of a "Cougar?"

BURDIS SMASH!

If you were given a choice to be who you are right now this very second or a super-hero what would you choose? Bit of an easy question really. I'm assuming everyone thought being a super-hero would be the best choice. Don't get me wrong, I like you. You like you. I bet you're a wonderful person full of happiness and kindness. Maybe you're an absolute fucktard with a brain as useful as mashed sweet potato served with custard. Regardless of whether I like you or not, and whether you have a happy life filled with croissants, fast cars, and big tits you are not a super-hero. None of us are and frankly that's fucking depressing.

Cinema is a great way to escape. Escape your life for just a couple of hours so you don't have to think about work, money, or those little brats you spawned. We sit in front of a big screen and willngly allow colourful pictures and loud noises infiltrate our minds. Few things bring escapism like a good super-hero movie. There have been some good ones. I'm not talking the sort of films that win Oscars, here. I'm talking massive explosions, solid special effects, and some tights-wearing do-gooder bashing baddies for the safety of the World. Where does our fascination stem from?

Initially it's fantasy. You can't look at Iron Man or Wolverine and not think "Oh you fucking mint bastard". Even though Wolverine has hair that looks like it was chopped by Phil the Hacker from Shiney Row. They have charisma, style, and power beyond that of us normals. It's natural to hope that we will one day possess such abilities. Whether it's created by man's inventions (Iron Man's suit, Wolverine's Adamantium Skeleton, Mark Wahlberg's cock in Boogie Nights) or accidental (Peter Parker bitten by a radioactive spider, Bruce Banner smashed by Gamma Rays, the incredibly bland "Fantastic 4") we all wish for a piece of it. Just imagine being able to save the World because you were Captain Fucking Fantastic! Or, for starters, being able to blow up your place of work because no-one could stop you.

Tonight I am going to see The Avengers movie, something a lot of us have looked forward to for quite a few years now since the end credits scene in Iron Man. The build up to the movie has been huge. The four main characters (Iron Man, Captain Man, Hammer Man, and Big Green Bastard Man) already have at least one feature under their respective belts. I can't wait to forget everything and be blinded by a myriad of things getting smashed, jokes being quipped, and Scarlett Johansson's arse. Oh for the love of God I would motorboat her arse until the police arrived. With the 4 main characters, and the ensuing hi-jinx, there will be plenty of fantasy escapism. Is there a human element that grounds the experience?

The Hulk. The big green guy that grows the angrier he gets? Definitely the most human element of The Avengers. Captain America is a cardboard cut-out. Little geeky kid gets turned into a super-soldier to chin Hitler? Dull. Thor is a God King of Valhalla and wouldn't have even travelled to Earth if he didn't lose his hammer. Most people keep theirs in a toolbox, mate, sort your fucking gash out. Iron Man is amazing. He's a tech geek who builds epic inventions in his basement, but is also very comfortable being the centre of attention. As likeable as he is, you can't relate to that on a human level. Bruce Banner, on the other hand, just wants to be left alone. He wants to go about his business without being disturbed. His power is a burden, something which starts beyond his control but he's trying, he's trying hard, man. When his buttons are pressed, he becomes even more human. You're driving your car and someone cuts across your lane without indicating, you will probably flash your lights, beep your horn, shout expletives. That's The Hulk trying to get out. Playing your xbox and a cold-caller knocks at your door to ask if you've been injured in the last 5 years? "Nah mate, but I was just about to go for 30 kills so I think I might be injuring my fist on your balls". That's The Hulk again. You're at McDonalds spending a tenner on food, and you want a little pot of ketchup, the dungfuck behind the counter says "that'll be 5p". Oi toss! I just spent what you would earn in 2 hours on a fucking burger and you want 5p for an obscenely tiny pot of sauce? The anger builds, you grow uncontrollably ripping all of your clothes. The pain is unfathomable as your bones shift shapes to compensate for your growing size. You turn green. Your fists are now the size of horses and the rage clouding your brain means you only have the capability of shouting "BURDIS SMASH" before you demolish McDonalds in Barmston, and everyone inside. OK, maybe that's a stretch.

I'm saying The Hulk is the most human, but no matter how big he gets his trousers always fit and turn purple. That's voodoo shit right there!

I Cultivate Bromances

There's a difference between a cuddle and a hug. A cuddle is usually applied to a partner. It's tender and soft. It's a way of sharing your love for a woman without also sharing saliva. It provides comfort to someone who hasn't had the best of days, it shows that despite your failings and petty bickering, you are there for them. It's a warm expression in a cold bed before you fall asleep.

A hug is different. It's an embrace, but of a manly nature. Although a handshake is still the most appropriate exchange between two strangers, between friends it has been replaced. It's a tight grip, a show of strength and might. It is a pleasant show of kinship. The man on the other side of this burly entrapment not only knows your plight and quarry, but understands it implicitly. They may not have the words, but they have the action.

My attitude towards this action is likely to be rooted to my relationship with my father. He's a fine man. In fact, that description is a little empty. He is truly a man amongst men; someone that other men look up to. Educated and artistic, with an innate ability to make you laugh. A keen drinker and ferocious supporter of Sunderland Football. On Christmas Day he recognises his friends who have nowhere else to go, and offers them a top quality day of drink, food, and entertainment. He is also an incredible father figure. He makes a giant lunch for me every Sunday, and while it's well cooked and enough to feed a herd of fat cattle, I look forward to the man-hug just as much. It doesn't matter who is present or where we are; in the pub, at work, or watching strippers. My dad always greets me with a giant hug.

There has definitely been a change of attitude towards this behaviour between men over the past 20 years. If I were to guess (and I will because I do very little research for my writing) it would be that homosexuality has become more acceptable in society. 20 years ago people's attitudes towards being gay were very different. The gays were camp, and soft like fairies. They probably hugged each other in public, the bastards! For men to act the same as a gay would surely be seen as a sign of weakness, a sign of their masculinity on the wane. As attitudes towards homosexuality became more educated, I'm sure this also altered the opinion of hetero men and their displays of public affection. Because a hug between two men is not about physical attraction. I can state quite comfortably that I'm not "gay" for anyone, except the actor Ryan Reynolds. The strong hug that men share is about friendship.

As we get older, we need the support of our friends as much as we did when we were young. You should never devalue friendship. Whether you are single or in a committed relationship, your brood contains a wealth of experience and knowledge and know exactly how you feel and what you are going through. This is regardless of the situation. While women can listen and provide support, only men understand. You need that solidarity to survive. When you were young you all went out drinking together. It was fun. You would get drunk and break off from your friends at some point in the evening to go hunting for women. When we go out now it's not the same, and rightly so. Drinking is now about the company you keep, the conversations and stories you share while trying to speak loudly over music which must have gotten louder since you were 18. Don't get me wrong, a sly neck-on with a bird at the end of the night is a welcome bonus. But the event of a night out with the lads is to spend time together.

A woman who tries to stop a man from seeing his friends is evil. They think that by letting him "off the leash" his behaviour will regress to childhood and he will wander around a nightclub with his cock hanging out of his trousers actively seeking an accepting and acceptable female. This is not the case. A man needs time with his friends to talk about man-things. He might have problems that he can't share with you. He wants to share jokes and stories that you wouldn't find funny. He wants to talk about the new Avengers movie, or the Halo 4 release date, or how fucking absolutely mint Aliens is. It gives him time to relax himself for the unstoppable barrage of shit that is your life. Ever wonder why he is a good listener to all of your problems? Because he already shared his with his fellow brothers, and now he can focus 100% on you. Be thankful for his relationship with his friends, as it's probably saved your relationship more times than you'll ever know.

I had some words about the Monroe quote the other day, and would like to offer this rebuttal:

"I am a man. At times I act like a child; I play video games, I watch cartoons and sci-fi, and I laugh freely at things you may not find amusing. I spend time with my friends and we share man-hug greetings. I also possess more conventional qualities; I cook, I clean, I listen, I am thoughtful, and I always put the toilet seat down. I don't have a "best" or "worst". I was just born with a fine set of gonads. If you can't "handle" any of the above then you may leave, by door or by window".

Granted it's not as concise or snappy as the Monroe quote, but it definitely covers more ground than that tit-stick ever did.

We Were All Invincible

I'm going to mention childhood today. I thought I would start with an unrelated story.

My father once told me that I had a magnet effect when it came to turds. We would walk from Ashbrooke, where he lived, to Sunderland City Centre most weekends. One time I walked into what must have been the World's Largest Dog-Shit. You know the kind that is like an egg; hard crust on the outside, broken to reveal a mass of yellow foulness. The smell alone would've been enough to floor an Rhino with no nose. If the Grim Reaper had a giant dog, it would drop shites like this. My father was annoyed, but slightly amused. Nowt funnier than an idiot walking through a big load. We headed back to his flat where my trainer was cleaned, father being less amused at this point. We walked along the same path again, now with clean feet. My father said he was watching me wander along barely paying attention when I turned slightly and managed to walk through the exact same shit-pile. Exasperated is probably the best word to describe my father's reaction, inexplicable was my seemingly never-satisfied attraction to dog's mess. Given the size of it I would be highly surprised if there was not a monument where this great turd resided:

"Here Lies The Remains of Turdosaurus. Trampled twice in a 15 minute spell by the same person".

Anyways, Mortality!

As I get older I am forced to face the fact that I will die. It's not unexpected, it's something we will all have to do eventually. It can get quite overwhelming if you give it too much attention. Your family, friends, loved ones, all will leave your life or you will leave theirs. Probably best to ignore it, eh? Well, no. Your awareness of your mortality can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Knowing that you have a deadline on your life, and you don't know when it will be, should push you to take giant fun-filled steps everyday. Trying new experiences, and reliving previous ones. It urges you to take chances, whether that be seeing the World or putting an extra chocolate bar in that milkshake you're making. Extra chocolate bars are always good. However, being aware of your mortality can also have the opposite effect; the fear that what you do may adversely affect the time you have left. We have safe lives, locks on our doors, money in our bank accounts from our safe jobs. What's the point in taking a risk for more when you are content with what you have? Suppose it depends on if you're really content or not. Are you sure your contentedness isn't just fear masking itself as something safe?

I tell myself I'm not afraid to die. How can I be afraid of something that I know is inevitable? Simply accepting this eventuality should be enough yet I find myself afraid to take risks. I enjoy my job, but it becomes increasingly unfulfilling. The wage is excellent, and I have bills to pay. I don't have a wage, I can't afford the essentials; gas/electric, the roof over my head, and Clotted Ice Cream for milkshakes. Now I'm not saying if I quit my job I will die, possibly by bursting into flames and running around a bit, but I'm not sure I would enjoy a life without the things I enjoy. Especially the milkshakes.

It's surely an age thing. I never thought about death as a young un. If I could describe myself as a child it would be that I graduated with a 1st in Daft Shite Studies from Mongington University. In my yearbook there was a picture of me under the heading "Most Likely to Shit Himself in Public". Fortunately, at least in the last few months, I've managed to avoid shitting my pants. Although I did shit someone elses. I was fearless. Regardless of how high up and unsafe the tree swing looked, I would be first one to try it. Most times I was fine. One time the rope snapped, I plummeted 15 feet down into a stream and smashed my hand onto a sharp rock. I needed stitches and almost lost the use of my thumb. Which was lucky as I would find it very useful in later life, especially when tossing off. I would spend hours on my BMX, racing at speed down large hills. You could guarantee some berk would've built a ramp at the bottom from some discarded plyboard and a couple of large bricks. I would be first to try it, again with the high likelihood of being injured. Or falling into a massive pile of dog-shit. But I didn't care. I never thought about actually breaking any bones. Thankfully the only serious injuries I ever inflicted upon my person were a dislocated elbow (trying to dance like Vanilla Ice at a disco), and breaking my nose (smashing my head through a water slide).

I'm giving this some thought as I head to Thorpe Park in a few days and I'm becoming concerned at the size and speed and likelihood of death these rides include. Never would've been a problem as a kid. I would be skipping to the front of the queue, and likely to try and free the contraption that holds you in your seat, just for a bigger thrill. But I know, now at the age of 31, that when I am actually standing in front of these gargantuan metal contraptions, I think it might be the first time in recent memory that I do shit myself.

I am getting older, we all are. On a large scale our increasing life-expectancy is already resulting in changes to our built environment. In ten years time I would like to be doing something different to what I am now, and feel a change too. Not safety or security, but happiness. Maybe fear will hold me back. Maybe it will hold us all back. But I know one thing for certain; telling a story about going on a roller coaster, full of screaming and swearing and possibly injuring someone, will make for a much better story than if I bottled it.


"Stealth" a ride at Thorpe Park. Soiled underwear, not pictured.

One "LOL" At A Time

You'll no doubt be fascinated to hear about a prototype machine gun that can fire 1.62 million bullets per minute. Think, like I did, about what that actually means. 1,620,000. That's a huge number. Every minute. It's operated by a computer, has 36 barrels, and could potentially kill everyone in the World in around 7 hours. Granted the computer was devastatingly accurate and we were all lined up to take the bullet. It seems that some people online have recognised this, and applied it to their conversational skills. I have noticed, as I'm sure you will have as well, messages from people that seemingly fire 1.62 million LOLs per minute.

Everywhere you look there's a LOL. Open your Facebook timeline and I can guarantee within 6 status updates you will find a LOL (please note this is not an actual guarantee). Apparently all of life's mundane situations can be made laughable by simply adding these 3 letters at the end. "I can't believe my I awoke to find my cat licking the open wound on my foot. LOL". "Had eggs for tea, LOL". Just got back from my father's funeral. He caught rabies from a stray cat while trekking in Venezuela, and died soon after. My mother had a heart attack when she found his lifeless body staring at her from their bed. Her funeral is next week. LOL".

I'm not sure who created "LOL", but I would like to congratulate them for creating a generation of morons. As far as I'm aware it started with text speak; young uns who were texting each other, shortening their words to keep within a 140 character limit. This makes sense, as no-one would want to be charged an extra 10p just because their sentence finished at 141 characters. But that was years ago. We now all have unlimited text plans, BBM/iPhone messenger/whatsapp, and in some cultures it's actually still prohibited to actually ring someone! Can you believe it? In this day and age we may actually have a proper conversation using our voices and that.

An example of a teenager's text message:

"I hd sx with MJ a few wks ago. now prgnnt. he lafed wn i tld hm, nd pshd me dn the strs. LOL"

Do you actually know what you're saying when you type "LOL"? Laughing out loud. If you use LOL in text speak, or messages online, I implore you to carry out a test. Start using it in real life. Actually laugh out loud like you would if you were typing it. Do you really laugh out loud at all of the mundane twatty things that happen in your life? Of course you don't. If you did you would be sectioned, condemned to a life imprisoned by 4 white walls, wearing a jacket that just looks like your arms have been permanently folded. I once knew a man whose arms were permanently folded. His name was Shit. I kid you not. Shit Bastard. Got trapped in a standy-up tanning booth, arms melted together. It made the simplest of tasks an unenviable struggle. While walking his dog, the leash he kept in between gritted teeth slipped from him and the dog ran off barking like a fucking idiot. He chased after it and ran straight in front of a moving bus, killing him instantly.

Do you want to end up like Shit Bastard? If you keep using LOL, that's exactly what will happen.

What we need is a campaign. The people need re-educating and I implore you to join the cause. If you see a LOL, stab it in the face til it can no longer laugh and turns itself into a CRY. It is your duty!



KEEP BRITAIN TIDY. ONE LOL AT A TIME.

Selfish? Impatient? Insecure? Why not fuck off then?

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The Girls and Alpha-Males of Gaming

I looked at a photo this morning. I, like most of you, am bombarded with a massive amount of images everyday. Photos have been around since I was born. How do I know this? My parents have photos to prove it. For all I know, the ability to produce still images may have even been around before I was born, but I don't like to think that way. I, like most of you, like to think that the World only got started when I was delivered into it. We're a self-centred bunch. Naughty, naughty us! While we have our faces thrusted into the captured moments and images of other people it's a handy tip to remember; any idiot with a camera on their smartphone can take a photo, but it takes real effort and emotion to capture a picture.

Girls who play video games are a rare breed, but not as rare as you think. I could point you in the direction of a number of different community based websites which would prove this point. Although I'm definitely comfortable with the idea that girls play video games, there are some who simply aren't equipped with the necessary social skills to handle this information. The internet has given people the opportunity to create an almost anonymous, highly exaggerated version of themselves. The majority of gaming males stay quiet in the presence of gaming females, either not noticing or not caring which gender they are associated with. I am not afraid to admit, even with my lengthy experience of girls playing video games, that my interest is piqued when a female enters an Xbox Live gaming lobby. However, I do not feel obliged to send them a message of any kind. This practice is solely the work of the "Gaming Alpha-Male".

The Alpha Male of gaming likes to view themselves as the dominant species online, regardless of their standing in real-life. In real life they might be a quiet, gentle soul, but online they are Thor! Feel their might as they vanquish your gaming skill. We are much more likely to notice an encounter with this breed than we are with a gaming girl simply because they just have to let you know about it. In a lobby full of males, he exerts his man-ship by beating you in video game battle. If he doesn't beat you, he exerts it by telling you you're a "fag", he is likely to call your playing technique (map travelling routes, weapon choices) like they way he plays is the "right" way to play, and he is likely to advise you that in the next game he is going to beat you so badly you are likely to start crying. Or so he would like to think. This repeats until which point he quits the game, usually mid-battle, with his tail tucked so far between his legs it's giving his arsehole a gentle tickle.

When an Alpha Male meets a Gaming Girl, his petty squabble with you becomes history. He is the man, and he must claim his female prize. How does he claim this? From stories told to me by female gamers, the subtle are of Alpha Male online seduction goes as follows: the Alpha Male will first fire a number of private messages to the female. They will be polite, and bland, and likely contain a winking smiley face. The dumb fucking idiot. Regardless of whether they receive a response or not, they will quickly move to something with a little more bite, a message asking for tits, or as the young uns seem to call it these days, "n00dz". Yes, the "o" is replaced with a zero. It's the act of a cretin and a cunt. Upon receiving silence once more, the Alpha Male will assume the Gaming Girl is a lesbian, taking this information public, and berating her with his finding. Now that he is sure there will be no romantic involvement (I mean, God forbid she actually just wanted to play a few games!) the exaggerated Alpha Male finds his voice. The voice of an online fool.

I looked at a photo this morning. It was of a girl who plays video games. The photo showed a pretty girl wearing a pair of glasses, with tape wrapped around the middle as if they had been broken and hap-hazardly repaired. If you had a picture dictionary and looked up "gaming girl", you would be expected to find this photo. It was annoying, to say the least. She maybe wearing the glasses in an "ironic" fashion. In which case, she doesn't know the meaning of "irony" either. The term "nerd" is changing definition. Nerds are cool now. Thanks Sheldon, you beanpole fuck! But ladies, regardless of whether you play video games or not, wearing glasses and claiming you love nerds is not endearing you to anyone. Except maybe the Gaming Alpha-Male. You want him to chase you, hit you over the head with his controller, and carry you back to his cave? That's what will happen.

The line "Thanks Sheldon..." troubles me a little. Like I am sarcastically accepting an award for a group I do not represent. I do not class myself as a stereotypical nerd. I don't think that exists anymore. While I'm a little geeky in my gaming/film/TV habits, I don't want to misrepresent myself. I am an individual, just like everyone else.

To finish, I leave you with a picture. If you're a girl taking a photo of yourself wearing a pair of large thick-rimmed glasses and claiming you're a "gamer/nerd/geek" you may think you're giving people what they want to see. You think you're sexy. All your glasses do is remind us of this...

The Stupidity of You

Part One - The Panic

A couple of days ago an MP who very few people had previously heard of advised the British public to start stockpiling reserves of fuel, petrol, in "jerry cans". His advice following the possibility of a petrol tanker drivers strike.

This comment seemed to literally drive people mental, long queues seen across the country from petrol stations spilling onto main roads. What if a Mother Duck and a cute line of obediently following ducklings wanted to cross the road? Not a chance. People once again hitting their own mental panic button, with absolutely no evidence to support it.

Petrol Tanker Drivers are not on strike. They currently have no fixed date to go on strike. They have to give at least 7 days notice before they go on strike.

If you know someone who filled up their petrol tank yesterday solely based on the possibility that something might happen sometime in the future, please read them the above few lines. And hit them. Hit them hard, and in the balls. If you yourself filled up on petrol yesterday, not because your tank was nearly empty, but simply because you were scared the country was going to run out, take yourself away from your computer/smartphone. You really shouldn't be allowed to operate one. Your technological equipment should be made entirely from cardboard, have no electricity source, and you should be made to wear a crash-helmet before operating.

Today there are reports of people being turned away from petrol stations because the pumps are dry. Some places are rationing output by limiting amounts you can withdraw. Now we have a petrol shortage, and it's all our own fault. And when I saw "our" I don't include myself. Believe me, I will wait until the very last moment before putting petrol in my car. Fucking despise the thought of handing over £80 to anyone, even more so when it's not for new games or blu-rays. Or Adidas Star Wars jackets. "Got a Nectar Card, love?" In fact, yes I do, but there seems to be something wrong with the balance; it goes up so fucking slow I would probably make more money selling my own piss on the internet. Would you like to buy some piss? No? Well stick your fucking Nectar Card up your arse.

Anyone who chuckled at the line "the pumps are dry", I salute you.

"Queues outside garages this morning as motorists hand petrol back, saying they "feel such a fool"" Armando Iannucci, via Twitter.

If you desperately filled cans of petrol yesterday, like you had just seen the 4 Horsemen and were certain Apocalypse was staring you in the face, you should feel foolish. So very foolish. I think about you and the gesture of putting my slowly shaking head in my hands just doesn't seem enough. If TV has taught us anything it's that when the World does end there'll be loads of cars abandoned on highways everywhere. Surely that's enough petrol to go round the few of you left. Providing your car isn't made of cardboard, with no electricity source, not being able to see because you put your crash helmet on backwards, stumbling around in agony from the Nectar Card shoved up your arse.


Part 2 - The Outcome

"York woman sets herself on fire while decanting petrol in her kitchen" THE YORK PRESS

I could barely believe what I was reading. A woman from York managed to set herself on fire while decanting petrol from a "jerry can". She was in her kitchen. She was cooking, so her gas cooker was switched on. I can barely even continue.

Don't get me wrong, the poor lass is now 40% covered in burns and I have the same reactions as most people. It's sad, it really is. But please can you tell me why? Why she thought that transferring an extremely flammable liquid from one container to another, while standing next to something that is essentially on fire, was a good idea?

The York Press also tells us the incident happened just days after an MP no-one had ever heard of advised us to store petrol in "jerry cans". A Labour MP no-one has heard of has called for the other MP to resign following this incident.

Now, lets get one thing clear: I am not here to defend people. I specialise solely in ripping them to pieces. This includes myself. And you. Especially you. I know little about British Politics. I would much prefer to fill my head with TV Shows, XBOX, and tabs. But to suggest this old bastards comment was the full and only cause of a woman setting herself on fire is nothing short of total stupidity. Would the woman have been using a "jerry can" and messing around with petrol had he not made those comments? Who knows. At this time, even the mighty York Press can't give us the answer. But I'm pretty sure this MPs comments were not "People, start stockpiling petrol as it may run out or something. Oh, and if you are going to play around with it, please ensure you are standing right next to an open flame. It really is the only safe way to carry out such a task". Yeah, I don't know much about Politics, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't it.


Part 3 - The Blame

The British Public has spent all of their money on petrol. You can't take a step in a house now without tripping on a petrol can. People have created towers with them, much like "Wall-E" did with people's trash in the film "Rycyclotron 3000". Now there's no petrol, because the British People spent all of their money on it. A woman has managed to set herself on fire.

It's all the government's fault.

Fuck off, and when you're done fucking off, fuck off some more. I'm not defending the government here. They look and sound like walking mouse-traps. But the only reason you're blaming them is because you were told to, and that is so much easier than blaming your own stupid self.

Since when did we stop thinking for ourselves? OK, a member of the government caused a stir when he advised us to start keeping petrol in reserve. But that is just one man's opinion. There was no evidence that Petrol Tanker Drivers were going to strike that very same day. There was information available from their worker's union advising that a 7 day notice period would come before any strike. Yet now there is a chance we will run out of petrol. Because we bought it all. If a member of government advised you that jumping off a bridge was the only way to save your childhood friend, or staying in the house is the best way to make sure you don't get killed by a moving car, would you act on their advice?

You need to think about what you do. Lack of thought leads to people setting themselves on fire. In their own kitchen. The only conclusion I come to when I think about that is the picture of the Jackie Chan meme stating "My Head is Full of Fuck".

And I don't think there's anyone left to blame, for any of this, but ourselves.

Lower-Floor

"Yeah, properties like this rarely come up for rent" said the Estate Agent as he unlocked the door. The door was imitation wood. In other words, it was plastic, but brown. There was a locking device aside from the key, which James recognised as an intercom system. "The area is very popular with people of all ages, a mixture of houses and apartments and level-access housing" he continued, opening the door and walking in. James followed, watching the weatherboard as he raised his leg to clear it. He was very particular about where he placed his feet. As a young child he would walk on cracks in the pavement so they placed exactly at the centre of his foot. If it missed what he perceived to be the centre, his other foot would have to hit the same exact spot on the next crack. The sense of relief at taking two steps where the cracks in the pavement hit a perfect centre. He thought of this as he cleared the weatherboard, happy that he doesn't do that anymore. Well, rarely.

As he walked into the hallway he noticed the doorways leading to other places. It was empty, the walls were plain but clean. He was thankful for this, as cleaning was never something that stimulated him. The estate agent continued talking, but James had already tuned him out having occupied his mind with ideas. "TV would go there, sofa there" he thought as he followed into the living room. He was pleased that the property was in a nice area, the rent was affordable, the rooms were of a large size. It would be perfect for a single person.

"Single person, living alone" he thought to himself. He often thought of his children; the 5 year old son, and the dead one. The anguish that was supposed to follow never did. Numbness took him by the hand, and slowly reached up around his throat. He never even noticed that his girlfriend had moved back to her mother's place. It was like a trip to the dentist; the novocaine was starting to wear off, but wet drops of saliva on a shirt showed the results of the treatment. There was no going back for either of them. No way to continue, not after what happened. While the feeling of numbness hadn't left him completely, he could only continue.

After the two gentlemen discussed a few details they made their way back to the front door. "Ah yes, it's worth mentioning that this property doesn't come with a bath, but a wet room. The previous tenant was an old man, this was fitted for him a few years ago to stop him falling in the bath". James inspected this room. The floor was like the swimming baths he used to go to as a child. His father would take him there on weekends. While there was no bath, the shower seemed adequate. "I'll take it, please" said James. As they exited through the same door they came in a question appeared in James' mind. The previous tenant was old, old enough to not be able to manage a simple task of entering and exiting a bath. There was an intercom system on the front door, which was unusual for a lower-floor apartment. He asked the question knowing the answer it wouldn't affect his decision, but he asked it anyway.

"Did the previous tenant die here?"

The Girl on the Platform Smiled - Part 3

There was a time when a Bard was considered a noble trade. Usually employed by Monarchs and Lords of significant standing in Society they would document historical happenings, stories of heroic proportion. The most famous is William Shakespeare, known as "The Bard". His stories have been performed time and again, many of which are the template for the Hollywood blockbusters we are used to seeing at our local cinemas. I never met Shakespeare, most likely because he died a long time before I was born. My own personal experience of Bards can be attributed to video games, such as the Fable and Elder Scrolls series. Go into any settlement situated in the vast landscapes of Albion or Oblivion, or Skyrim and it's likely that these annoying bastards will show up, Lutes at the ready, to sing songs of your exploits in the game. All you want is to sell your drops (weapons, potions), collect provisions and a few new missions, and head back out into the dungeons to chin some evil necromancers, trolls, or possessed skeletons. However these fuckers will follow you around with their weird shaped guitars intent on ruining your experience. This usually resolves itself when you smash them over the head with a level 61 enchanted mace. Coincidentally this is exactly what I would like to do to the guy from the match.com advert.

His little laugh. Never has the sound of laughter made me grit my teeth so much. "She was a natural blonde" he sings, the girl on the platform smiled but shook her head, prompting him to retort "she wasn't a natural blonde, but that's what made him fond of her". His little laugh while singing the above line makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry. Not with sadness, but with sheer unabated frustration. His faux-embarrassment is betrayed by his smugness. His smugness disguising his true thoughts of whether the hair on her fanny is as dark as the roots showing from the base of her skull. I bet they are dark, as dark as his own thoughts captured by this mirthless chuckle.

Apparently the fact that she wasn't a natural blonde is what made him fond of her. Why, exactly? Many things make me fond of a woman. Finding what I say to be amusing enough to raise a smile. A caring attention to detail. And a great pair of tits. But never the fact that she dies her hair. It turns out that the gimp with the guitar puts about as much attention into what attracts him to a woman as he does his utterly shite lyrics.

As we have noticed many things about this advertisement annoy me, and probably you. Nothing, however, breeds more resentment and overwhelming disappointment than it's conception. The premise that this supposedly represents the feeling of a first meeting with a potential partner. The premise that this could actually work. Lets see what it actually looks like written down.

A young man is standing at a train station carrying a ukulele. He notices a girl on the opposite platform sitting, waiting for her train, generally minding her own business. He catches her attention by beginning a song. The song itself is a tragic effort as he fails to correctly guess her age or hair colour. The daft cunt. As a train impedes their eye line, the young man sits down, deflated that his plan to woo this girl failed. As the camera turns we see she is sitting next to him. It actually fucking worked!

If you are stupid enough to believe this as a possibility then I encourage you to try it. Hang around a train station, sing a song to a nice looking girl and see what happens. I can guarantee she will flee, terrified that this psycho might just follow her home, stalking her while wielding his little guitar as a weapon. A little guitar which probably houses the little finger forcibly removed from a previous victim. You will scare people, and most likely end up being arrested. And rightly so, you absolute berk.

One of the greatest feelings in life is meeting someone special for the first time. It's sheer exhilaration. It's nervousness, the seemingly true possibility that the butterflies in your stomach might turn into giant dragons and rip you to shreds on the inside. It's the excitement of rolling the dice, an opportunity to meet someone you may want to spend the rest of your days with. It's the feeling of success when you grab her by the hand, delicately touching her soft skin, and she doesn't take it away. It's the feeling of love when you tentatively lean in for a first kiss and you smell the lightly applied foundation on her face for the first time.

I simply refuse to let this advert, this stinking rag of lies, let us down so badly.

There was a young man at a train station. He spots a pretty girl on the opposite side of the platform. He is not carrying a ukulele with him, because that's just fucking weird and this young man is not weird, he's just a normal person like you. And possibly me. He catches her eye, but looks away almost immediately, knowing that nothing scares a girl away quicker than a stranger intently staring at her, like a hunter stalking it's prey. A few seconds later they catch a glance once more. This time he offers a polite, warm smile, still not holding his gaze for too long. She smiles back. They share a moment, a moment of intrigue, of safety, of a mutual understanding. The train pulls up to the platform, and the girl gets on. He may never see her again but he is fulfilled by the knowledge that he may have brightened her day, just a little. As she had brightened his the same. "The girl on the platform smiled" he said quietly to himself. "It was the best smile I've seen in a while".

This, my friends, is what happens in the real World.

The Girl on the Platform Smiled - Part 2

I watched Apocalypse Now simply because I was meant to. It's one of those films that is heralded as a classic, a must-see, a fixture in the "Top 100 films to see before you die". Probably. I didn't enjoy it. While certain scenes are truly epic, it ran too long for my short attention span, and I didn't feel any emotional involvement. For me, at least, it wasn't very memorable.

One part I do remember is when we catch up with Colonel Kurtz, and he has obviously gone mental. Not surprising really, as he was played by Marlon Brando who was mental in real life. More mental than a clown played by Tim Curry. He utters the famous line "the horror, the horror". Many believe he is describing what he has witnessed, a truly bloody conflict. In fact, he simply had a premonition of the match.com advert. Featuring the World's most annoying person singing the World's most annoying song.

The advert is so annoying it makes me want to punch a gerbil to death. I would feel really bad afterwards, probably while cleaning gerbil brain from my still clenched fist. And it's all match.com's fault. They made me kill a gerbil in my head. That's not a safe thought to have, the thought of me pulverising a gerbil then feeling rotten about it afterwards. I should be feeling happy, happy to have finished work for the day. Happy that I ate a very nice home-cooked pasta dish, and watched 40 minute of "The Two Towers". But no, I'm haunted by thoughts of a lifeless gerbil, flattened by my own hand. It's all match.com's fault. The horror, the horror.

Who carries a ukulele with them? Really? I have never in my whole life seen anyone, anywhere carrying a tiny guitar around with them. Bearing in mind I live just outside of Sunderland, a place where you can see a man rave dancing to himself without headphones while reciting excerpts from The Bible. Turn another corner and you can see a silver-haired man resembling a shiny mine-pony escorting his many bags to and from sets of public seats. But never a ukulele. Never a ukulele.

Let's be clear. Anyone who carries a guitar with them, of any size, around a train station is either a busker or a cunt. The match.com guy fell out of the cunt tree and hit every branch on the way down, landing firmly in Cunt Train Station. And what is the one thing a cunt with a guitar does to further annoy you? He plays a fucking annoying song.

The song itself is a veritable whirlwind of unimagination. The tail end of a whirlwind. It's seen better days, smashing up people's houses and chinning livestock, but now it's just slowly giving up as it becomes the size and sound of a particularly weak fart. The best he can do is rhyme "smile" with "while" and fill sentences with the word "really" over and over again. His voice croaks along like a frog that's lost it's will to live. He looks like the "idiots" that Dan Ashcroft so valiantly fights against. The girl is incredibly non-descript, so non-descript that is the best I could come up with.

The above is a clear explanation why this nonsense is the most annoying thing on the planet. There are two more things, and I will leave them til next time.