As I opened my front door this morning I was greeted by something we all take for granted: The World before us. Have you ever just simply looked at it? From my front door I see cars, people, trees, roads, the pavements on which we take our steps. The sky above. We take it for granted because it is there everyday. We know when we open that door we are going to get what we expect. But what we don't see is possibility. If you take the time to think about the possibility before you, it seems endless. The possibility that today you might see something you've never seen, or the possibility that today just might be your last.
I was being driven back from York. I had never experienced rain like what was beating down on the road in front of me. A sheet of water so thick it looked like the final battle from "The Matrix Revolutions", and any minute a million Agent Smiths would come into view ready to end the World. Although sight was minimal I noticed something in the distance. On the opposite side of the road was a car coming in the opposite direction, immediately noticeable as one of those huge BMW status symbols that rich people drive but don't really need. It was upside down, then upright but on it's side, then upside down again. It was bouncing high in the air, and crashing to the ground, rotating like a giant mechanical gymnast. Graceful, yet with powerful devastation. You know the feeling when you witness something your mind can barely comprehend, and time just seems to slow down to the point where you can visibly see a bird's wings flapping. Your mind is simply trying to process the image in front of you.
It was like something out of a movie.
You've probably said the above sentence to yourself and to others to describe events in your life without even noticing. People take trips around the World to visit monuments, experiencing them first-hand. It's like something out of a movie. Remember that first kiss you had with a significant other. Grabbing that person by the waist, the light brush of their soft skin on your cheek and the fragrant beauty being so close to your person. The feeling that no force was strong enough to unlock your lips after they first touched. And the first stirrings of an almighty hard-on. It was like something out of a movie. When the planes were flown into the World Trade Centre buildings on 9/11, the 9th of November. Pictures and videos that stunned our whole population. It was incomprehendable, unimaginable, destroying. Yet there it was, right there in front of you, even after you blinked. I remember people not being able to come to terms with the images staring them in the face, saying "It's like something out of a movie".
You see, the World in which we live is full of possibility. The World in which we don't live is full of endless possibility.
Films are a gateway to another dimension, where the only limit is imagination. Worlds built and created, stories crafted by amazing minds. We are blessed to live in this generation where fiction, science or otherwise, is visible due to technological advancements, and ironically they are one of the only things in real life where the possibilities are indeed endless. I hope it doesn't go all Skynet at some point, but for now it's definitely something to be heralded.
I watched Transformers: Dark of the Moon last week. It was in 3D Blu-Ray. I'm not saying it was a good film, because it wasn't. It was too slow paced, far too long, and the human emotion element that is used to tie you to the characters seemed like it was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. Like someone was playing pin the tail on the donkey, removed their blindfold, and still managed to put the pin on it's fucking forehead. You also couldn't pay me to enjoy Shia LeBeouf. But there was one scene, some stupid robot snake controlled by Shockwave was chewing the shit out of a glass building, and it looked amazing. More than amazing. Unbe-fucking-lievable. Someone created this. Just think about how much time was spent, how detailed this was. It was simply staggering. So while the film will never match the childhood excitement it invokes, it gives us something unprecedented.
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Harry Potter, Alien, The Matrix, Tron Legacy, Up. I could easily go on. There's a chance that you will have seen one, if not all of these creations. If you haven't, I suggest taking yourself to the nearest mirror, remove your head, and leave it there for a fortnight while you take a long hard look at yourself. Seriously, look deep into that detatched head and ask yourself "Why?". Inception for fucks sake. It's like the greatest people of their craft at the top of their respective games decided to get together with the sole purpose of creating something that would just blow my mind to a million tiny pieces.
Strive to be like the creators, not the workers. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a worker, I am one myself, but don't think for one second that's all there is. If you can see it, it can be created. In the World in which we don't live the only limit is your our imagination. Use it. Godspeed.
Friday 24 February 2012
Sunday 19 February 2012
You're An Individual, Just Like Everyone Else
We see each other everyday. Literally billions of people roaming this World. Think about that for a second, the sheer enormity of what is out there. I went to my front door for my morning cigarette and was greeted by glorious sunshine, and a cold breeze. The morning air was so fresh I could barely wait to inhale smoke into my lungs. Two people, a man and a woman walked past. They were dressed very similar, very average looking, like neither of them was punching above their respective weights. They were each holding a leash connected to a walking dog. The dogs were identical. I finished my cigarette and the line at the top of the page appeared in my head. There's no doubt I will see countless other people today, all walking around with purpose. All ever so slightly different. All the same as everyone else.
It's probably why this generation abuses and over-uses the word "random". Although it's mostly used incorrectly and, in fact, used with pathetic misplacement. That's not the point. The point is it appears everywhere. They label Facebook photo albums "random" so everyone else can see that they have done something no-one else has done before. Just like everyone else. They wear Adidas Star Wars jackets because they want the feeling of importance. Just like everyone else. People everywhere striving to be individual. To be different. To be special. People everywhere terrified that their life has no meaning, and that we are here with no purpose whatsover.
The truth is you are no different. I am no different. We are all the same. Just like those two dogs I saw this morning.
It's not your fault, and it's certainly not mine. The great thing about life is we can just about blame anybody for absolutely everything. Our feeling of inadaquecy is the fault of our parents. They coached us from a young age that we are in a World of endless possibilities. They didn't explain that most endeavours are ultimately pointless and achievements were unattainable. They told us we were special, and we believed them. Without the ability to think that there are millions of others being told the exact same thing at the exact same time. The rotten bastards. As we grow older we should know different, yet we're still being coached. TV replaced our parents a long time ago.
Adverts on TV are sickening. They tell us to strive for perfection. They tell us that if we purchase and use a particular product we will become something more. If we own particular items we will be the envy of our peers. Yet the outcome is we all end up with the same products. Everyone knows the secret of youth is in a bottle, and that bottle sits in your bathroom. It also sits in countless others too. We go to people's homes via friendly invitation yet are ambushed by the new sofa/television/vibrating cock ring they just spent 17 squillion quid on and have our faces rubbed in it, like a dog being trained not to shit on the carpet. It's ok though, what you have at home is far superior, and cost 18 squillion quid. You're still better. Or are you both the same?
The problem with TV adverts is that they have sodomised the feeling of individuality to the point where all it means is fear. Fear that we live in a World where we can walk down the street and see someone else wearing the same clothes you're wearing yourself.
But the TV would never lie to us, right?
"Cribs" on MTV has to be the most shameful piece of television programming ever created. Forget for a second that it shouldn't even belong on a channel called "Music Television". I despise MTV so much I want to delete everything I've just written so I can write them a letter that simply says "Fuck Off, Cunts". For those unaware, Cribs is a grotesque showing of the homes and cars of the richest, most famous people we've ever heard of. It's so depressing even thinking about it makes me want to stop typing, get in my car, drive it off a bridge while laughing gleefully at the prospect that I will soon be home to a watery grave and will never have to know of it's existence. It provides unrealistic expectations on a mass scale. So the initial feeling of excitement at learning Snoop Dogg has 17 bedrooms in his mansion and 46 cars is rapidly replaced by a feeling of resentment, bitterness, and crushing disappointment at the fact it's overwhelmingly likely you will never have the same. I want you to think for a second, to yourself because if you say this outloud it may get a you few funny looks. Ask yourself this question, and do it slowly so that every fucking word sinks in:
Am I really, really interested in what Richard Branson's bathroom looks like, or where Alex Zane keeps his underwear?
If you answered "no", well done. I like you, kind of. If you answered "yes" please just stop. Stop reading this, stop getting out of bed on a morning, stop living. Preferably, stop living by having your head exploded by a rogue firecracker lodged in your brain. I'm simply aghast that we were ever friends.
So we all grasp at thoughts of brilliance, of financial well-being, of consumerist bliss. To be different, to be better, to be individual. Unfortunately all we do is frantically grab at mediocrity. We fail because of fear. We want to be special so badly yet we're too scared to leave the bubble of individuality created for us by the things we were told to buy. So we immerse ourselves in, what should be, temporary measures. Like Reality TV. Other people living their lives for our own enjoyment. A genre that is dead inside, and that deadness spreads to your heart like a black fog intent on sapping every bit of life you ever had. It follows people that are so dull their reality now needs a fucking script to make it worthwhile. That sentence is so ridiculous it feels like every letter I type is looking at me, goading me to start punching my own face in. Shows like Made in Chelsea, Desperate Scousewives, and Geordie Shore make me want to smash my face into this netbook til I cry in desperation and then set myself on fire.
Scripted "Reality" is so depressing it makes me think talent shows are a good idea. The daft cunt singing badly in front of Simon Cowell's perfectly square head might have no clue how to hold a note, or hold their own cock when they go to the toilet, but at least they had a shot. The truth is I'm as fearful as the next person, slowly coming to terms that this is it, and that's all there is. We're all so ruled by Mortgages and Credit Card debt that we failed to see the end coming.
But it's ok. We're alive. We're happy. We just bought something new off eBay, bargain price as well. It'll look so nice next to that other thing we bought last week that we didn't need. We have everything we never needed.
We're individual, just like everyone else.
It's probably why this generation abuses and over-uses the word "random". Although it's mostly used incorrectly and, in fact, used with pathetic misplacement. That's not the point. The point is it appears everywhere. They label Facebook photo albums "random" so everyone else can see that they have done something no-one else has done before. Just like everyone else. They wear Adidas Star Wars jackets because they want the feeling of importance. Just like everyone else. People everywhere striving to be individual. To be different. To be special. People everywhere terrified that their life has no meaning, and that we are here with no purpose whatsover.
The truth is you are no different. I am no different. We are all the same. Just like those two dogs I saw this morning.
It's not your fault, and it's certainly not mine. The great thing about life is we can just about blame anybody for absolutely everything. Our feeling of inadaquecy is the fault of our parents. They coached us from a young age that we are in a World of endless possibilities. They didn't explain that most endeavours are ultimately pointless and achievements were unattainable. They told us we were special, and we believed them. Without the ability to think that there are millions of others being told the exact same thing at the exact same time. The rotten bastards. As we grow older we should know different, yet we're still being coached. TV replaced our parents a long time ago.
Adverts on TV are sickening. They tell us to strive for perfection. They tell us that if we purchase and use a particular product we will become something more. If we own particular items we will be the envy of our peers. Yet the outcome is we all end up with the same products. Everyone knows the secret of youth is in a bottle, and that bottle sits in your bathroom. It also sits in countless others too. We go to people's homes via friendly invitation yet are ambushed by the new sofa/television/vibrating cock ring they just spent 17 squillion quid on and have our faces rubbed in it, like a dog being trained not to shit on the carpet. It's ok though, what you have at home is far superior, and cost 18 squillion quid. You're still better. Or are you both the same?
The problem with TV adverts is that they have sodomised the feeling of individuality to the point where all it means is fear. Fear that we live in a World where we can walk down the street and see someone else wearing the same clothes you're wearing yourself.
But the TV would never lie to us, right?
"Cribs" on MTV has to be the most shameful piece of television programming ever created. Forget for a second that it shouldn't even belong on a channel called "Music Television". I despise MTV so much I want to delete everything I've just written so I can write them a letter that simply says "Fuck Off, Cunts". For those unaware, Cribs is a grotesque showing of the homes and cars of the richest, most famous people we've ever heard of. It's so depressing even thinking about it makes me want to stop typing, get in my car, drive it off a bridge while laughing gleefully at the prospect that I will soon be home to a watery grave and will never have to know of it's existence. It provides unrealistic expectations on a mass scale. So the initial feeling of excitement at learning Snoop Dogg has 17 bedrooms in his mansion and 46 cars is rapidly replaced by a feeling of resentment, bitterness, and crushing disappointment at the fact it's overwhelmingly likely you will never have the same. I want you to think for a second, to yourself because if you say this outloud it may get a you few funny looks. Ask yourself this question, and do it slowly so that every fucking word sinks in:
Am I really, really interested in what Richard Branson's bathroom looks like, or where Alex Zane keeps his underwear?
If you answered "no", well done. I like you, kind of. If you answered "yes" please just stop. Stop reading this, stop getting out of bed on a morning, stop living. Preferably, stop living by having your head exploded by a rogue firecracker lodged in your brain. I'm simply aghast that we were ever friends.
So we all grasp at thoughts of brilliance, of financial well-being, of consumerist bliss. To be different, to be better, to be individual. Unfortunately all we do is frantically grab at mediocrity. We fail because of fear. We want to be special so badly yet we're too scared to leave the bubble of individuality created for us by the things we were told to buy. So we immerse ourselves in, what should be, temporary measures. Like Reality TV. Other people living their lives for our own enjoyment. A genre that is dead inside, and that deadness spreads to your heart like a black fog intent on sapping every bit of life you ever had. It follows people that are so dull their reality now needs a fucking script to make it worthwhile. That sentence is so ridiculous it feels like every letter I type is looking at me, goading me to start punching my own face in. Shows like Made in Chelsea, Desperate Scousewives, and Geordie Shore make me want to smash my face into this netbook til I cry in desperation and then set myself on fire.
Scripted "Reality" is so depressing it makes me think talent shows are a good idea. The daft cunt singing badly in front of Simon Cowell's perfectly square head might have no clue how to hold a note, or hold their own cock when they go to the toilet, but at least they had a shot. The truth is I'm as fearful as the next person, slowly coming to terms that this is it, and that's all there is. We're all so ruled by Mortgages and Credit Card debt that we failed to see the end coming.
But it's ok. We're alive. We're happy. We just bought something new off eBay, bargain price as well. It'll look so nice next to that other thing we bought last week that we didn't need. We have everything we never needed.
We're individual, just like everyone else.
Wednesday 15 February 2012
The See-Saw That Broke
I was sitting in my car waiting for someone to show up and view a flat. A day old bottle of juice was my only sustenance, and while it wasn't exactly cold it was still wet enough to drink. Like most bottled juices. You've seen the scene in Jurassic Park, the introduction of the monstrous and terrifying T-Rex. It was happening right here, in the middle of a Sunderland housing estate. Loud thunderous footsteps getting closer. The sound alone is enough to scare you into eating your underwear just so you don't do a big shit in it. I look over to my juice which is rippling in time with each sound, getting louder, getting closer. I turn my head to see a massive creature waddling towards me. It wasn't a dinosaur though. School had just finished and the children were escaping. Great big fat children, salivating at the thought of getting home so their parent can take them to KFC.
It is a serious problem. Kids are fat. Not just fat, unhumanly fucking obese. So obese they should have another word created just to describe their massive form. Jabbarific! However the only Hut these poor uneducated fat bastards are aware of is "Pizza".
I would like to point out at this time I am fully aware that the Hutt race from Star Wars ends with double T. I simply dropped the T in a previous sentence for humour purposes.
Where does the blame lie? America, that's where. The good old US of States. The Land of the Free, and Fucking Huge. We follow them everywhere. Their trends. Their ungodly excuse for RnB music. Home to the most famous and powerful people in the World. We once even followed them to War. Can you believe that? It used to be a running joke. The Americans would mock our horrible teeth and over-drinking of tea. In turn we could always respond with "So what, fat twat". Not anymore.
It's easy to blame other people. Forget something in the shopping? Well it's your partner's fault for not putting it on the list. Relationship breakdown? Well it's her fault she slept with the neighbour's lawnmower. Kids getting fat? Yeah, well they don't put health warnings on a lot of fast food. Excuses. Lets be clear.
It is your fault. If you have a fat child no-one else is to blame but you. You have no self control, especially when it comes to your children. Kids want a bag of crisps or some chocolate from the cupboard? "They would only throw a tantrum if I didn't let them". Kids want a machine gun? "Well they have to defend themselves from paedophiles". Kids want a McDonalds? "A Happy Meal isn't going to hurt them". One Happy Meal will not hurt them at all. 5 a week, you start to see a big difference when all of a sudden they are fitting into your trousers. Then the only people that are happy is the Devil that pops up on your left shoulder, laughing at your inept parenting skills. The same Devil that slept with your wife and killed your cat, the bastard. The other person laughing, maniacally might I add, is that fucking clown. So addictive is McDonalds that we will gladly take in images of an evil looking beast donned in red and yellow, while chuffing a McFatto Speciale down our wedgepipes.
It's just a sign of sheer laziness. I see the hordes slowly dragging their feet towards the local chip shop. Instead of having a nice sandwich made for them they are fighting to the front of the queue for a Kebab Butty covered in curry sauce. If you're a parent who can't be arsed to get yourself out of your pyjama bottoms, you're certainly not going to help your child's healthy lifestyle.
The takeaway culture we live in doesn't help mind. Pallion front street used to be a community of local grocers, bakers, fine shops occupied by fine people. It's now like a ghost town. A ghost town inhabited by fat people and takeaway shops. In a stretch of no more than 200 metres there is a Subway, Pizza Hut, Dominos, 2 other lesser known pizza shops, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, a chip shop, some KFC rip-off, and I'm pretty sure there's a Greggs too. It is a North East rule that if you turn your head and can't see a Greggs in every direction, you're not in the North East of England.
Why not blame video games and mobile phones while were rolling. I never see kids playing out in the street anymore. Part of me is glad because I'm now a sour-faced grown-up, but a small part of me disappointed. Why bother going out when you can just text a friend, or speak to them over Xbox Live. It'll get to a point where we can't read human emotion on each others faces, unless we tattoo a winking smiley face to our foreheads. My summers were spent running around like a bell-end with my mates, and I would be climbing trees and trying to finger lasses til I had to be dragged to bed. Every kid should experience it.
I might seem quite scathing about people who care for children. I'm not ever sure I will be part of your group. But as an outsider it seems blatantly obvious that you are the only people who can make a difference. There will come a point where they will stop "growing into" themselves and just become another obese adult. Eventually we will be over-populated my large humans that are collectively heavier than the Sun, and our country will sink. People will lament in future years of how the British Isles simply disappeared under the ocean, leaving nothing but a slew of wet and empty Big Mac cartons.
Do you really want that?
It is a serious problem. Kids are fat. Not just fat, unhumanly fucking obese. So obese they should have another word created just to describe their massive form. Jabbarific! However the only Hut these poor uneducated fat bastards are aware of is "Pizza".
I would like to point out at this time I am fully aware that the Hutt race from Star Wars ends with double T. I simply dropped the T in a previous sentence for humour purposes.
Where does the blame lie? America, that's where. The good old US of States. The Land of the Free, and Fucking Huge. We follow them everywhere. Their trends. Their ungodly excuse for RnB music. Home to the most famous and powerful people in the World. We once even followed them to War. Can you believe that? It used to be a running joke. The Americans would mock our horrible teeth and over-drinking of tea. In turn we could always respond with "So what, fat twat". Not anymore.
It's easy to blame other people. Forget something in the shopping? Well it's your partner's fault for not putting it on the list. Relationship breakdown? Well it's her fault she slept with the neighbour's lawnmower. Kids getting fat? Yeah, well they don't put health warnings on a lot of fast food. Excuses. Lets be clear.
It is your fault. If you have a fat child no-one else is to blame but you. You have no self control, especially when it comes to your children. Kids want a bag of crisps or some chocolate from the cupboard? "They would only throw a tantrum if I didn't let them". Kids want a machine gun? "Well they have to defend themselves from paedophiles". Kids want a McDonalds? "A Happy Meal isn't going to hurt them". One Happy Meal will not hurt them at all. 5 a week, you start to see a big difference when all of a sudden they are fitting into your trousers. Then the only people that are happy is the Devil that pops up on your left shoulder, laughing at your inept parenting skills. The same Devil that slept with your wife and killed your cat, the bastard. The other person laughing, maniacally might I add, is that fucking clown. So addictive is McDonalds that we will gladly take in images of an evil looking beast donned in red and yellow, while chuffing a McFatto Speciale down our wedgepipes.
It's just a sign of sheer laziness. I see the hordes slowly dragging their feet towards the local chip shop. Instead of having a nice sandwich made for them they are fighting to the front of the queue for a Kebab Butty covered in curry sauce. If you're a parent who can't be arsed to get yourself out of your pyjama bottoms, you're certainly not going to help your child's healthy lifestyle.
The takeaway culture we live in doesn't help mind. Pallion front street used to be a community of local grocers, bakers, fine shops occupied by fine people. It's now like a ghost town. A ghost town inhabited by fat people and takeaway shops. In a stretch of no more than 200 metres there is a Subway, Pizza Hut, Dominos, 2 other lesser known pizza shops, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, a chip shop, some KFC rip-off, and I'm pretty sure there's a Greggs too. It is a North East rule that if you turn your head and can't see a Greggs in every direction, you're not in the North East of England.
Why not blame video games and mobile phones while were rolling. I never see kids playing out in the street anymore. Part of me is glad because I'm now a sour-faced grown-up, but a small part of me disappointed. Why bother going out when you can just text a friend, or speak to them over Xbox Live. It'll get to a point where we can't read human emotion on each others faces, unless we tattoo a winking smiley face to our foreheads. My summers were spent running around like a bell-end with my mates, and I would be climbing trees and trying to finger lasses til I had to be dragged to bed. Every kid should experience it.
I might seem quite scathing about people who care for children. I'm not ever sure I will be part of your group. But as an outsider it seems blatantly obvious that you are the only people who can make a difference. There will come a point where they will stop "growing into" themselves and just become another obese adult. Eventually we will be over-populated my large humans that are collectively heavier than the Sun, and our country will sink. People will lament in future years of how the British Isles simply disappeared under the ocean, leaving nothing but a slew of wet and empty Big Mac cartons.
Do you really want that?
Tuesday 14 February 2012
A Valentines Day Post-Mortem
So how was it for you then? Everything you hoped and dreamed it would be? Disappointing like the last day of term at school and you were the only person who didn't have his shirt signed by the feckless mob? Or was it just another Tuesday?
The whole notion of Valentines Day is wrong, whether you're single or otherwise. When you were a kid at school it was a popularity contest, the better looking kids fighting it out over who got the most cards, usually from girls younger than yourself as all the girls your own age bestowed their teenage adulation on idiots much older just because they smoked tabs at lunchtime. The other kids were left to fester over another reason to hate those more popular. I was popular at school and I enjoyed it at the time, but I fucking despise it now. Maybe looking back is a story best saved for another time.
The point is it should've been left in the past, left to innocent minds, before we became grown ups and gained responsibilities we never really wanted.
It's a myth that single people hate Valentines Day, although they have every right to. I've had good experiences, and experiences so dull I can't even remember them both as a single person and in a loving relationship. Regardless, I've always been of the same opinion:
It doesn't mean a fucking thing.
It's one day out of your life, one day every year when people are forced into buying something unnecessary at an unreasonable cost just because somebody decided people weren't spending enough between Christmas and Easter. Everywhere you look from Boxing Day, advertisers will be putting out subtle hints that Feb 14th isn't far away. Then nearer to the time you are bombarded with an onslaught of red, like someone had gone on a stabbing spree in the middle of Clintons leaving nothing but shit poetry behind. Cards, for fucks sake. Cards the size of actual people! Cards that are bigger than some people's housing. Cards that could swallow a person whole and act as some sort of novelty fucking coffin. Teddy Bears that look so real they are only one short leap from creating their own army and taking over civilisation. If that happens it would be your fault for buying this bobbins in the first place. If you've ever bought an over-sized bear take yourself outside and give yourself a good shake. Shake yourself off the nearest fucking bridge.
People in relationships are poor bastards. They are the slaves to a pointless tradition. How many actually want to take part? How many are screaming for someone to humanise Valentines Day just so they can work out where to point the gun? There's great pressure to perform here, anxiety builds that should really be reserved for a birthday, or going to the toilet in a public lavatory. These soppy shitsacks are in trouble, throwing money at love. At least with a hooker you're guaranteed a legover. Spending money like it grows on the underside of a cow. It doesn't, I looked. Just udders, and if you're really unlucky big swinging bollocks.
Single people have a different kind of pressure. Another reason to hate everyone else. A day which magnifies your thoughts about how you're still single, and, if you're really unlucky, WHY you're still single. Those thoughts will hurt you more than you're first girlfriend. You remember her? She told you she was going to University when really she was just popping round your mates because he had a car and a bigger willy? Aye, that's the one. Even that is bearable to a degree, in comparison to the looks and smug sympathy people in relationships give you. "Never mind, maybe next year you'll be with someone". Agreed, and maybe next year Black Death will make a timely re-appearance and wipe out your entire family. Hope springs eternal.
The whole point of this is to explain that you don't need a day to show someone you love them. Do you really believe that? Do you? Buy your loved one some flowers, or a novelty vibrator, next week. Even the week after. You can kiss them everyday, tell them you are in love, and with great effort and concentration raise an erection and penetrate them. In case you hadn't realised there are 364 other days in the year, and unless you are on your game for every single one of them you will be joining me for Valentines Day in the single party.
We'll be celebrating another Valentines Day avoided like there's no 15th of February, but that's not the point.
The whole notion of Valentines Day is wrong, whether you're single or otherwise. When you were a kid at school it was a popularity contest, the better looking kids fighting it out over who got the most cards, usually from girls younger than yourself as all the girls your own age bestowed their teenage adulation on idiots much older just because they smoked tabs at lunchtime. The other kids were left to fester over another reason to hate those more popular. I was popular at school and I enjoyed it at the time, but I fucking despise it now. Maybe looking back is a story best saved for another time.
The point is it should've been left in the past, left to innocent minds, before we became grown ups and gained responsibilities we never really wanted.
It's a myth that single people hate Valentines Day, although they have every right to. I've had good experiences, and experiences so dull I can't even remember them both as a single person and in a loving relationship. Regardless, I've always been of the same opinion:
It doesn't mean a fucking thing.
It's one day out of your life, one day every year when people are forced into buying something unnecessary at an unreasonable cost just because somebody decided people weren't spending enough between Christmas and Easter. Everywhere you look from Boxing Day, advertisers will be putting out subtle hints that Feb 14th isn't far away. Then nearer to the time you are bombarded with an onslaught of red, like someone had gone on a stabbing spree in the middle of Clintons leaving nothing but shit poetry behind. Cards, for fucks sake. Cards the size of actual people! Cards that are bigger than some people's housing. Cards that could swallow a person whole and act as some sort of novelty fucking coffin. Teddy Bears that look so real they are only one short leap from creating their own army and taking over civilisation. If that happens it would be your fault for buying this bobbins in the first place. If you've ever bought an over-sized bear take yourself outside and give yourself a good shake. Shake yourself off the nearest fucking bridge.
People in relationships are poor bastards. They are the slaves to a pointless tradition. How many actually want to take part? How many are screaming for someone to humanise Valentines Day just so they can work out where to point the gun? There's great pressure to perform here, anxiety builds that should really be reserved for a birthday, or going to the toilet in a public lavatory. These soppy shitsacks are in trouble, throwing money at love. At least with a hooker you're guaranteed a legover. Spending money like it grows on the underside of a cow. It doesn't, I looked. Just udders, and if you're really unlucky big swinging bollocks.
Single people have a different kind of pressure. Another reason to hate everyone else. A day which magnifies your thoughts about how you're still single, and, if you're really unlucky, WHY you're still single. Those thoughts will hurt you more than you're first girlfriend. You remember her? She told you she was going to University when really she was just popping round your mates because he had a car and a bigger willy? Aye, that's the one. Even that is bearable to a degree, in comparison to the looks and smug sympathy people in relationships give you. "Never mind, maybe next year you'll be with someone". Agreed, and maybe next year Black Death will make a timely re-appearance and wipe out your entire family. Hope springs eternal.
The whole point of this is to explain that you don't need a day to show someone you love them. Do you really believe that? Do you? Buy your loved one some flowers, or a novelty vibrator, next week. Even the week after. You can kiss them everyday, tell them you are in love, and with great effort and concentration raise an erection and penetrate them. In case you hadn't realised there are 364 other days in the year, and unless you are on your game for every single one of them you will be joining me for Valentines Day in the single party.
We'll be celebrating another Valentines Day avoided like there's no 15th of February, but that's not the point.
Friday 10 February 2012
Show Me One (Mad) Man
Mad Men is staggeringly good television. I'm sure lots of people have written about how it looks, the style, character development, story etc. The aspects of the programme I've mentioned make it look beautiful, and sound cooler than Dick Whitman's army career. You see what I did there? I took the word "cool" and used 2 of it's meanings in one sentence. Clever bastard.
This is not the main reason I love it so.
TV and Gaming. For me it is all about escaping. I am an unstoppable soldier fighting hordes of aliens one minute, the next I am a superhero taking to the skies. Mad Men is the same, but not at all similar. It's a different kind of escaping. I'm not just dreaming of flying away from a financially crippled life with no direction. I'm actually living someone else's life, its just there for the taking. Its as easy as taking a Stanley Knife from a baby.
Why escape there? I mentioned above how this place looks, its like everyone is so good looking they come with a coating of gloss. The big city shines, and the suburbs glow colourfully.
The men are hurtingly handsome, immaculately dressed in suits and ties that scream "look at how fucking good I look". They are the boss of every situation they come across. Or at least act like it. They drink scotch during the day and smoke wherever they want. The smoking I can deal with, but I may look a little out of place with my 2 litre bottle of Strongbow hanging out of my gob. So fuck, it was created by someone else but in my imagination it belongs to me. The amount of responsibility these gentlemen have is only matched by their lack of responsibility towards it. Why? Because it can be handled in whichever way they want it to be. That is a man, right there.
The women are sublime. I could've said "beautiful, sexy, gorgeous" and I woul've been correct, but sublime describes accurately how they are. Not just their looks, but an all-round persona. The show gives us an idea of how complex they were, in a time when they were perceived as dinner-serving bimboids, a simple clone of one another. But they weren't. They were an emerging force, using their intelligence, as well as their bodies to bend men to their will. They are both submissive and over-powering. Intelligent at playing the game. The men may have created the rules, but the women own your ability to play it.
That said, there is something about a woman that you can bend yourself. While I'm for equal opportunities in the workplace, it would be nice to know that after a hard day at the office you were returning home to food, a beer, and love. All of which prepared by the most sublime woman you ever set eyes on.
Think for a second about a simpler time. Have you ever left your phone in the house when going out for a night? We are a people so obsessed with our phones that it is seemingly the end of civilisation if we are without our mobile robot arm extensions. Sounds a bit silly really. So what if you lived in a time before mobile phones, before internet and search engines, before CCTV. No texts from drunken friends waking you up at 3am. No electronic letters advising you that the only way a woman you want will love you is if you take a pill that will grow your cock to the size of a tree. Definitely no incriminating evidence of you fucking that trampy bird outside a nightclub in Sunderland. None of it was necessary, and it sounds like fucking bliss.
Imagine your whole day, stroll into work at 10am, greeted by a wonderful secretary, fix a drink and talk with friends, have a couple of meetings that more resemble a jolly boys outing, finish early, see the mistress, go home to a gorgeous wife with dinner ready. You tell me one guy that doesn't want that and I'll show you a lying sack of crap.
This is not the main reason I love it so.
TV and Gaming. For me it is all about escaping. I am an unstoppable soldier fighting hordes of aliens one minute, the next I am a superhero taking to the skies. Mad Men is the same, but not at all similar. It's a different kind of escaping. I'm not just dreaming of flying away from a financially crippled life with no direction. I'm actually living someone else's life, its just there for the taking. Its as easy as taking a Stanley Knife from a baby.
Why escape there? I mentioned above how this place looks, its like everyone is so good looking they come with a coating of gloss. The big city shines, and the suburbs glow colourfully.
The men are hurtingly handsome, immaculately dressed in suits and ties that scream "look at how fucking good I look". They are the boss of every situation they come across. Or at least act like it. They drink scotch during the day and smoke wherever they want. The smoking I can deal with, but I may look a little out of place with my 2 litre bottle of Strongbow hanging out of my gob. So fuck, it was created by someone else but in my imagination it belongs to me. The amount of responsibility these gentlemen have is only matched by their lack of responsibility towards it. Why? Because it can be handled in whichever way they want it to be. That is a man, right there.
The women are sublime. I could've said "beautiful, sexy, gorgeous" and I woul've been correct, but sublime describes accurately how they are. Not just their looks, but an all-round persona. The show gives us an idea of how complex they were, in a time when they were perceived as dinner-serving bimboids, a simple clone of one another. But they weren't. They were an emerging force, using their intelligence, as well as their bodies to bend men to their will. They are both submissive and over-powering. Intelligent at playing the game. The men may have created the rules, but the women own your ability to play it.
That said, there is something about a woman that you can bend yourself. While I'm for equal opportunities in the workplace, it would be nice to know that after a hard day at the office you were returning home to food, a beer, and love. All of which prepared by the most sublime woman you ever set eyes on.
Think for a second about a simpler time. Have you ever left your phone in the house when going out for a night? We are a people so obsessed with our phones that it is seemingly the end of civilisation if we are without our mobile robot arm extensions. Sounds a bit silly really. So what if you lived in a time before mobile phones, before internet and search engines, before CCTV. No texts from drunken friends waking you up at 3am. No electronic letters advising you that the only way a woman you want will love you is if you take a pill that will grow your cock to the size of a tree. Definitely no incriminating evidence of you fucking that trampy bird outside a nightclub in Sunderland. None of it was necessary, and it sounds like fucking bliss.
Imagine your whole day, stroll into work at 10am, greeted by a wonderful secretary, fix a drink and talk with friends, have a couple of meetings that more resemble a jolly boys outing, finish early, see the mistress, go home to a gorgeous wife with dinner ready. You tell me one guy that doesn't want that and I'll show you a lying sack of crap.
Why Facebook is Fucking Shit! Pt.2
The second part. That's how shit Facebook really is. A moderately educated mong can write 2 separate pieces on why it's the worst place on Earth. Fred West's back garden? Facebook is worse. The Dead Marshes of Middle-Earth? A delightful place in comparison to Facebook. That part of your brain which visualizes your partner cheating on you with a friend, a recurring thought that you can't even dispose of with a mind-screwdriver? Much rather be spending my time there than on "Facey".
I am not above my own comments, I am not above my own ridicule. I can never over-state this point enough. In fact, by writing this off-the-cuff guff I am just highlighting my own shortcomings. Facebook is addictive. Barely 30 minutes goes by when I don't refresh my timeline, comment on someone's status, or post some pithy nonsense littered with swearwords because, you know, I'm fucking mint and that. Let me remind you, "The idiots are everywhere...and I'm the worst one". Facebook is indeed addictive, but so is crack. How long before our thoughts are "Well, updated the shit out of that status. Time to hit the pipe".
Check Ins
Beautiful. If you check in from a made up place. Like the time I "checked in" at "Yer Ma's Knicker Basket". It doesn't exist, and if it does I've never been there. I know for certain it's not on the street in Sunderland where I placed it's location. Reading that Billy Pissface checked in at Nando's is not beautiful. It's dull. More dull than people who quote Frankie Boyle, daft cunts. Create somewhere, somewhere that doesn't exist anywhere but your own imagination, and check in. It'll be fun, I promise.
There's also something sinister about knowing where people are all the time. In 5 years time TV will be non-existent. We shall simply be following each other around, chasing to points where people check in and watching them eat chicken. You see, we all lost our jobs because we became obsessed with where people were all of the time, and now chicken is unattainable. We watch you eat chicken. And you like it.
Work Friends
Continuing with another version of sinister spying. People have lost jobs because of Facebook. Not just the stupid bastards who decided to complain about how shit their job is, while knowing their boss can see it. They deserve it, kind of. Your future employers have people trained to look at your social media output to see if you are a suitable candidate for a given position. All them photos of you downing shots of Jager, vomiting on a priest's shoes, eating a live deer? Yep, that's why you didn't get that promotion. Would it have happened before Facebook? Of course not. You could've wiped that deer blood from the side of your mouth seconds before a job interview and nobody would be any wiser. Except for the receptionist who had to remove a deer carcass from the lobby. She wouldn't say anything though, you could just eat her when successfully in your new post.
Notifications After "Liking" or Posting a Comment
You have 15 new notifications! My Christ! At long last popularity has been charitable in my favour! No, wait, 15 schleps have commented on a status I commented on earlier. Someone posts a semi-interesting or amusing status update, you comment or "like" it. In a matter of minutes a colossal barrage of idiots will appear on your newsfeed. Your comment could've been a work of brilliance, but now you have to weather the pain of other peoples mind-crushingly poor attempts at humour, intelligence, spelling and grammar. And for fucks sake do not leave a comment on a good-looking girl's status because every meat-head, computer-perv, and friend-zoned effort will be hitting your notification bar like it's going out of fashion. Oh for the love of Sauron and all his minions, please let it go out of fashion.
"Friends"
Lets be friends. Be honest, how many people have you contacted recently on your Facebook friends list? I bet less than 10. I'm never wrong. Ever avoided someone in a supermarket, or a bookshop, or an abattoir and then realised they are actually your "friend" on Facebook? I have people on my friends list, no fucking clue of how they got there. Did they sneak on while I was sleeping, or distracted by a large pie? The only legitimate reasons for adding someone on Facebook are:
1. You know them, you have a quality rapport and wish to explore this further.
2. You really want to have sex with them.
Yet we add everyone. Someone we met at a party once that said hello? You have 1 new friend request. Someone from school you never spoke to, had nothing in common with, and have even less in common with now? You have 1 new friend request. The person you stumbled into as you both watched a couple frantically going at it in an open dogging session? Friend request declined.
90% of people on Facebook are not your friends. They aren't even people. It's just a list of names, mis-represented by profile pictures that make them look more attractive/interesting/fun than what they actually are, collected like Top Trumps.
Anthony Burdis
Profile Pic - 8 (a clearly false 8, does not look anything like that)
Personality - 7 (grossly exaggerated to make himself seem interesting)
Cock Size - 0 (accurate)
Oh the amount of times I've been beaten in Facebook Top Trumps because of "Cock Size".
That said there's around 10% of your friend list that does not fall into this category. They are the real people that matter. The people you will share private messages with. The ones who know that your profile picture is a work of fiction. The ones who you see everyday, and the ones you wish you could see more frequently.
It's comforting to know that Facebook is good for something.
I am not above my own comments, I am not above my own ridicule. I can never over-state this point enough. In fact, by writing this off-the-cuff guff I am just highlighting my own shortcomings. Facebook is addictive. Barely 30 minutes goes by when I don't refresh my timeline, comment on someone's status, or post some pithy nonsense littered with swearwords because, you know, I'm fucking mint and that. Let me remind you, "The idiots are everywhere...and I'm the worst one". Facebook is indeed addictive, but so is crack. How long before our thoughts are "Well, updated the shit out of that status. Time to hit the pipe".
Check Ins
Beautiful. If you check in from a made up place. Like the time I "checked in" at "Yer Ma's Knicker Basket". It doesn't exist, and if it does I've never been there. I know for certain it's not on the street in Sunderland where I placed it's location. Reading that Billy Pissface checked in at Nando's is not beautiful. It's dull. More dull than people who quote Frankie Boyle, daft cunts. Create somewhere, somewhere that doesn't exist anywhere but your own imagination, and check in. It'll be fun, I promise.
There's also something sinister about knowing where people are all the time. In 5 years time TV will be non-existent. We shall simply be following each other around, chasing to points where people check in and watching them eat chicken. You see, we all lost our jobs because we became obsessed with where people were all of the time, and now chicken is unattainable. We watch you eat chicken. And you like it.
Work Friends
Continuing with another version of sinister spying. People have lost jobs because of Facebook. Not just the stupid bastards who decided to complain about how shit their job is, while knowing their boss can see it. They deserve it, kind of. Your future employers have people trained to look at your social media output to see if you are a suitable candidate for a given position. All them photos of you downing shots of Jager, vomiting on a priest's shoes, eating a live deer? Yep, that's why you didn't get that promotion. Would it have happened before Facebook? Of course not. You could've wiped that deer blood from the side of your mouth seconds before a job interview and nobody would be any wiser. Except for the receptionist who had to remove a deer carcass from the lobby. She wouldn't say anything though, you could just eat her when successfully in your new post.
Notifications After "Liking" or Posting a Comment
You have 15 new notifications! My Christ! At long last popularity has been charitable in my favour! No, wait, 15 schleps have commented on a status I commented on earlier. Someone posts a semi-interesting or amusing status update, you comment or "like" it. In a matter of minutes a colossal barrage of idiots will appear on your newsfeed. Your comment could've been a work of brilliance, but now you have to weather the pain of other peoples mind-crushingly poor attempts at humour, intelligence, spelling and grammar. And for fucks sake do not leave a comment on a good-looking girl's status because every meat-head, computer-perv, and friend-zoned effort will be hitting your notification bar like it's going out of fashion. Oh for the love of Sauron and all his minions, please let it go out of fashion.
"Friends"
Lets be friends. Be honest, how many people have you contacted recently on your Facebook friends list? I bet less than 10. I'm never wrong. Ever avoided someone in a supermarket, or a bookshop, or an abattoir and then realised they are actually your "friend" on Facebook? I have people on my friends list, no fucking clue of how they got there. Did they sneak on while I was sleeping, or distracted by a large pie? The only legitimate reasons for adding someone on Facebook are:
1. You know them, you have a quality rapport and wish to explore this further.
2. You really want to have sex with them.
Yet we add everyone. Someone we met at a party once that said hello? You have 1 new friend request. Someone from school you never spoke to, had nothing in common with, and have even less in common with now? You have 1 new friend request. The person you stumbled into as you both watched a couple frantically going at it in an open dogging session? Friend request declined.
90% of people on Facebook are not your friends. They aren't even people. It's just a list of names, mis-represented by profile pictures that make them look more attractive/interesting/fun than what they actually are, collected like Top Trumps.
Anthony Burdis
Profile Pic - 8 (a clearly false 8, does not look anything like that)
Personality - 7 (grossly exaggerated to make himself seem interesting)
Cock Size - 0 (accurate)
Oh the amount of times I've been beaten in Facebook Top Trumps because of "Cock Size".
That said there's around 10% of your friend list that does not fall into this category. They are the real people that matter. The people you will share private messages with. The ones who know that your profile picture is a work of fiction. The ones who you see everyday, and the ones you wish you could see more frequently.
It's comforting to know that Facebook is good for something.
Thursday 9 February 2012
The Girl in the Dress
It probably was taken without too much thought. From a camera phone. The bed behind her was a little messy, but in an endearing way. Her hair was pinned up, and you could just about see a couple of big beautiful blue eyes peering over the top of the camera
The dress was spectacular, off-white, green stems leading to vibrant pink and red flowers, matching the tone of her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging a 1960's style figure but slimmer (can you tell I've been watching a lot of Mad Men recently?). It went down to the knee, two dainty legs protruding from the bottom. The hips were possibly the best thing about the look. Not just because I have a little thing for hips, they just fit the dress so well. The kind you want to put your hands on while leaning in for a kiss. The bow tied around pulling in the waist only accentuated them further. The light from the window reflects off her right side, shining brilliantly, while the left side is very much shadowed. While appreciating the view you can't help feel that this dress and this girl were meant for each other, like two twins seperated at birth, if one of the twins was made out of material rather than skin and bone. A dress like this gives the impression that the girl is stylish, elegant, pretty. But a man knows there is something going on underneath, and they would sell their own grandmother to find out.
It was a perfect picture. The girl in the dress.
The dress was spectacular, off-white, green stems leading to vibrant pink and red flowers, matching the tone of her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging a 1960's style figure but slimmer (can you tell I've been watching a lot of Mad Men recently?). It went down to the knee, two dainty legs protruding from the bottom. The hips were possibly the best thing about the look. Not just because I have a little thing for hips, they just fit the dress so well. The kind you want to put your hands on while leaning in for a kiss. The bow tied around pulling in the waist only accentuated them further. The light from the window reflects off her right side, shining brilliantly, while the left side is very much shadowed. While appreciating the view you can't help feel that this dress and this girl were meant for each other, like two twins seperated at birth, if one of the twins was made out of material rather than skin and bone. A dress like this gives the impression that the girl is stylish, elegant, pretty. But a man knows there is something going on underneath, and they would sell their own grandmother to find out.
It was a perfect picture. The girl in the dress.
Wednesday 8 February 2012
My Old Man.
"The dudes are lining up because they hear we got swagger,
but we kick them to the kerb unless they look like Mick Jagger"
"I got them moves like Jagger,
I got them moo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo ooves like Jagger"
Couple of lines there to start us off from lyrical geniuses Ke$ha, and Adam Levine of Maroon 5.
Why Mick Jagger? Why would you want to take a potential suitor based on his likeness of this man? Why would you want his moves? It strikes me as strange.
The first is from the song "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha, a female so desperately looking for identity/moulded by corporate schmucks that she spells her name with a dollar sign. The symbol for currency in the US of States. Yes, it is that ridiculous. A poet, she ain't. I'm assuming the only reason for Jagger being referenced at all in this song is the fact it rhymes with "swagger", a word which is currently losing it's true meaning through over-use from young folk who can't do anything properly. Like the word "random". That haircut you got is not random. You dipping your French Fries in Ice Cream, not random. That "arty" photo album you have on Facebook which consists of photos of your face from different angles labelled "Random"? 100% not random.
Anyway, Jagger. he'sth A shicksty eih yur oll grahfahder. Sorry about that, I tried typing with my mouthful. He's a 68 year old grandfather. He looks like that sock you spunked off in and left under your bed for a week and a half. A grey sock, all crusty and that. His skin looks like it was used to make belts. Leather studded ones. He is also skinnier than Karen Carpenter's ankle. This is probably from years of alcohol and drugs.
Ke$ha, looking like she is well-versed in Rock history will probably be referring to his earlier days. Or because "Jagger" rhymes with "Swagger". It also rhymes with "Shagger", but there was no famous people with that name. Except soul legend Shagger Kahn.
Adam Levine. Now there's a face I could not stop punching. The biggest problem I have with "Moves Like Jagger" is how incredibly catchy it is. I find myself whistling along to it's rhythm, which makes me want to punish myself. Fair play though, the infectious melody teamed with the use of Mick's surname has proven to be a winner. It should be noted that Herpes is also infectious too, doesn't make it good.
Why would you be proud to have moves like Jagger? Why would you be so over-joyed that you would dedicate a song, 4 minutes of everyone's life, to the ability to move like a pensioner?
Has anyone seen Mick Jagger move recently? The only time he does nowadays is when he is prodded by a stick, just to make sure he hasn't dropped off the branch.
I was introduced to Jagger's "moves" when he teamed up with Bowie, another cunt, to ruin the Motown classic "Dancing in the Street". He looked like an upright Turtle. His moves were that of a chicken. His famous strut, copied by many (idiots), perfected by one (twat). His moves are like a chicken. A chicken with epilepsy that has just been informed it has won the lottery and also learned about the death of a loved one simultaneously. A chicken that is in constant need to cross the road because that's where its pain medication is. A chicken that has no feet as they have disintegrated on the piss-soaked battery farm floor, and all it can do is roll around bobbing it's head and flapping its wings wondering "I would love some idiot to see me like this, and then develop it into a dance move like a fucking massive prick".
Adam Levine might be the biggest Rolling Stones fan in the whole World for all I know, but I'm cynical enough to assume that he was told to write about Mick Jagger because he is a popular pop culture reference. What I do know is I could not give one fuck about it. What I do know is that I'm thankful that I don't look like or move like Mick Jagger.
but we kick them to the kerb unless they look like Mick Jagger"
"I got them moves like Jagger,
I got them moo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo ooves like Jagger"
Couple of lines there to start us off from lyrical geniuses Ke$ha, and Adam Levine of Maroon 5.
Why Mick Jagger? Why would you want to take a potential suitor based on his likeness of this man? Why would you want his moves? It strikes me as strange.
The first is from the song "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha, a female so desperately looking for identity/moulded by corporate schmucks that she spells her name with a dollar sign. The symbol for currency in the US of States. Yes, it is that ridiculous. A poet, she ain't. I'm assuming the only reason for Jagger being referenced at all in this song is the fact it rhymes with "swagger", a word which is currently losing it's true meaning through over-use from young folk who can't do anything properly. Like the word "random". That haircut you got is not random. You dipping your French Fries in Ice Cream, not random. That "arty" photo album you have on Facebook which consists of photos of your face from different angles labelled "Random"? 100% not random.
Anyway, Jagger. he'sth A shicksty eih yur oll grahfahder. Sorry about that, I tried typing with my mouthful. He's a 68 year old grandfather. He looks like that sock you spunked off in and left under your bed for a week and a half. A grey sock, all crusty and that. His skin looks like it was used to make belts. Leather studded ones. He is also skinnier than Karen Carpenter's ankle. This is probably from years of alcohol and drugs.
Ke$ha, looking like she is well-versed in Rock history will probably be referring to his earlier days. Or because "Jagger" rhymes with "Swagger". It also rhymes with "Shagger", but there was no famous people with that name. Except soul legend Shagger Kahn.
Adam Levine. Now there's a face I could not stop punching. The biggest problem I have with "Moves Like Jagger" is how incredibly catchy it is. I find myself whistling along to it's rhythm, which makes me want to punish myself. Fair play though, the infectious melody teamed with the use of Mick's surname has proven to be a winner. It should be noted that Herpes is also infectious too, doesn't make it good.
Why would you be proud to have moves like Jagger? Why would you be so over-joyed that you would dedicate a song, 4 minutes of everyone's life, to the ability to move like a pensioner?
Has anyone seen Mick Jagger move recently? The only time he does nowadays is when he is prodded by a stick, just to make sure he hasn't dropped off the branch.
I was introduced to Jagger's "moves" when he teamed up with Bowie, another cunt, to ruin the Motown classic "Dancing in the Street". He looked like an upright Turtle. His moves were that of a chicken. His famous strut, copied by many (idiots), perfected by one (twat). His moves are like a chicken. A chicken with epilepsy that has just been informed it has won the lottery and also learned about the death of a loved one simultaneously. A chicken that is in constant need to cross the road because that's where its pain medication is. A chicken that has no feet as they have disintegrated on the piss-soaked battery farm floor, and all it can do is roll around bobbing it's head and flapping its wings wondering "I would love some idiot to see me like this, and then develop it into a dance move like a fucking massive prick".
Adam Levine might be the biggest Rolling Stones fan in the whole World for all I know, but I'm cynical enough to assume that he was told to write about Mick Jagger because he is a popular pop culture reference. What I do know is I could not give one fuck about it. What I do know is that I'm thankful that I don't look like or move like Mick Jagger.
Monday 6 February 2012
Why Facebook is Fucking Shit!
It is. Be honest with yourself. There are very few good points to Facebook. The main problem is people. People are idiots. They do things. You can't stop them. I've tried.
Don't think for one second that I am above my own criticism. The list below describes some of the things that make Facebook the worst place on the internet. Don't think that I haven't been party to some of them. Of course I have. To quote a great man, "The idiots are everywhere, and I'm the worst one". The only difference between me and the rest of the idiots is I am self-aware, at least enough to acknowledge it.
The list is not complete. I don't think that it will ever be completed. As people we pride ourselves on evolving, pushing forward, breaking down barriers. It's this sort of admirable determination that means there will always be a new reason to dislike Facebook. Or at least the cretins that dwell within.
We're like chimps at a tea party, but we decided to bring our laptops and smartphones. Instead of talking to each other, we post a status. Someone comments, another person "likes". We don't talk to each other anymore. I bet the chimps screeching at each other would be more refined than our own behaviour too.
Suspicion
Facebook can ruin a relationship. It can ruin friendships. It can ruin your very soul. The backlog of every comment on every profile you've ever made can be traced back to you. What may have been an insignificant pressing of a "like" button to one person, can mean the end of days to another. You make a comment on someones profile, your partner sees it. Your partner will look through your phone to check what you've been sending and to who. Some of us will let go. Some of us will keep digging until we get the grim satisfaction of being correct. You did catch Chlamydia off that holiday rep in 2001. It's all there just waiting to be found by the suspicious ones.
Pity Statuses
So then there's the inevitable break up. It pops up in everyone's timeline "Fergal Fuckstick went from "being in a relationship" to "dumpsville, population: this guy". It's not just official, it's Facebook Official. What to do next? Why not invite everyone along to the pity party? There's an invitation waiting for me next time I log on, fucking fantastic! Yeah, you're sad. I am sorry, we've all been there and it's horrible. But at least we handled it with some fucking dignity. Do you honestly think all of the fake sympathy will actually make you feel better? Answer that and get back to me.
This also includes anyone who ends a status with "FML". Your £500 phone/laptop broke, your car runs out of petrol, you missed check in for your flight to Dubai. Indeed, FYL. You've got it so bad. The only people who should ever use "FML" are Death Row inmates. "Sitting in the chair. Probably going to be electrocuted soon. Probably shouldn't have gone on that murderous rampage. FML."
Vague Statuses
At least the pity party is specific. Nowt worse than some daft shite posting "Jenny Pissflap....wishes he would call me". Just fucking ring them yourself! Seriously, if you're about to write something vague but is actually aimed directly at someone don't be surprised when no-one gives an actual fuck. In fact, I'll give you a fuck and then remove it from your fucking head. You miss someone? Tell them, chances are they feel the same. You want to ask someone out? Fucking ask them. You want to confess to a violent sexual crime you committed in the past? Probably best keep that to yourself.
Complaining that "Facebook is shit nowadays"
There was never a time Facebook was good. The "craic" on Facebook is shit? Maybe your craic is fucking shit. Open your front door, take a look outside, go for a walk, say "hello" to an old codger, smoke a tab, bask in the glorious world. You may actually get some enjoyment from it. If not, the shit craic will still be there when you get back.
Advising of a Friend's Cull
For. Fucks. Fucking. Sake. I make a habit of removing anyone who posts this as a status update. Quietly remove them without anyone knowing, and post your status as "Ninja Skills".
As my bitterness seems to have very little in the way of boundaries, I may have to make this a three part piece. I also have to play 5-a-side football in 40 minutes and I can still feel Dominos pizza in my stomach.
A little positivity to end with? I hadn't spoken to Steven Bartram for years. We have known each other since we were two years old. Like an irresistible scruffy dog I would run into his grandparent's sweet shop and steal his toys. We went through our school lives together sharing what was a remarkable experience, as firm friends. He went to University, I went to work. A few years, and then a few more went by. I dare say we would've got back in touch eventually but Facebook speeded this process. So I suppose it's not all bad.
Only kidding, it's fucking shit.
Don't think for one second that I am above my own criticism. The list below describes some of the things that make Facebook the worst place on the internet. Don't think that I haven't been party to some of them. Of course I have. To quote a great man, "The idiots are everywhere, and I'm the worst one". The only difference between me and the rest of the idiots is I am self-aware, at least enough to acknowledge it.
The list is not complete. I don't think that it will ever be completed. As people we pride ourselves on evolving, pushing forward, breaking down barriers. It's this sort of admirable determination that means there will always be a new reason to dislike Facebook. Or at least the cretins that dwell within.
We're like chimps at a tea party, but we decided to bring our laptops and smartphones. Instead of talking to each other, we post a status. Someone comments, another person "likes". We don't talk to each other anymore. I bet the chimps screeching at each other would be more refined than our own behaviour too.
Suspicion
Facebook can ruin a relationship. It can ruin friendships. It can ruin your very soul. The backlog of every comment on every profile you've ever made can be traced back to you. What may have been an insignificant pressing of a "like" button to one person, can mean the end of days to another. You make a comment on someones profile, your partner sees it. Your partner will look through your phone to check what you've been sending and to who. Some of us will let go. Some of us will keep digging until we get the grim satisfaction of being correct. You did catch Chlamydia off that holiday rep in 2001. It's all there just waiting to be found by the suspicious ones.
Pity Statuses
So then there's the inevitable break up. It pops up in everyone's timeline "Fergal Fuckstick went from "being in a relationship" to "dumpsville, population: this guy". It's not just official, it's Facebook Official. What to do next? Why not invite everyone along to the pity party? There's an invitation waiting for me next time I log on, fucking fantastic! Yeah, you're sad. I am sorry, we've all been there and it's horrible. But at least we handled it with some fucking dignity. Do you honestly think all of the fake sympathy will actually make you feel better? Answer that and get back to me.
This also includes anyone who ends a status with "FML". Your £500 phone/laptop broke, your car runs out of petrol, you missed check in for your flight to Dubai. Indeed, FYL. You've got it so bad. The only people who should ever use "FML" are Death Row inmates. "Sitting in the chair. Probably going to be electrocuted soon. Probably shouldn't have gone on that murderous rampage. FML."
Vague Statuses
At least the pity party is specific. Nowt worse than some daft shite posting "Jenny Pissflap....wishes he would call me". Just fucking ring them yourself! Seriously, if you're about to write something vague but is actually aimed directly at someone don't be surprised when no-one gives an actual fuck. In fact, I'll give you a fuck and then remove it from your fucking head. You miss someone? Tell them, chances are they feel the same. You want to ask someone out? Fucking ask them. You want to confess to a violent sexual crime you committed in the past? Probably best keep that to yourself.
Complaining that "Facebook is shit nowadays"
There was never a time Facebook was good. The "craic" on Facebook is shit? Maybe your craic is fucking shit. Open your front door, take a look outside, go for a walk, say "hello" to an old codger, smoke a tab, bask in the glorious world. You may actually get some enjoyment from it. If not, the shit craic will still be there when you get back.
Advising of a Friend's Cull
For. Fucks. Fucking. Sake. I make a habit of removing anyone who posts this as a status update. Quietly remove them without anyone knowing, and post your status as "Ninja Skills".
As my bitterness seems to have very little in the way of boundaries, I may have to make this a three part piece. I also have to play 5-a-side football in 40 minutes and I can still feel Dominos pizza in my stomach.
A little positivity to end with? I hadn't spoken to Steven Bartram for years. We have known each other since we were two years old. Like an irresistible scruffy dog I would run into his grandparent's sweet shop and steal his toys. We went through our school lives together sharing what was a remarkable experience, as firm friends. He went to University, I went to work. A few years, and then a few more went by. I dare say we would've got back in touch eventually but Facebook speeded this process. So I suppose it's not all bad.
Only kidding, it's fucking shit.
Saturday 4 February 2012
Twitter Good.
It's simple enough. Why? Well I have all the fucking answers, don't I?
Quick and convenient you can advise your "followers" what you are up to at any given moment, whether you be climbing a tree, eating fudge, or having unnatural thoughts about your sister. You follow people you are interested in and don't have to give thought about people you aren't. It's very easy to unfollow someone should they turn out to be a little more racist than you thought. You can use it from your phone with relative ease, like sending a text message.
People can post videos, photos, sound files, all sorts of stuff that you may find interesting. A friend of mine sees something on youtube I may find interesting, they send it. It gives me a chuckle, I retweet it and more people can share in the fun.
140 characters is ample space to explain yourself. If you don't think this is correct then you're a prick, full of misplaced self-importance and you should see a Doctor immediately. Actually, skip the Doc and come see me. While I'm not qualified in brain surgery I'll gladly smash yours in with a hammer. For fucks sake, even an astronaut can explain himself in less than 140 characters:
"I went into Space today. It was canny. @buzzaldrin #spacetwats"
Although it would be wrong of me not to point out this is coming from someone who has already written in excess of 140 characters.
Famous people use twitter. Actual famous people, not some employed fanclub running worker who could care less about whether you think Harry from One Direction is "dreamy". Twitter means that the actual famous people can care less about it directly.
I had a conversation with a work colleague a few weeks back who said that she didn't understand twitter, and asked what was so interesting about the lives of famous people. I asked what she watched on TV the previous evening already knowing the answer was "Big Brother". I simply replied that while she was watching that Zoo of Cretins I was watching Arrested Development and calling Piers Morgan a cunt to his face. Kind of.
There are bad points to twitter. It is apparently more addictive than cigarettes, although you're probably safe from lung cancer. People get taken away at customs for jokingly saying you're going to blow up America (the sensitive bastards). You get spammed by porn sites, although to many people that's not necessarily a bad thing. People also use twitter to start rumours that some famous people are dead when they are still alive. Eddie Murphy, Bill Cosby, and Jon Bon Jovi that I know of. This is upsetting and very bad, but I find it quite funny really. To be fair Bon Jovi should've stopped his own life after "Slippery When Wet" as it took massive leaps downhill from there. I'm sure there are many more bad points but I make the choice to ignore them.
There are two things that worry me about twitter:
1. The voice it gives to idiots. In my last words I called the general public a group of cunts or something. To me, that is their label. While Xbox Live gives a voice to quite a few, more people are in possession of Smartphones. Give someone a phone and a twitter account and they can voice any opinion they wish. Thought provoking and thoughtful *grits teeth* tweets outweighed by the sheer mass of racist, homophobic, and mind-staggeringly stupid shit that falls out of the mind of the general public. Really it's not the voice itself that bothers me, it's how terrifyingly thick most people are.
2. I've often thought after posting something that literally anyone, anywhere can read what you just wrote. That's quite scary.
I like Charlie Brooker. He gave us TV Go Home, Newswipe, Dead Set, and the fucking brilliant Black Mirror series. I follow him on twitter. Recently he posted something about Amazon charging an extra penny on their items and then donating this to charity. A sound, simple idea. I replied stating that CEX (a media trade-in store) asked me to donate some extra coppers from my trade in amount recently. He replied saying that he designed the logo for CEX. Charlie Brooker tweeted me directly. I didn't retweet it, I didn't mention it either, as to get excited about a famouser speaking to you via social media is very uncool.
But it was exciting and made me smile. I guess I'm no better than anyone else.
Quick and convenient you can advise your "followers" what you are up to at any given moment, whether you be climbing a tree, eating fudge, or having unnatural thoughts about your sister. You follow people you are interested in and don't have to give thought about people you aren't. It's very easy to unfollow someone should they turn out to be a little more racist than you thought. You can use it from your phone with relative ease, like sending a text message.
People can post videos, photos, sound files, all sorts of stuff that you may find interesting. A friend of mine sees something on youtube I may find interesting, they send it. It gives me a chuckle, I retweet it and more people can share in the fun.
140 characters is ample space to explain yourself. If you don't think this is correct then you're a prick, full of misplaced self-importance and you should see a Doctor immediately. Actually, skip the Doc and come see me. While I'm not qualified in brain surgery I'll gladly smash yours in with a hammer. For fucks sake, even an astronaut can explain himself in less than 140 characters:
"I went into Space today. It was canny. @buzzaldrin #spacetwats"
Although it would be wrong of me not to point out this is coming from someone who has already written in excess of 140 characters.
Famous people use twitter. Actual famous people, not some employed fanclub running worker who could care less about whether you think Harry from One Direction is "dreamy". Twitter means that the actual famous people can care less about it directly.
I had a conversation with a work colleague a few weeks back who said that she didn't understand twitter, and asked what was so interesting about the lives of famous people. I asked what she watched on TV the previous evening already knowing the answer was "Big Brother". I simply replied that while she was watching that Zoo of Cretins I was watching Arrested Development and calling Piers Morgan a cunt to his face. Kind of.
There are bad points to twitter. It is apparently more addictive than cigarettes, although you're probably safe from lung cancer. People get taken away at customs for jokingly saying you're going to blow up America (the sensitive bastards). You get spammed by porn sites, although to many people that's not necessarily a bad thing. People also use twitter to start rumours that some famous people are dead when they are still alive. Eddie Murphy, Bill Cosby, and Jon Bon Jovi that I know of. This is upsetting and very bad, but I find it quite funny really. To be fair Bon Jovi should've stopped his own life after "Slippery When Wet" as it took massive leaps downhill from there. I'm sure there are many more bad points but I make the choice to ignore them.
There are two things that worry me about twitter:
1. The voice it gives to idiots. In my last words I called the general public a group of cunts or something. To me, that is their label. While Xbox Live gives a voice to quite a few, more people are in possession of Smartphones. Give someone a phone and a twitter account and they can voice any opinion they wish. Thought provoking and thoughtful *grits teeth* tweets outweighed by the sheer mass of racist, homophobic, and mind-staggeringly stupid shit that falls out of the mind of the general public. Really it's not the voice itself that bothers me, it's how terrifyingly thick most people are.
2. I've often thought after posting something that literally anyone, anywhere can read what you just wrote. That's quite scary.
I like Charlie Brooker. He gave us TV Go Home, Newswipe, Dead Set, and the fucking brilliant Black Mirror series. I follow him on twitter. Recently he posted something about Amazon charging an extra penny on their items and then donating this to charity. A sound, simple idea. I replied stating that CEX (a media trade-in store) asked me to donate some extra coppers from my trade in amount recently. He replied saying that he designed the logo for CEX. Charlie Brooker tweeted me directly. I didn't retweet it, I didn't mention it either, as to get excited about a famouser speaking to you via social media is very uncool.
But it was exciting and made me smile. I guess I'm no better than anyone else.
Friday 3 February 2012
Modern Warfare 3 Has A Problem
For those who play Modern Warfare 3, it can be the most rewarding experience filled with rewards for your competitive behaviour and success. However, with success there is always an opportunity to fail. Fail like those idiots on "The Biggest Loser", trying to lose weight while eating an arse load of shit. There are times when I feel invincible, an unstoppable soldier. There are times when my gun might as well be replaced with a feather duster, and my uniform replaced with a maid's outfit.
But that isn't Modern Warfare 3's biggest problem.
The campaign mode is short and exciting, culminating in a final level which few have bettered in terms of satisfaction and closure. It's too short for a gamer, someone who plays daily and tries a wide variety of titles. It is a great length for those who only buy Modern Warfare and FIFA every year, keeping their attention span for no longer than necessary so they can trot off to the football afterwards and shout racial abuse from the crowd. A casual gamer is a fucking twat.
This is nearly Modern Warfare 3's biggest problem. But something is missing.
Xbox Live/PSN give people the opportunity to play games and converse with people from all corners of the Earth. It's an overwhelming thought, and one we take for granted as a technological advancement. We can literally switch on our gaming console and speak to someone in America, something we could never do before (unless you count the telephone as something important). You can make friends and play your games together, providing yourself with rich camaraderie, and the popularity you always craved at school. Literally anyone with a few quid can get online.
And if you join the dots, there is Modern Warfare's biggest problem.
The General Public.
The General Public are without a doubt the biggest bunch of cunts in existence. Their mass is only matched by their massive cuntery behaviour. Gang members, private sector workers, female fire dancers, football fans and, if you're really unlucky, Rugby fans from Yorkshire. All of them could have access to Modern Warfare 3's multiplayer games.
Competition can bring out the best in people. The best people usually stay quiet. Give a cunt the opportunity to hide behind a Gamertag and a microphone and he's Johnny Badass spewing more shit than that truck which covers Dougal and Ted. Given he is a casual gamer, he's not very good but his competitive nature leads him to keep trying. The truth is you're not going to be a very good MW3 multiplayer if you only play a couple of hours now and again. I play much much more than any human should, and I'm still not great. Competent, but not shit-snappingly awesome. His competitiveness turns sour, and he starts berating other members of the lobby; people who simply want to have fun and forget about going to work in 7 hours time. Here are a few examples of such behaviour:
"What's your problem, blood? Tell me your address and I'll come and kill you". Quite serious really, a threat to someone's life. Although the threat was probably as real as Michael Jackson's relationship with that weird looking fat woman he had two kids with, it's still a little shocking when someone takes it to that level. My only problem was his using of the word "blood", especially as he had a Leeds accent and was not Dappy from NDUBZ.
"FMG9 NOOB". I get this a lot. For those who don't know this is an in-game weapon that is ridiculously over-powered. You can dual-wield meaning twice the power, and it sometimes has the range of a sniper rifle. The game allows you to do this, so your complaint is with the makers, not me. As long as I'm not cheating (which I don't) your whining is pointless.
"Piss Off Cheat". This one made me chuckle. Straight to the point. I replied asking how he thought I was cheating, to which I received no reply. I don't cheat in games, and I wouldn't know how. The ability to slow games, lag other people etc is the kind of technical know-how reserved for nerds. The ability to do this and then use it in a game is reserved for nerds who are also cocksuckers. Cocksuckers with massive cocks in their mouths right now as I'm typing this sentence. There's no point really, it takes away the achievement of doing something well.
I am not saying I am above frustration. I swear a lot in actual life, it's fun and I don't think it should be seen as offensive as some people think it is. Playing MW3 multiplayer, and more than any other game, causes me to swear more than Christian Bale at a prop-hand. I either have my mic switched off, or poor Luke Jenner is the only one hearing it. And poor Emma in the next room. Possibly my upstairs neighbour who is likely to think I have tourette's.
It's like Jesus once said, "I wish everyone in the whole World would just fuck off and die horrible deaths, like being mauled by a feral cat or having their face smashed into a bowlful of knives and sharp sticks. But if that happened there would be no-one left to chin on the internet".
But that isn't Modern Warfare 3's biggest problem.
The campaign mode is short and exciting, culminating in a final level which few have bettered in terms of satisfaction and closure. It's too short for a gamer, someone who plays daily and tries a wide variety of titles. It is a great length for those who only buy Modern Warfare and FIFA every year, keeping their attention span for no longer than necessary so they can trot off to the football afterwards and shout racial abuse from the crowd. A casual gamer is a fucking twat.
This is nearly Modern Warfare 3's biggest problem. But something is missing.
Xbox Live/PSN give people the opportunity to play games and converse with people from all corners of the Earth. It's an overwhelming thought, and one we take for granted as a technological advancement. We can literally switch on our gaming console and speak to someone in America, something we could never do before (unless you count the telephone as something important). You can make friends and play your games together, providing yourself with rich camaraderie, and the popularity you always craved at school. Literally anyone with a few quid can get online.
And if you join the dots, there is Modern Warfare's biggest problem.
The General Public.
The General Public are without a doubt the biggest bunch of cunts in existence. Their mass is only matched by their massive cuntery behaviour. Gang members, private sector workers, female fire dancers, football fans and, if you're really unlucky, Rugby fans from Yorkshire. All of them could have access to Modern Warfare 3's multiplayer games.
Competition can bring out the best in people. The best people usually stay quiet. Give a cunt the opportunity to hide behind a Gamertag and a microphone and he's Johnny Badass spewing more shit than that truck which covers Dougal and Ted. Given he is a casual gamer, he's not very good but his competitive nature leads him to keep trying. The truth is you're not going to be a very good MW3 multiplayer if you only play a couple of hours now and again. I play much much more than any human should, and I'm still not great. Competent, but not shit-snappingly awesome. His competitiveness turns sour, and he starts berating other members of the lobby; people who simply want to have fun and forget about going to work in 7 hours time. Here are a few examples of such behaviour:
"What's your problem, blood? Tell me your address and I'll come and kill you". Quite serious really, a threat to someone's life. Although the threat was probably as real as Michael Jackson's relationship with that weird looking fat woman he had two kids with, it's still a little shocking when someone takes it to that level. My only problem was his using of the word "blood", especially as he had a Leeds accent and was not Dappy from NDUBZ.
"FMG9 NOOB". I get this a lot. For those who don't know this is an in-game weapon that is ridiculously over-powered. You can dual-wield meaning twice the power, and it sometimes has the range of a sniper rifle. The game allows you to do this, so your complaint is with the makers, not me. As long as I'm not cheating (which I don't) your whining is pointless.
"Piss Off Cheat". This one made me chuckle. Straight to the point. I replied asking how he thought I was cheating, to which I received no reply. I don't cheat in games, and I wouldn't know how. The ability to slow games, lag other people etc is the kind of technical know-how reserved for nerds. The ability to do this and then use it in a game is reserved for nerds who are also cocksuckers. Cocksuckers with massive cocks in their mouths right now as I'm typing this sentence. There's no point really, it takes away the achievement of doing something well.
I am not saying I am above frustration. I swear a lot in actual life, it's fun and I don't think it should be seen as offensive as some people think it is. Playing MW3 multiplayer, and more than any other game, causes me to swear more than Christian Bale at a prop-hand. I either have my mic switched off, or poor Luke Jenner is the only one hearing it. And poor Emma in the next room. Possibly my upstairs neighbour who is likely to think I have tourette's.
It's like Jesus once said, "I wish everyone in the whole World would just fuck off and die horrible deaths, like being mauled by a feral cat or having their face smashed into a bowlful of knives and sharp sticks. But if that happened there would be no-one left to chin on the internet".
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