Bit of an easy title really. Not particularly happy about it. I initially thought "50 Shits of Shit" so feel free to name this piece with either of the titles given. You know, whichever sums up your feelings about this book. Can't go a day this past month or so without hearing a female talk about this, or more specifically the main guy Christian Grey (who, for the purposes of this collection of words will be known as Christian Shit). I would like to point out that I have only read 8 pages of the first book and will not be reading any further. However I have heard much of the story being told in my office, and detailed descriptions of the sex people and their sex acts. It is quite obvious that although it is written from the perspective of a woman it has very little to do with her, rather the sexual charms of her counterpart. Mr Shit.
The 8 pages I have read are laughable, and I mean laughable as in the sheer disbelief that something could be so poorly written. It's like a 5 year old being asked to imagine sex with an older sibling and then ordered to write about it. I've heard from the sorry sods who have read all 3 books that this doesn't get any better and the novelty of sauciness is soon replaced by the boredom of repeated sexual encounters described in the repeated unimaginative ways. But rather than berate someone who has sold millions of something, no matter how poor, I'm more concerned with the female reaction to Mr Shit.
He is unfathomably handsome, rich and a narcissist. Oh, and he is also a dominant sexual being. So dominant the females in his life should be nothing more than sex slaves bending, both figuratively and literally, to his wants and needs. I'm sure there's plenty of females wondering what my point is, and some males too who would like their women to be submissive and plain. But how far would you really be willing to go if this was happening in your real life? Of the many faults I can only imagine Mr Shit has there are two which I actually know about, and they are enough to make someone's toes curl to the point the actually dislocate and reach your knees.
1. "Hold tight, baby". When I asked to read some of the book in question I specifically asked for a part with sex in. The scene was in a lift, Mr Shit gets buckled into Miss Bland ripping her underwear and hitching her skirt up, the manly bastard. Just before he penetrates her with the fleshy nozzle of his man-fork he says those words. "Hold tight, baby". I laughed until I stopped. This is obviously an example of the poor, unskilled writing I mentioned earlier but women reading are supposed to be daydreaming about being in this situation and I have to ask you, seriously, what would you do if your partner/boss/brother gets you all hot and ready for a cockslam and says those words. Those exact words. Your ladyparts would shut quicker than Joseph Fritzl's cellar door when he hears his wife coming down the stairs. And rightly so. No-one of sane mind would want to hear that, and any man who feels comfortable saying that should be physically removed from the area, and then from life itself.
It does say a lot about the character but it says even more about the women that read the book and find Mr Shit to be an attractive suitor. The man is so confident in his ability to fuck that he has lost control of his brain. I am of the opinion that even if he was the God of Fuck and he had a massive cock capable of latching onto your g-spot it couldn't be enjoyable as those words would still be haunting your head. Honestly, what a fucking dick, thinking he can get away with saying whatever he wants to a bird. The writer and the character certainly don't understand the epic amounts of effort and luck it takes a man to get into that fortunate position in the first place and I'm sure that there isn't a man reading that would waste all his hard graft by saying something so fucking ridiculous. Ladies, I don't have you pegged as a shallow lot. Honestly some of you are actually intelligent people with valued opinions. If you would be willing to ignore these words for a shot at money and sex then tie this rope around your leg and throw yourself from this moving train, allowing your face and tattered vaj to be dragged for 20 miles over hot sharp gravel.
2. The Sex Contract. Apparently Mr Shit is not content with getting his legover and being grateful for the opportunity like us mere mortals. He draws up a sex contract, a list of things he not just wants, but actually expects from Miss Bland when they take part in horizontal jogging. 1% of me understands why this would be necessary. Sex games are dangerous, just ask Michael Hutchence, who you can't ask because he's dead from a sex game. Drawing up limits and boundaries seems like a safe way to take part in this book about a woman being dominated by a man and his sexual requirements. Forgive me if I'm wrong but sometimes the best part about sex, apart from actually getting to have sex, is the spontaneity. The simple fact that you don't know what is going to happen next is what makes it fun and desirable, and you're certainly not going to get that if you have to stop just before you kiss someone to give them a list of demands. "As much as I would like to continue with this exchange of fluids I just have to ask you to read, understand, and accept this list of sexual expectations. By signing you are agreeing to take part in whatever I deem necessary, will most likely include some, if not all of the aforementioned list". The mood would turn quicker that that time I turned up at a child's funeral wearing my clown outfit.
The whole idea is preposterous and reeks of a person that is not interested in the person he is having sex with but rather what he can actually get her to do. One of the things sticks out more than the rest, for me anyway. A part of the contract states that, should he want to, he will fist the girl in her arse. Just so we're not under any confusion here I mean he wants to take his actual fist and insert it into the place in which she shits from. That is simply one of the worst things I've ever heard in my entire life, and I once sat through a whole episode of "King of Queens". I am of medium build and height and my clenched fist measure 5 inches across. I'm certain that there will be some liberal minded females who have took a cock up the arse before, and I'm pretty certain that even the larger of cocks could only be a couple of inches wide. Not talking about mine, of course. Unfortunately I fell out of the penis tree, misunderstood the whole process, and purposely avoided contact with every branch on the way down. I've had a few memorable shits in my lifetime which have been colossal in size, felt like they were coming out sideways and certainly enough to make me weep. They could only have been a couple of inches wide. All of the above points to the fact that something registering 5 inches in width should not be inserted into anyone's arse.
Apart from it being unnatural in the physical sense it is also the idea of someone who's brain just wasn't wired up the correct way. I can understand that mental stimulation is a very important part of the whole disgusting act of sex. Different smells and sounds and feelings can provoke numerous different responses of arousal. The strangest one for me was the time I was about to have sex out the back of a fish shop and I jizzed in my pants due to the smell of the fat fryer. The expectation is also a fun part of the process, knowing that from when you kiss a certain person there's a probability that at some point you will get the chance to spunk in her face and run away laughing your head off. What sort of person gets turned on at the thought of arse fisting, seriously? Regardless of whether you're the fister or the fistee it can't be pleasurable. The excitement of expectation would be replaced by fear of having your arsehole turned from small opening to mouth of a yawning dog in a matter of minutes. Am I the only person thinking this is just fucking weird?
I think we can all agree we have covered something pretty disturbing here. Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that women still find this man attractive to the point where they have scornful thoughts and actions towards their respective partners for not being exactly like this cretin. I'm sure that females will defend themselves by telling us he has many other great and desirable qualities, that in the book Miss Blandy McBlandpants actually opposes the act of arse fisting and has it removed from the sex contract. But that isn't the point. The point is he actually thought about performing this act and suggested it, and you still fantasize about him.
And that makes you fucked up.
Sunday 29 July 2012
Thursday 19 July 2012
Sally and The Moon
It started off as a joke. We were driving home from a lovely date on a Tuesday night. Tuesday was always date night, a middle of the week time when neither of us had plans, and it was cheap tickets at the local cinema also. The moon was larger than usual. Actually, it was probably the same size as it always is but it certainly looked bigger. It was glowing somewhere between yellow and orange. I imagined the Sun on the other side of the World forcing its rays upon the Moon that we could see. “Oh you terrible Sun”, it would say, “I am meant to only shine white and grey yet I can’t resist your brightly lit charms”. It was certainly strange to see the Moon in this state. The mist of a black cloud would float past it now and again, giving it an eerie look, like it had decided to grow a patchy pubescent beard but disposed of it almost instantly after seeing how shit it looked. “That moon looks amazing tonight, but also very creepy” I said to him as he drove me home. “Yeah, amazing”, he responded. “You know what I heard”, he continued, “It’s coming to get you!” He then broke into his signature infectious cackle, like a child being constantly amused by its own stupidity.
He was always amusing himself at my nervous disposition, making good-natured fun of me at every possible opportunity. I would always laugh too as laughter is what brought us together. He liked to make people laugh, and I liked that he made me laugh. As much as I admired his physical attributes, when we broke up it was always the laughter that I missed, and despised the silence that replaced it. If I ever mentioned something looked creepy or sinister his stock answer would always be “It’s coming to get you”, said in a high-pitched voice and always followed by a chuckle direct from his belly. Most things wouldn’t bother me, like the time he told me that Pennywise the Clown from Steven King’s “IT” was waiting for me in the back seat of my car, although I did have to check upon entering the vehicle. There was something different about this night, something about the Moon which had latched onto part of my brain. I had no fear that it was actually coming to get me. Surely if that happened it would take out half of the World as well, but that didn’t stop me thinking about it. The image of this moon would always be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, waiting for me to shut them at night.
Then he died. You don’t expect to hear bad news on sunny days. TV and Movies would suggest that heartbreak can only be delivered under a raincloud and grey skies that would depress even the happiest of idiots, yet there it was as I stood looking out of my window when I took the phone call from his father. I remember not crying, and feeling bad about it. All I remember from the conversation was “steered from the road” and “it was too late”. All I remember was the sun shining as it sucked all the enjoyment from the World.
I suppose the funeral was as good as could be expected. I tried to talk with his friends as they walked by me but all I could see was black ties and blank faces. The Sun was shining that day too. He always said that he wanted to walk in front of his own Funeral car, a grin on his face as he marched to his rest suspended by strings in a macabre life-sized marionette show. Upon reaching the graveside he would rip away his trousers to let the whole World know he would be buried in his “Invincible Iron Man” undershorts. I never could quite work out if he was serious or not, and this was part of the intrigue he gave while we were together. Never malicious, always mischievous. He was laid to rest by the sounds of Chopin, Prelude 15, “Raindrop”. It accompanied a trailer for one of his favourite video games, and was very fitting. If anything about that day ever could be.
The next few weeks were filled with numbness, like I had fallen asleep one day and forgot to wake up. I felt most definitely awake on this particular night when I visited the Chapel of Rest. The room was covered in wood panelling and despite the varnish all you could smell was the cold of death in the air. I was dressed in black, but a yellow and orange veil covered my face. I didn’t notice this till I looked down into the open coffin and laid my eyes upon him through a rusty tint. His eyes were closed, he looked peaceful. I stood there for a few moments not knowing what to do with myself, and wondering if he would spring back to life like a zombie and lunge towards me. I immediately thought about how ridiculous that sounded in my head and in an attempt to lighten my own mood I gazed across his still body wondering what underwear he had on. As I chuckled to myself I noticed the beginnings of a grin creep across his face.
I opened my eyes at this point in shock. Had it all been a dream? I was in my bed, in my room, and wearing my pyjamas. I sat up quickly and my mind began to catch up with itself. I frantically tried to recall what my subconscious and I had just witnessed but before I had the chance I noticed a similar glow covering my body, the same as my dreamed veil. I was being bathed in a dull fire, my skin displaying the embers left behind before it extinguished completely. I turned my head over my shoulder slowly, my eyes wide, and I saw it staring back at me. The Moon was as large as the night we first noticed it together, that same colour was filling my room. It got closer. I got to my feet and took a couple of small steps towards the window and opened it. It was growing in size as it seemingly flew ever closer to me. As it appeared to be scaling the rooftops of nearby houses I realised that this couldn’t be the Moon, it must be much larger in real life. Were my eyes cheating me? I had woken up, I couldn’t still be dreaming? I stepped back from the window fearful that it would crush my house and me along with it, but it slowed and eventually stopped. I cautiously approached my open window once more and stared in sheer amazement at the sight before me. A smile appeared across its face, and opened. “Hello, Sally” it said, “I’ve come to speak with you for a while.”
I questioned my reality once more as it was now not only my eyes that were deceiving me but also my ears. Despite all of this that was supposedly happening, and how impossible it was, I felt strangely comforted. It was now glowing a brilliant white, with patches of grey streaking through its face. Its smile was welcoming, and its voice sounded deep and commanding, well-spoken but softly subtle. While the air would usually be cool on a dark night I was surprisingly warm. With this feeling surrounding my well-being I opened the window and stepped out onto the canopy below which sheltered my front door. “What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked. While I felt quite comfortable I was understandably nervous about addressing a planet. “We can talk about whatever you wish, my dear girl,” he answered. “A perk of being the Moon in the night sky is that I can hear everything and everyone, and fortunately I am a very good listener.” I thought about what I wanted to say next but found that I was tongue-tied in my own head. His voice was quieter than I imagined. Up until now I only thought of the Moon as a cold rock that appeared over a cover of darkness. It was a signal of spoiling my fun as a child as when the Moon came out it was time for bed. My opinion, however, was changing.
I slowly sat down with my legs crossed; the canopy was dry and leafy. While I got the impression the Moon in front of me was patient it looked at me expectantly so I said the first thing I could think of: “You’re not as big as I expected.” Its smile grew larger as it let out a quiet laugh. The smile looked so familiar. It stayed quiet for a few seconds and to interrupt this I spoke again. “I mean, you are pretty big but I was taught from a young age that you were near the same size of the Earth. So how can you now be 100 feet tall and wide and floating in front of me outside of my house?” He gazed upon me with eyes that looked like craters formed over 1000s of years but the smile never shifted or broke. “I think the answer is obvious, don’t you?” he replied. “This isn’t real, is it? I’m imagining this while I’m sleeping, aren’t I? It must be impossible” I answered very quickly, the thoughts in my head now spilling out of my mouth. “Some of what you say is indeed true, and I’m sure you could’ve guessed this from when I first began to travel to where we are now,” he said knowingly, “but just because you might be dreaming doesn’t make this any less real”.
A few moments were needed for me to process what I had just heard. There was only one way I thought I could be sure of whether this was real or not. I definitely wanted it to be real. I got to my feet and reached forward with a trembling hand and an open heart. The Moon seemed to know what I was thinking and rotated towards me, as if to lean its non-existent shoulder in my direction. As I touched the Moon I felt exhilarated and excited, overjoyed at the fact that if I could touch it, it must be real. It looked solid and cold but felt soft and warm on my hands. I reached out my other hand and took hold. Before I knew it I was scaling the Moon until I reached the top. The craters looked up at me and it asked me to sit. It wasn’t until I noticed my house getting smaller that I realised we were rising into the sky.
We spoke for what felt like hours as we drifted slowly through the air. It was like a first date except comfortable with easy conversation, no awkward silences and no expectation of sex at the end of it. So nothing like a first date at all, really. He told me his favourite films were a mixture of sci-fi and comedy; he enjoyed rock music but also classical strings. We glided gracefully over houses and fields and rivers as I opened up to him about my childhood dreams, my teenage ambitions, and my first love. He was right, he was a good listener. I got the feeling that he wanted to hear what I had to say, and I was going to say everything I could. I felt liberated by my new friend after weeks of having little feeling towards the World and I wanted to enjoy the experience of life once again. However with the experience of life comes the experience of death. As the Sun started to rise I noticed the first signs of that orange colour appearing on the Moon, like a pretty girl’s cheeks blushing from a boy she likes paying her a compliment for the first time. I was instantly reminded of my dream, the Chapel of Rest, the smile starting on my boyfriend’s face, the shock as I was startled awake. I hadn’t noticed we had stopped. I looked down and it was there, and as the Moon started to descend I felt my chest tighten. He landed and said quietly “Don’t worry, you know why we’re here”. He was right.
I climbed down his face and stood on the wet grass, a cool breeze brushed against my face and pyjama shirt causing me to hold it down. The grave was before me. I knew it was his as I closed my eyes to hold back the tears which were brewing inside. The grave was etched “Never Malicious, Always Mischievous”. My new friend told me “It’s ok, it’s what we are here to do”, and I began to cry. There was no more shock in my system, no more tightness in my chest as I sobbed. The water from my eyes gushed down my face and I felt relief. From my experience this night I realised that I had to get passed the feeling of emptiness. Move on from this but not forget him either. I couldn’t spend my days in an awake coma, hoping that one day the weight of grief would just subside. The enlightenment made me feel slightly embarrassed that it took a chance meeting with the Moon for me to realise this. “Don’t be foolish”, he said as if reading my mind, “Don’t ever think that this was a happening of “chance”.” I placed one hand on the gravestone and smiled, and placed my other hand on the Moon before we rose up into the sky once more. “The Sun is rising”, he said, “and I must be going”.
We arrived back at my home and I jumped back onto the canopy outside my room. I turned with my arms outstretched and although I knew I couldn’t reach the whole way around a planet it was important that I showed my affection and gratitude. I realised, with his help that the finest way to remember my lost love was to laugh and smile as much as possible. Just because I wanted to keep moving forward with my life did not mean I would have to forget where he was. With one foot inside my room I turned and told the moon about the first time me and my boyfriend had experienced him together, the colours and the size, the fact that he was coming to get me. The Moon smiled once last time. “He was right. I was always coming to get you”. It sounded so different, so comforting coming from him, like a verbal hug had just wrapped its invisible arms around me. The smile disappeared and he flew away just as the morning was greeting my neighbours with a new day.
I lay down on my bed and slipped under the duvet. While my eyes were sore I closed them with ease. I was safe in the knowledge that the Moon had come to get me, and that it would always be watching over me from the night sky.
He was always amusing himself at my nervous disposition, making good-natured fun of me at every possible opportunity. I would always laugh too as laughter is what brought us together. He liked to make people laugh, and I liked that he made me laugh. As much as I admired his physical attributes, when we broke up it was always the laughter that I missed, and despised the silence that replaced it. If I ever mentioned something looked creepy or sinister his stock answer would always be “It’s coming to get you”, said in a high-pitched voice and always followed by a chuckle direct from his belly. Most things wouldn’t bother me, like the time he told me that Pennywise the Clown from Steven King’s “IT” was waiting for me in the back seat of my car, although I did have to check upon entering the vehicle. There was something different about this night, something about the Moon which had latched onto part of my brain. I had no fear that it was actually coming to get me. Surely if that happened it would take out half of the World as well, but that didn’t stop me thinking about it. The image of this moon would always be imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, waiting for me to shut them at night.
Then he died. You don’t expect to hear bad news on sunny days. TV and Movies would suggest that heartbreak can only be delivered under a raincloud and grey skies that would depress even the happiest of idiots, yet there it was as I stood looking out of my window when I took the phone call from his father. I remember not crying, and feeling bad about it. All I remember from the conversation was “steered from the road” and “it was too late”. All I remember was the sun shining as it sucked all the enjoyment from the World.
I suppose the funeral was as good as could be expected. I tried to talk with his friends as they walked by me but all I could see was black ties and blank faces. The Sun was shining that day too. He always said that he wanted to walk in front of his own Funeral car, a grin on his face as he marched to his rest suspended by strings in a macabre life-sized marionette show. Upon reaching the graveside he would rip away his trousers to let the whole World know he would be buried in his “Invincible Iron Man” undershorts. I never could quite work out if he was serious or not, and this was part of the intrigue he gave while we were together. Never malicious, always mischievous. He was laid to rest by the sounds of Chopin, Prelude 15, “Raindrop”. It accompanied a trailer for one of his favourite video games, and was very fitting. If anything about that day ever could be.
The next few weeks were filled with numbness, like I had fallen asleep one day and forgot to wake up. I felt most definitely awake on this particular night when I visited the Chapel of Rest. The room was covered in wood panelling and despite the varnish all you could smell was the cold of death in the air. I was dressed in black, but a yellow and orange veil covered my face. I didn’t notice this till I looked down into the open coffin and laid my eyes upon him through a rusty tint. His eyes were closed, he looked peaceful. I stood there for a few moments not knowing what to do with myself, and wondering if he would spring back to life like a zombie and lunge towards me. I immediately thought about how ridiculous that sounded in my head and in an attempt to lighten my own mood I gazed across his still body wondering what underwear he had on. As I chuckled to myself I noticed the beginnings of a grin creep across his face.
I opened my eyes at this point in shock. Had it all been a dream? I was in my bed, in my room, and wearing my pyjamas. I sat up quickly and my mind began to catch up with itself. I frantically tried to recall what my subconscious and I had just witnessed but before I had the chance I noticed a similar glow covering my body, the same as my dreamed veil. I was being bathed in a dull fire, my skin displaying the embers left behind before it extinguished completely. I turned my head over my shoulder slowly, my eyes wide, and I saw it staring back at me. The Moon was as large as the night we first noticed it together, that same colour was filling my room. It got closer. I got to my feet and took a couple of small steps towards the window and opened it. It was growing in size as it seemingly flew ever closer to me. As it appeared to be scaling the rooftops of nearby houses I realised that this couldn’t be the Moon, it must be much larger in real life. Were my eyes cheating me? I had woken up, I couldn’t still be dreaming? I stepped back from the window fearful that it would crush my house and me along with it, but it slowed and eventually stopped. I cautiously approached my open window once more and stared in sheer amazement at the sight before me. A smile appeared across its face, and opened. “Hello, Sally” it said, “I’ve come to speak with you for a while.”
I questioned my reality once more as it was now not only my eyes that were deceiving me but also my ears. Despite all of this that was supposedly happening, and how impossible it was, I felt strangely comforted. It was now glowing a brilliant white, with patches of grey streaking through its face. Its smile was welcoming, and its voice sounded deep and commanding, well-spoken but softly subtle. While the air would usually be cool on a dark night I was surprisingly warm. With this feeling surrounding my well-being I opened the window and stepped out onto the canopy below which sheltered my front door. “What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked. While I felt quite comfortable I was understandably nervous about addressing a planet. “We can talk about whatever you wish, my dear girl,” he answered. “A perk of being the Moon in the night sky is that I can hear everything and everyone, and fortunately I am a very good listener.” I thought about what I wanted to say next but found that I was tongue-tied in my own head. His voice was quieter than I imagined. Up until now I only thought of the Moon as a cold rock that appeared over a cover of darkness. It was a signal of spoiling my fun as a child as when the Moon came out it was time for bed. My opinion, however, was changing.
I slowly sat down with my legs crossed; the canopy was dry and leafy. While I got the impression the Moon in front of me was patient it looked at me expectantly so I said the first thing I could think of: “You’re not as big as I expected.” Its smile grew larger as it let out a quiet laugh. The smile looked so familiar. It stayed quiet for a few seconds and to interrupt this I spoke again. “I mean, you are pretty big but I was taught from a young age that you were near the same size of the Earth. So how can you now be 100 feet tall and wide and floating in front of me outside of my house?” He gazed upon me with eyes that looked like craters formed over 1000s of years but the smile never shifted or broke. “I think the answer is obvious, don’t you?” he replied. “This isn’t real, is it? I’m imagining this while I’m sleeping, aren’t I? It must be impossible” I answered very quickly, the thoughts in my head now spilling out of my mouth. “Some of what you say is indeed true, and I’m sure you could’ve guessed this from when I first began to travel to where we are now,” he said knowingly, “but just because you might be dreaming doesn’t make this any less real”.
A few moments were needed for me to process what I had just heard. There was only one way I thought I could be sure of whether this was real or not. I definitely wanted it to be real. I got to my feet and reached forward with a trembling hand and an open heart. The Moon seemed to know what I was thinking and rotated towards me, as if to lean its non-existent shoulder in my direction. As I touched the Moon I felt exhilarated and excited, overjoyed at the fact that if I could touch it, it must be real. It looked solid and cold but felt soft and warm on my hands. I reached out my other hand and took hold. Before I knew it I was scaling the Moon until I reached the top. The craters looked up at me and it asked me to sit. It wasn’t until I noticed my house getting smaller that I realised we were rising into the sky.
We spoke for what felt like hours as we drifted slowly through the air. It was like a first date except comfortable with easy conversation, no awkward silences and no expectation of sex at the end of it. So nothing like a first date at all, really. He told me his favourite films were a mixture of sci-fi and comedy; he enjoyed rock music but also classical strings. We glided gracefully over houses and fields and rivers as I opened up to him about my childhood dreams, my teenage ambitions, and my first love. He was right, he was a good listener. I got the feeling that he wanted to hear what I had to say, and I was going to say everything I could. I felt liberated by my new friend after weeks of having little feeling towards the World and I wanted to enjoy the experience of life once again. However with the experience of life comes the experience of death. As the Sun started to rise I noticed the first signs of that orange colour appearing on the Moon, like a pretty girl’s cheeks blushing from a boy she likes paying her a compliment for the first time. I was instantly reminded of my dream, the Chapel of Rest, the smile starting on my boyfriend’s face, the shock as I was startled awake. I hadn’t noticed we had stopped. I looked down and it was there, and as the Moon started to descend I felt my chest tighten. He landed and said quietly “Don’t worry, you know why we’re here”. He was right.
I climbed down his face and stood on the wet grass, a cool breeze brushed against my face and pyjama shirt causing me to hold it down. The grave was before me. I knew it was his as I closed my eyes to hold back the tears which were brewing inside. The grave was etched “Never Malicious, Always Mischievous”. My new friend told me “It’s ok, it’s what we are here to do”, and I began to cry. There was no more shock in my system, no more tightness in my chest as I sobbed. The water from my eyes gushed down my face and I felt relief. From my experience this night I realised that I had to get passed the feeling of emptiness. Move on from this but not forget him either. I couldn’t spend my days in an awake coma, hoping that one day the weight of grief would just subside. The enlightenment made me feel slightly embarrassed that it took a chance meeting with the Moon for me to realise this. “Don’t be foolish”, he said as if reading my mind, “Don’t ever think that this was a happening of “chance”.” I placed one hand on the gravestone and smiled, and placed my other hand on the Moon before we rose up into the sky once more. “The Sun is rising”, he said, “and I must be going”.
We arrived back at my home and I jumped back onto the canopy outside my room. I turned with my arms outstretched and although I knew I couldn’t reach the whole way around a planet it was important that I showed my affection and gratitude. I realised, with his help that the finest way to remember my lost love was to laugh and smile as much as possible. Just because I wanted to keep moving forward with my life did not mean I would have to forget where he was. With one foot inside my room I turned and told the moon about the first time me and my boyfriend had experienced him together, the colours and the size, the fact that he was coming to get me. The Moon smiled once last time. “He was right. I was always coming to get you”. It sounded so different, so comforting coming from him, like a verbal hug had just wrapped its invisible arms around me. The smile disappeared and he flew away just as the morning was greeting my neighbours with a new day.
I lay down on my bed and slipped under the duvet. While my eyes were sore I closed them with ease. I was safe in the knowledge that the Moon had come to get me, and that it would always be watching over me from the night sky.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Unlimited
Greggs the Bakers. It's not a real bakers. I know this because I once had the unfortunate job of packing frozen sausage rolls into plastic pallets so they could be dispatched to the shops in your local high street. I lasted a single 12 hour shift and it has to be the worst job I've ever had. Worse than the time I handed out flyers on Northumberland Street for STI awareness dressed as an exclamation point. I bet there are people reading this thinking "howay man Burdis, divvent pick on Greggs", and I'm not really. I fucking love the place. But pre-packed frozen sausage rolls put in a wass oven in a shop does not conjure up the image of a traditional bakery. There is no man wearing a hat that looks like a sexual hybrid between a muffin and a pale white giraffe. I still go there mainly for the stottie cakes. For those who aren't aware a stottie is a large circular bread bun about an inch thick. It's incredibly chewy and makes for great salvation when you're stuck with fucking tinned soup for lunch because it's the week before payday and you can't afford Burger King. A stottie is also a slang term for an erection, for example "Did you see that picture of George Clooney in his underkegs recently being surrounded by sailors? Cos he had a wass stot on". While I haven't had the pleasure of sampling Clooney's Stot I have had my fair share of stottie cakes. I bought one today and while standing in the queue I noticed they were selling a "Limited Edition" Chicken Curry Pastie". I asked myself "What in holy fuck makes it so limited".
Limited edition Pasties, man, really? You look everywhere and someone is selling something that's supposedly limited edition. Limited edition computer games, limited edition underarm deodorant, limited edition toothbrushes. It doesn't really make much sense. What makes them limited? Why are we so fascinated by something that's apparently limited?
Consumerism is a two way street but with specifically designated roadworks. People sell things, we buy things and everything travels smoothly along Consumerism Street. The roadworks are advertising and peer pressure, we hopelessly feed on both of these things without even noticing. Somewhere along the way we lost sight of why we went to the shops in the first place and now we can't enjoy a corned beef pastie anymore. It's just what the common folk eat. We must eat the limited edition pigeon shit pastie, watch as I laugh with flakes of pastry spilling from my uneducated mouth onto the regular editions below. Sellers know that we're going to spend money even if we don't have it so why not mark up the price by a few pence and tell us something is limited edition so they can squeeze that last few quid out of your giro.
So if everything is limited edition doesn't that just make it regular again? Ah it's ok, they will just start creating "Deluxe Editions". CDs are the fucking worst for this and musicians should be fucking ashamed. An album is released and people buy it, listen to it, and hopefully gain some enjoyment from it. The band will tour before and during this album release and pop a few singles out along the way. Not that singles really mean anything anymore. Remember when a band would release 2 singles and on each one you would get some new tracks or live performances and they would only be £1.99 the week before it entered the charts? Unfortunately music downloads have killed the b-side. So they tour and it finishes and it's certainly too much to ask them to release a new album, surely. They still have to spend the money they got from the album release. So they knock out a few tracks and repackage their original album as a "Deluxe Edition". You read it like that and it's fucking ridiculous. If you have songs that weren't good enough for your album they shouldn't be tacked on like some unwanted child at a Christening. If they are good enough then you should be making a new album with them.
One thing that needs clearing up is the definition of a "Limited Edition". This term should be reserved for an item that carries a number, and not a relatively high one either. When they are sold that's it, it will no longer be available. The buyer has a numbered edition of whatever they have purchased and it really is limited as it is one of a kind. Things that are only available for a limited time period are not limited editions. The burgers you buy from McDonalds are not limited editions just because they changed the type of sauce that goes on them and are only available for a month. Homeware products, food, clothing, any number of other things they can stick this label on are not limited because there is an unrelenting supply of them. Please try not to confuse the two differences.
So the next time you pass Greggs and you decide to pass up on the old faithful Corned Beef in favour of a Limited Edition Dog's Bladder and Turkey Neck Pastie just remember it's not the food that's limited, it's your brain function.
Limited edition Pasties, man, really? You look everywhere and someone is selling something that's supposedly limited edition. Limited edition computer games, limited edition underarm deodorant, limited edition toothbrushes. It doesn't really make much sense. What makes them limited? Why are we so fascinated by something that's apparently limited?
Consumerism is a two way street but with specifically designated roadworks. People sell things, we buy things and everything travels smoothly along Consumerism Street. The roadworks are advertising and peer pressure, we hopelessly feed on both of these things without even noticing. Somewhere along the way we lost sight of why we went to the shops in the first place and now we can't enjoy a corned beef pastie anymore. It's just what the common folk eat. We must eat the limited edition pigeon shit pastie, watch as I laugh with flakes of pastry spilling from my uneducated mouth onto the regular editions below. Sellers know that we're going to spend money even if we don't have it so why not mark up the price by a few pence and tell us something is limited edition so they can squeeze that last few quid out of your giro.
So if everything is limited edition doesn't that just make it regular again? Ah it's ok, they will just start creating "Deluxe Editions". CDs are the fucking worst for this and musicians should be fucking ashamed. An album is released and people buy it, listen to it, and hopefully gain some enjoyment from it. The band will tour before and during this album release and pop a few singles out along the way. Not that singles really mean anything anymore. Remember when a band would release 2 singles and on each one you would get some new tracks or live performances and they would only be £1.99 the week before it entered the charts? Unfortunately music downloads have killed the b-side. So they tour and it finishes and it's certainly too much to ask them to release a new album, surely. They still have to spend the money they got from the album release. So they knock out a few tracks and repackage their original album as a "Deluxe Edition". You read it like that and it's fucking ridiculous. If you have songs that weren't good enough for your album they shouldn't be tacked on like some unwanted child at a Christening. If they are good enough then you should be making a new album with them.
One thing that needs clearing up is the definition of a "Limited Edition". This term should be reserved for an item that carries a number, and not a relatively high one either. When they are sold that's it, it will no longer be available. The buyer has a numbered edition of whatever they have purchased and it really is limited as it is one of a kind. Things that are only available for a limited time period are not limited editions. The burgers you buy from McDonalds are not limited editions just because they changed the type of sauce that goes on them and are only available for a month. Homeware products, food, clothing, any number of other things they can stick this label on are not limited because there is an unrelenting supply of them. Please try not to confuse the two differences.
So the next time you pass Greggs and you decide to pass up on the old faithful Corned Beef in favour of a Limited Edition Dog's Bladder and Turkey Neck Pastie just remember it's not the food that's limited, it's your brain function.
Monday 2 July 2012
Dough-not
I think we all know what to expect by now, why you're reading this, and why I'm writing this. The exaggerated angry man act is plain for everyone to see. Things annoy me, the words spill out of my brain, I litter it with swears and try to make people laugh until they shit themselves. I sincerely hope none of you shit yourselves. Due to my own stupidity I ate a Double Pepperoni pizza last night, covered in jalapenos and mustard. My intolerance for spicy food is only matched by my ignorant attitude towards it resulting in my own close-call situation. If my toilet had legs it would've packed up and fucked off a long time ago. Probably kicking me in the shin on its way out the door. Things annoy me, things annoy you, but much like the Match.com adverts prove there is a level of annoyance which simply gravitates quickly to another level. There are things out there which seemingly melt your brain in frustration when you see them or hear them. If your brain melted you could simply tilt your head to one side and let it slide out, oh sweet release.
Milligans Bakery stands on the corner of Sunderland Rail Station in the City Centre. It does tremendous cheese pasties. A note to all other bakeries out there; we do not want our cheese pasties in a mixture of fluffy potato. We want them oozing with heart-clogging cheesiness. At £1 a pop they are a cheap handy snack. They even do 2 for £1.85, a 15p saving which is, unlike the pasties themselves, not to be sniffed at. The sniffing is part of a required examination to ensure the pasty is not swimming with hot sperm or hiding a rogue toenail. Not that it would stop me from chomping it down. All the 15p savings will go towards my impending heart surgery in later life when the NHS no longer exists and we all require private healthcare at extortionate prices.
Standing outside Milligans there is a poster. It is of a plump child's face biting down on a sugary doughnut, with the slogan "Go on, treat them". The child looks in ecstasy, like he is poisoned and this treat holds the antidote. It's similar to a man's expression of extreme satisfaction after shooting his load or shooting his cat. I actually had a photo of this poster however my barely awake brain decided to delete it instead of emailing it to my computer. It will come of no surprise to you that I reprimanded myself by shouting "You stupid bastard!". I shouldn't give myself such complicated tasks for 15 minutes after waking up, as it results in mistakes like the time I turned up at work wearing odd shoes. Anyway you get the idea, kids fat face shows inexplicable amount of happiness at sweet food all under the banner of explicit and persuasive instruction to the parent/guardian/Clyde the Orangutan from "Every Which Way but Loose".
This poster annoys me to breaking point. Like I've mentioned before there's a time when sweary tantrums just won't do and all you can muster is a shaking of your head from side to side as you feel your spirit breaking. The kid is obviously fat, like quite a few children nowadays. Lack of exercise, too many distractions like the internet and games and mobile phones, and lazy uneducated parenting has resulted in an epidemic of fatsos. It would be good news for the World's over-population, lowering the average lifespan of a human if it wasn't for the fact that medical advancements mean we can live longer no matter how filthy and horrible we are. The only physical problems we will see is a mass of bad backs from carrying huge coffins to their early graves. I've laboured this point before though, so if you wish to read more on fat kids, put this into your eyeballs:
http://buckshotgeorge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/see-saw-that-broke.html
This is more about the slogan that adorns the poster. "Go on, treat them". A parent has been shopping all day with their children in tow, screaming and shouting and knocking things over. Generally acting like titheads to all around the. The parent is at the end of their tether, but then they see the poster. Go on, treat them. This person requires little persuasion, and takes their orders like a good slave. The kids get a "treat" and the parent gets a few minutes peace before it all starts again. The makers of the poster should be fucking ashamed of that slogan. The parents should be ashamed that they are so willingly strong-armed into such a greedy plot. It's fair to say the child is being treated to a life of ridicule and disappointment due to their overweight size and debilitating diabetes.
I would like to be in attendance at that kids funeral. I would rip my own ears off, surgically attach them to the side of my gonads and do an elephant mating dance right in his mother's face. It might not be proving any point that she can draw from but its most definitely what she deserves. Milligans? I hope their offices and bakeries burn to the ground leaving no survivors or remains. Except for those glorious cheese pasties.
Milligans Bakery stands on the corner of Sunderland Rail Station in the City Centre. It does tremendous cheese pasties. A note to all other bakeries out there; we do not want our cheese pasties in a mixture of fluffy potato. We want them oozing with heart-clogging cheesiness. At £1 a pop they are a cheap handy snack. They even do 2 for £1.85, a 15p saving which is, unlike the pasties themselves, not to be sniffed at. The sniffing is part of a required examination to ensure the pasty is not swimming with hot sperm or hiding a rogue toenail. Not that it would stop me from chomping it down. All the 15p savings will go towards my impending heart surgery in later life when the NHS no longer exists and we all require private healthcare at extortionate prices.
Standing outside Milligans there is a poster. It is of a plump child's face biting down on a sugary doughnut, with the slogan "Go on, treat them". The child looks in ecstasy, like he is poisoned and this treat holds the antidote. It's similar to a man's expression of extreme satisfaction after shooting his load or shooting his cat. I actually had a photo of this poster however my barely awake brain decided to delete it instead of emailing it to my computer. It will come of no surprise to you that I reprimanded myself by shouting "You stupid bastard!". I shouldn't give myself such complicated tasks for 15 minutes after waking up, as it results in mistakes like the time I turned up at work wearing odd shoes. Anyway you get the idea, kids fat face shows inexplicable amount of happiness at sweet food all under the banner of explicit and persuasive instruction to the parent/guardian/Clyde the Orangutan from "Every Which Way but Loose".
This poster annoys me to breaking point. Like I've mentioned before there's a time when sweary tantrums just won't do and all you can muster is a shaking of your head from side to side as you feel your spirit breaking. The kid is obviously fat, like quite a few children nowadays. Lack of exercise, too many distractions like the internet and games and mobile phones, and lazy uneducated parenting has resulted in an epidemic of fatsos. It would be good news for the World's over-population, lowering the average lifespan of a human if it wasn't for the fact that medical advancements mean we can live longer no matter how filthy and horrible we are. The only physical problems we will see is a mass of bad backs from carrying huge coffins to their early graves. I've laboured this point before though, so if you wish to read more on fat kids, put this into your eyeballs:
http://buckshotgeorge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/see-saw-that-broke.html
This is more about the slogan that adorns the poster. "Go on, treat them". A parent has been shopping all day with their children in tow, screaming and shouting and knocking things over. Generally acting like titheads to all around the. The parent is at the end of their tether, but then they see the poster. Go on, treat them. This person requires little persuasion, and takes their orders like a good slave. The kids get a "treat" and the parent gets a few minutes peace before it all starts again. The makers of the poster should be fucking ashamed of that slogan. The parents should be ashamed that they are so willingly strong-armed into such a greedy plot. It's fair to say the child is being treated to a life of ridicule and disappointment due to their overweight size and debilitating diabetes.
I would like to be in attendance at that kids funeral. I would rip my own ears off, surgically attach them to the side of my gonads and do an elephant mating dance right in his mother's face. It might not be proving any point that she can draw from but its most definitely what she deserves. Milligans? I hope their offices and bakeries burn to the ground leaving no survivors or remains. Except for those glorious cheese pasties.
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