Over the course of music history there have been some fairly messed up songs, lyrics that seem to be from the darkest part of somebody's very soul. NWA openly discussing raping people, and "busting a cap" in rivals. Rihanna going to horrid lengths to let us know how much she likes rough sex. Mr Blobby going fucking beserk. There is one song that would never cross your mind if I asked you what other songs belong in this category. A song that includes witchcraft, death on an unprecedented scale, and a non-consensual sex orgy with meteorologically maimed disablococks bringing about the end of days.
"It's Raining Men" by The Weathergirls.
"Tonight for the first time, just about half past ten. For the first time in history, it's gonna start raining men".
It's a frightening thought. Human bodies falling from the sky. Just imagine you're a bloke sitting around at work, or at home, at a football match or your wife's funeral. Some unknown force grabs you and starts raising you up to the heavens. Surely one of the thoughts in your scared little brain would be "how am I going to get down?". That's ok, the weathergirls have it covered! Ever been caught out in the rain and know how shit that is? Imagine you get caught out in the rain because you are the rain. Millions of bodies crashing towards earth, some screaming, some content in the thought that this really is a canny way to go. It's bloody awful. Who would want that? A couple of horny females who can't get their leg over any other way.
"According to all sources, the street is the place to go".
Which sources? The Met Office? Although weather of many different types can be predicted throughout the World I'm as sure as a shit sandwich that no technology could predict the fall of man from the sky. It is my belief that the weathergirls are dealing in some dark witchcraft to satisfy their lust-filled vah jay jays. They even "predict" the time of this event, although try and throw us off the scent saying "it'll be around about half past, maybe quarter to 10".
Why, knowing that large objects would be falling from the sky, would the streets be the place to go? Surely there's a fair chance you would be crushed to pieces? When rain falls it is easily blown about. The force it hits you, I'm assuming, is caused by strong gusts of wind. It can sting a little. There are recordings of hailstones the size of Andre the Giant's kneecaps hurtling down from the sky. I think most followers of gravity, which I'm proposing we are, would agree that the heavier the object and the length in which it falls contributes to it's velocity towards impact. I'm a little over 15 stone. If I fell from the sky it's likely that my falling speed would reach a little over 3 billions miles per hour. If I landed on the streets, being "the place to go" I would no doubt smash a few women on the way to my death.
So where are the weathergirls in all of this? After encouraging all the women of the World to head out without their umbrellas, and the men of the World falling from the sky, it's safe to assume that the World's population will be wiped out very quickly. The laws of probability suggest that there would be a few survivors but they would certainly be mangled from toe to tuchus. That is where the weathergirls come back in. With their competition wiped out, and men no longer capable of turning them down they appear to exact swift revenge through a storm of cocks. Which were probably bent sideways when they impacted with the ground. No doubt gleeful that their plan has worked no amount of witchcraft can distract them or save them from themselves. They jump anything still breathing, or still warm. They forget to eat, sleep, breathe. They die with a smile on their faces, and jizz up their nostrils.
What we have is a vicious sex plan disguised as a harmless slut-anthem that brings about the apocalypse.
And you thought it was just a song.
Wednesday 12 February 2014
Thursday 24 January 2013
The Beginning
Setting goals for yourself is a good thing. It keeps you focussed, gives you drive and ambition. Whether this be in your personal or working life it helps to have something to aim for. Which is kind of the point, really. My aim is to test my body, my resilience, and my sanity.
I am sharp realising that this might not be the most interesting thing to write about. I'm pretty certain my work friends will be sick to the back bollocks of me chuntering on about it, but I believe the only way I will succeed is if I become obsessed with it, and the reasons I am doing it. If you continue reading I promise to make an effort to give you an upbeat read where I question our ideas about body image, exercise, food, and gym wankers.
Over the next 9 weeks I am following a diet plan which should see my body fat reduce to less than 10%. It could be described as extreme, but it is very basic. I consume around 200+ grams of protein a day. I have a limited list of carbohydrates I'm allowed to consume, but these mostly come from things that are very difficult to enjoy. Like broccoli, for instance. It looks like a mushroom gone wrong, as if it was influenced by the powers of Jean Grey gone Phoenix crazy before it lands on your plate. It's taste, like a lot of green vegetables, is very bland and therefore edible. It's texture however is weird. It feels like it doesn't belong in a mouth and should not be eaten. It makes me uneasy, like the time my step-father went for me because I slammed a basketball off his face. Still, it's on a short list of edible carbs so I persevere. Please note that potatoes, pasta, and bread are not on the list which means my favourite Pizza Sandwich (pasta and chips inside a folded pizza) is not on the menu.
So not sweets, no sugar, no fat, no chips. No McDonalds, no Dominos, no Chinese food. No sense?
I'm currently coming to the end of my 4th day, my meals so far have been:
Breakfast - 2 egg omelette. 50g protein shake. 1 tsp of Creatine Monohydrate.
11am - Chicken. Around 30-40g coming from 2 chicken breasts or 4 chicken thighs. Skin removed.
3pm - Tuna mixed with vinegar and low GI pickled veg (sauerkraut, gherkins, onions). 1 tsp of Creatine Monohydrate.
Before training - 50g protein shake. 1 tsp Creatine Monohydrate.
After training - 50g protein shake. 1 tsp Creatine Monohydrate. 1 tsp L-Glutamine.
Evening Meal - Chicken and Green Veg with Mushrooms (Mange Tout, Broccoli, Green Beans, Onions).
Before bed - 1 tsp L-Glutamine.
So why do it? I've made it a goal to achieve, and I can't shake it. My aim is to follow this for 9 weeks, and hopefully reduce my body fat to less than 10%. The only way you can keep to an aim like this is to have solid reasoning. I can think of three reasons.
1. To look and feel good about myself.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm a happy lad. Most people who read this and know me know I'm always laughing at something. I feel like laughter keeps me alive. As a young un I played a lot of sports and as a result I have a pretty decent strip on me. I didn't have to do much to achieve this and ate whatever I liked. A few years later I started a desk job with a cafe situated in 10 seconds walking distance from my desk. It made all manner of delights and was ran by a lovely bunch of old dears.
I find it strange that my good nature, politeness, and overall effort at being a better person can sometimes seem like I'm just "turning on the charm". This is not the case. You can always tell when someone is trying to charm someone. It seems insincere and causes everyone within a 200m radius to cringe with embarrassment. I'm just myself, and it seems to work just fine. It also seems to make old dears have an unwavering wanting to fatten me up.
Anything I wanted from the cafe, I got. Didn't matter if it was on the menu or not. One day I didn't want the oven chips they served so they went and got me some potatoes from a nearby grocers and made me "proper" chips from a chip pan. I then got these everyday. I put on a considerable amount of unshiftable weight. I say "unshiftable" (even though it's not a real word) because I've always been able to chronicle my weight gain in stages.
When I was younger I went to Florida on a family holiday. It was great fun, I went to Disney World, a live NBA game, and also witness my mother get absolutely bladdered on the plane declaring that America was a dangerous place and she wouldn't be leaving the hotel room during the holiday. Unfortunately she didn't follow through with this. Thanks to a McDonalds right outside the hotel, all you can eat breakfasts, meat on sticks, and eating massive loads of sweets you couldn't get back home I went from 11 stone to 13 stone in a fortnight. I got back down to 12 stone but couldn't get any further. I put on a stone of unshiftable weight. Working opposite the cafe I had a similar experience, and then I went and worked over the road from a chip shop.
On Christmas Day 2011 I weighed myself and tipped the scales at 15 and 1/2 stone. Before my lunch. Although I was still happy and comfortable I thought to myself where it would end. Would I continue to put on weight and maintain it for a while, only to put on more in future years? Turns out the answer was "no". A work-related stressful time saw a sharp drop, but it wasn't until I was introduced to bootcamps and spinning by Chris Blyth that I really made progress.
Until next time, cuntybollocks.
I am sharp realising that this might not be the most interesting thing to write about. I'm pretty certain my work friends will be sick to the back bollocks of me chuntering on about it, but I believe the only way I will succeed is if I become obsessed with it, and the reasons I am doing it. If you continue reading I promise to make an effort to give you an upbeat read where I question our ideas about body image, exercise, food, and gym wankers.
Over the next 9 weeks I am following a diet plan which should see my body fat reduce to less than 10%. It could be described as extreme, but it is very basic. I consume around 200+ grams of protein a day. I have a limited list of carbohydrates I'm allowed to consume, but these mostly come from things that are very difficult to enjoy. Like broccoli, for instance. It looks like a mushroom gone wrong, as if it was influenced by the powers of Jean Grey gone Phoenix crazy before it lands on your plate. It's taste, like a lot of green vegetables, is very bland and therefore edible. It's texture however is weird. It feels like it doesn't belong in a mouth and should not be eaten. It makes me uneasy, like the time my step-father went for me because I slammed a basketball off his face. Still, it's on a short list of edible carbs so I persevere. Please note that potatoes, pasta, and bread are not on the list which means my favourite Pizza Sandwich (pasta and chips inside a folded pizza) is not on the menu.
So not sweets, no sugar, no fat, no chips. No McDonalds, no Dominos, no Chinese food. No sense?
I'm currently coming to the end of my 4th day, my meals so far have been:
Breakfast - 2 egg omelette. 50g protein shake. 1 tsp of Creatine Monohydrate.
11am - Chicken. Around 30-40g coming from 2 chicken breasts or 4 chicken thighs. Skin removed.
3pm - Tuna mixed with vinegar and low GI pickled veg (sauerkraut, gherkins, onions). 1 tsp of Creatine Monohydrate.
Before training - 50g protein shake. 1 tsp Creatine Monohydrate.
After training - 50g protein shake. 1 tsp Creatine Monohydrate. 1 tsp L-Glutamine.
Evening Meal - Chicken and Green Veg with Mushrooms (Mange Tout, Broccoli, Green Beans, Onions).
Before bed - 1 tsp L-Glutamine.
So why do it? I've made it a goal to achieve, and I can't shake it. My aim is to follow this for 9 weeks, and hopefully reduce my body fat to less than 10%. The only way you can keep to an aim like this is to have solid reasoning. I can think of three reasons.
1. To look and feel good about myself.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm a happy lad. Most people who read this and know me know I'm always laughing at something. I feel like laughter keeps me alive. As a young un I played a lot of sports and as a result I have a pretty decent strip on me. I didn't have to do much to achieve this and ate whatever I liked. A few years later I started a desk job with a cafe situated in 10 seconds walking distance from my desk. It made all manner of delights and was ran by a lovely bunch of old dears.
I find it strange that my good nature, politeness, and overall effort at being a better person can sometimes seem like I'm just "turning on the charm". This is not the case. You can always tell when someone is trying to charm someone. It seems insincere and causes everyone within a 200m radius to cringe with embarrassment. I'm just myself, and it seems to work just fine. It also seems to make old dears have an unwavering wanting to fatten me up.
Anything I wanted from the cafe, I got. Didn't matter if it was on the menu or not. One day I didn't want the oven chips they served so they went and got me some potatoes from a nearby grocers and made me "proper" chips from a chip pan. I then got these everyday. I put on a considerable amount of unshiftable weight. I say "unshiftable" (even though it's not a real word) because I've always been able to chronicle my weight gain in stages.
When I was younger I went to Florida on a family holiday. It was great fun, I went to Disney World, a live NBA game, and also witness my mother get absolutely bladdered on the plane declaring that America was a dangerous place and she wouldn't be leaving the hotel room during the holiday. Unfortunately she didn't follow through with this. Thanks to a McDonalds right outside the hotel, all you can eat breakfasts, meat on sticks, and eating massive loads of sweets you couldn't get back home I went from 11 stone to 13 stone in a fortnight. I got back down to 12 stone but couldn't get any further. I put on a stone of unshiftable weight. Working opposite the cafe I had a similar experience, and then I went and worked over the road from a chip shop.
On Christmas Day 2011 I weighed myself and tipped the scales at 15 and 1/2 stone. Before my lunch. Although I was still happy and comfortable I thought to myself where it would end. Would I continue to put on weight and maintain it for a while, only to put on more in future years? Turns out the answer was "no". A work-related stressful time saw a sharp drop, but it wasn't until I was introduced to bootcamps and spinning by Chris Blyth that I really made progress.
Until next time, cuntybollocks.
Tuesday 4 December 2012
Rusty Stream
The Diary of Joseph Cooper - Day 1 It's a little cold for this time of year. While the sun shines majestically over the tops of houses that surround me, the cold bite of the strong wind acts as a reminder that it's not quite summer yet. I ask myself if I will live to see the summer. A neighbour walks by my front door as I smoke my cigarette, a greyhound is attached to the other end of the leash. I've often wondered why Greyhounds walk the way they do. Some dogs drudge along slowly, others have legs so short they seem to be in a constant sprint. A greyhound walks gracefully, with tiny invisible springs attached to it's paws it lightly bounces along the surface below. It treats every step like a ballet recital. I finish my cigarette and head back indoors. It is as good a day as any to convince people the World is going to end. I suppose I should document why I think the World is going to end, just in case post-apocalyptic ants which have grown to the size of farmyard animals develop the ability to read. Did you know that ants will bridge a gap between two ant-hills using their own bodies? Of course you did, you're the Ant Overlord who has learned to read. I hope you enjoy the planet I once called "home", it really was much nicer before it ended. Aesthetically, anyway. There were beautiful sites, both land-made and man-made. On your travels to this document you will no doubt have visited many landmarks, none of which resemble what they once did. Unfortunately they were smashed in the face by nuclear war/global warming/skynet* (*delete as applicable). The green trees, the blue sky, the oddly rust coloured stream near where I grew up. It was full of discarded shopping trollies and surrounded by a thick forest which would've made it an ideal site to commit murder or rape. When I fell from a tree swing head-first into the orange goo; it's a memory I will have fondly remembered and forgotten by the time this is read. It's very difficult to remember a dream. There's a brief period when you first open your eyes after sleeping where it's difficult to distinguish whether your dream was actually real or not. You may have been flying through the air at great speed, enjoying a night out with friends, having frantic sex with a famouser you are never likely to meet, or maybe you've played so many video games that when you sleep you replay the game, in perfect detail, in your head. The dream I had last night was different, in the way this particular situation has never happened to me before. I remember it being very bright and wet, as the light glanced off the green leaves of trees towering above me and shot straight into my eyes. The ground was soil. I checked my feet for mud. I noticed a line of ants crawling up the side of a gravestone, just generally going about their business. I lifted my head to see a hill covered in grass. A man was standing on it's top. I knew before my sight could recognise the figure that it was my father. I walked over at a slow pace but my feet were carried quickly by an unseeable current. We were both sat on the hill when he told me the World was going to end in 30 days. I awoke slowly, but quickly tried to make notes of what I had just witnessed. A few scribbles to remind me of the moment, and the feeling. The feeling was that it was too real to have been a dream. Perhaps my subconcious travelled to an alternate reality. I've pieced together all I can from what I remember. All I know for certain was it felt like a warning, a very heartfelt warning. Maybe this is what I need to give my life a little direction, a purpose. I can't escape the feeling that this really happened, and I can't just ignore the feeling in my stomach. It's possibly the curry I ate last night. The World is going to end in 30 days. I will try and call a few close friends and advise them of what I have experienced. I am quite certain they won't believe me. I need to visit my father too.
Monday 19 November 2012
The Morbid Curiosity of Man
I was walking through Asda car park when I spotted around 6 full carrier bags spinning quickly through the air. They were attached to the arms of a woman who had just tripped on a kerb, and faceplanted on the concrete soon after. Fortunately I was far enough away that I didn't feel obliged to offer assistance, meaning I could piss myself laughing at the calamity. I wished I could've gotten that moment on camera.
What would we do with a device that could record our every moment? Something is inserted into your brain or eye socket giving you the opportunity to keep and share whatever you see or do with the rest of the World. It's not too far removed from what we currently do with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and other social media means. We chronicle nearly every moment of our dull lives and share it with people that aren't really bothered.
@ValveCannon - "I just had a shit. It smelled like shit"
@TurdJunction - "Oh wowzers, look at what I've just eaten. LOL" twitpic shows snapshot of a tired looking ham sandwich
@HammerSmashFace - "Haha, just heard Eddie Murphy is dead. AGAIN! RT!
The difference would be you could live video feed directly from your life onto your TV screen. Realistically, are we far away from such a technological development?
The better of you will notice that I'm taking my lead from a couple of TV shows; Futurama, and Black Mirror.
Futurama series 5 (I refuse to count the feature length episodes as a separate series) episode 3 was called "The Eye-Phone" and featured a product much like what I mention above. Bearing in mind the show is set in the year 3000. Although it partly focusses on the behaviour of those people that love Apple products so much they would marry one given a chance, the main story centres around the ability to gain popularity through recording your life and posting funny clips to YouTube. It's one of the better episodes of the series and I recommend you watch it (available on US Netflix).
Episode 3 of Black Mirror is called "The Entire History of You" and, rather than the fun japery of the Planet Express Crew, this looks at a different kind of human nature when employing the "record your life" idea. It takes things a step further and leads you down a very dark corridor, and is tremendous viewing if you want to study the morbid curiosity of our being. The whole chuffing episode is available online to watch for free! Free, for fucks sake. You're still reading this fairly poor effort? Here, lazy person, is the link to the episode, copy and paste it into your browser. No excuses. No "I'm a Celebrity". Just watch this. Now. http://www.channel4.com/programmes/black-mirror/4od
Hopefully after that gentle push you've watched some truly excellent, thought-provoking television and returned to see if my writing gets any better in the second half. I wouldn't hold out much hope. My brain has been addled by a diet of exercise lately and it seems to be stifling my brain. However, like Hitler, I'll push forward.
You ever see those posts on Facebook where someone hasn't logged out and their mates have accessed it writing something fucking brilliant like "I love the cock", or the ever-popular and entirely original "I'm Gay". However dull, these "jokes" are generally a bit of harmless banter. From time to time we spot one which might just be a little more sinister, like a boyfriend who is posting on his girlfriend's Facebook status. They will post something mildly humorous (see above examples) but what they are really saying is "I have accessed your Facebook account just so you know I can check your messages at any time". Something not right there at all, but there are a lot of people out there who would do it as well given a chance. Checked your partner's phone to read their text messages? Gone through their bag? Put their underpants on your head, cut up all of their clothing and danced through their till receipts? You're not alone. Ask yourself, what is the best outcome, what do you expect to achieve? Most likely you find nothing. That's because most of us lead a fairly simple life and we are trustworthy. Then you're left feeling guilty at the fact you didn't trust them in the first place. So you check again in a few weeks because you're now convinced that they must've expected you to check so deleted anything incriminating. Or maybe you find something that confirms your partner has been doing something extra-curricular with your best friend. Which basically results is colossal fuck ups for all concerned. Just imagine if you could access all your partners thoughts and memories on a hard drive? There is no winner here. You will be left with only a hollow victory, taking nothing but a grim satisfaction that you were right. Think Geoff Tipps shouting "Well at least I won that one". That's you, that is.
While it would definitely be fun to record someone tripping over a kerb, slipping slightly on a wet surface, or being attacked by a feral cat I'm not entirely convinced that such an advancement in technology would benefit our people. We're just not ready. Still, if you could've seen that poor bastard falling over in Asda car park!
What would we do with a device that could record our every moment? Something is inserted into your brain or eye socket giving you the opportunity to keep and share whatever you see or do with the rest of the World. It's not too far removed from what we currently do with Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and other social media means. We chronicle nearly every moment of our dull lives and share it with people that aren't really bothered.
@ValveCannon - "I just had a shit. It smelled like shit"
@TurdJunction - "Oh wowzers, look at what I've just eaten. LOL" twitpic shows snapshot of a tired looking ham sandwich
@HammerSmashFace - "Haha, just heard Eddie Murphy is dead. AGAIN! RT!
The difference would be you could live video feed directly from your life onto your TV screen. Realistically, are we far away from such a technological development?
The better of you will notice that I'm taking my lead from a couple of TV shows; Futurama, and Black Mirror.
Futurama series 5 (I refuse to count the feature length episodes as a separate series) episode 3 was called "The Eye-Phone" and featured a product much like what I mention above. Bearing in mind the show is set in the year 3000. Although it partly focusses on the behaviour of those people that love Apple products so much they would marry one given a chance, the main story centres around the ability to gain popularity through recording your life and posting funny clips to YouTube. It's one of the better episodes of the series and I recommend you watch it (available on US Netflix).
Episode 3 of Black Mirror is called "The Entire History of You" and, rather than the fun japery of the Planet Express Crew, this looks at a different kind of human nature when employing the "record your life" idea. It takes things a step further and leads you down a very dark corridor, and is tremendous viewing if you want to study the morbid curiosity of our being. The whole chuffing episode is available online to watch for free! Free, for fucks sake. You're still reading this fairly poor effort? Here, lazy person, is the link to the episode, copy and paste it into your browser. No excuses. No "I'm a Celebrity". Just watch this. Now. http://www.channel4.com/programmes/black-mirror/4od
Hopefully after that gentle push you've watched some truly excellent, thought-provoking television and returned to see if my writing gets any better in the second half. I wouldn't hold out much hope. My brain has been addled by a diet of exercise lately and it seems to be stifling my brain. However, like Hitler, I'll push forward.
You ever see those posts on Facebook where someone hasn't logged out and their mates have accessed it writing something fucking brilliant like "I love the cock", or the ever-popular and entirely original "I'm Gay". However dull, these "jokes" are generally a bit of harmless banter. From time to time we spot one which might just be a little more sinister, like a boyfriend who is posting on his girlfriend's Facebook status. They will post something mildly humorous (see above examples) but what they are really saying is "I have accessed your Facebook account just so you know I can check your messages at any time". Something not right there at all, but there are a lot of people out there who would do it as well given a chance. Checked your partner's phone to read their text messages? Gone through their bag? Put their underpants on your head, cut up all of their clothing and danced through their till receipts? You're not alone. Ask yourself, what is the best outcome, what do you expect to achieve? Most likely you find nothing. That's because most of us lead a fairly simple life and we are trustworthy. Then you're left feeling guilty at the fact you didn't trust them in the first place. So you check again in a few weeks because you're now convinced that they must've expected you to check so deleted anything incriminating. Or maybe you find something that confirms your partner has been doing something extra-curricular with your best friend. Which basically results is colossal fuck ups for all concerned. Just imagine if you could access all your partners thoughts and memories on a hard drive? There is no winner here. You will be left with only a hollow victory, taking nothing but a grim satisfaction that you were right. Think Geoff Tipps shouting "Well at least I won that one". That's you, that is.
While it would definitely be fun to record someone tripping over a kerb, slipping slightly on a wet surface, or being attacked by a feral cat I'm not entirely convinced that such an advancement in technology would benefit our people. We're just not ready. Still, if you could've seen that poor bastard falling over in Asda car park!
Sunday 29 July 2012
50 Shades of Shit
Bit of an easy title really. Not particularly happy about it. I initially thought "50 Shits of Shit" so feel free to name this piece with either of the titles given. You know, whichever sums up your feelings about this book. Can't go a day this past month or so without hearing a female talk about this, or more specifically the main guy Christian Grey (who, for the purposes of this collection of words will be known as Christian Shit). I would like to point out that I have only read 8 pages of the first book and will not be reading any further. However I have heard much of the story being told in my office, and detailed descriptions of the sex people and their sex acts. It is quite obvious that although it is written from the perspective of a woman it has very little to do with her, rather the sexual charms of her counterpart. Mr Shit.
The 8 pages I have read are laughable, and I mean laughable as in the sheer disbelief that something could be so poorly written. It's like a 5 year old being asked to imagine sex with an older sibling and then ordered to write about it. I've heard from the sorry sods who have read all 3 books that this doesn't get any better and the novelty of sauciness is soon replaced by the boredom of repeated sexual encounters described in the repeated unimaginative ways. But rather than berate someone who has sold millions of something, no matter how poor, I'm more concerned with the female reaction to Mr Shit.
He is unfathomably handsome, rich and a narcissist. Oh, and he is also a dominant sexual being. So dominant the females in his life should be nothing more than sex slaves bending, both figuratively and literally, to his wants and needs. I'm sure there's plenty of females wondering what my point is, and some males too who would like their women to be submissive and plain. But how far would you really be willing to go if this was happening in your real life? Of the many faults I can only imagine Mr Shit has there are two which I actually know about, and they are enough to make someone's toes curl to the point the actually dislocate and reach your knees.
1. "Hold tight, baby". When I asked to read some of the book in question I specifically asked for a part with sex in. The scene was in a lift, Mr Shit gets buckled into Miss Bland ripping her underwear and hitching her skirt up, the manly bastard. Just before he penetrates her with the fleshy nozzle of his man-fork he says those words. "Hold tight, baby". I laughed until I stopped. This is obviously an example of the poor, unskilled writing I mentioned earlier but women reading are supposed to be daydreaming about being in this situation and I have to ask you, seriously, what would you do if your partner/boss/brother gets you all hot and ready for a cockslam and says those words. Those exact words. Your ladyparts would shut quicker than Joseph Fritzl's cellar door when he hears his wife coming down the stairs. And rightly so. No-one of sane mind would want to hear that, and any man who feels comfortable saying that should be physically removed from the area, and then from life itself.
It does say a lot about the character but it says even more about the women that read the book and find Mr Shit to be an attractive suitor. The man is so confident in his ability to fuck that he has lost control of his brain. I am of the opinion that even if he was the God of Fuck and he had a massive cock capable of latching onto your g-spot it couldn't be enjoyable as those words would still be haunting your head. Honestly, what a fucking dick, thinking he can get away with saying whatever he wants to a bird. The writer and the character certainly don't understand the epic amounts of effort and luck it takes a man to get into that fortunate position in the first place and I'm sure that there isn't a man reading that would waste all his hard graft by saying something so fucking ridiculous. Ladies, I don't have you pegged as a shallow lot. Honestly some of you are actually intelligent people with valued opinions. If you would be willing to ignore these words for a shot at money and sex then tie this rope around your leg and throw yourself from this moving train, allowing your face and tattered vaj to be dragged for 20 miles over hot sharp gravel.
2. The Sex Contract. Apparently Mr Shit is not content with getting his legover and being grateful for the opportunity like us mere mortals. He draws up a sex contract, a list of things he not just wants, but actually expects from Miss Bland when they take part in horizontal jogging. 1% of me understands why this would be necessary. Sex games are dangerous, just ask Michael Hutchence, who you can't ask because he's dead from a sex game. Drawing up limits and boundaries seems like a safe way to take part in this book about a woman being dominated by a man and his sexual requirements. Forgive me if I'm wrong but sometimes the best part about sex, apart from actually getting to have sex, is the spontaneity. The simple fact that you don't know what is going to happen next is what makes it fun and desirable, and you're certainly not going to get that if you have to stop just before you kiss someone to give them a list of demands. "As much as I would like to continue with this exchange of fluids I just have to ask you to read, understand, and accept this list of sexual expectations. By signing you are agreeing to take part in whatever I deem necessary, will most likely include some, if not all of the aforementioned list". The mood would turn quicker that that time I turned up at a child's funeral wearing my clown outfit.
The whole idea is preposterous and reeks of a person that is not interested in the person he is having sex with but rather what he can actually get her to do. One of the things sticks out more than the rest, for me anyway. A part of the contract states that, should he want to, he will fist the girl in her arse. Just so we're not under any confusion here I mean he wants to take his actual fist and insert it into the place in which she shits from. That is simply one of the worst things I've ever heard in my entire life, and I once sat through a whole episode of "King of Queens". I am of medium build and height and my clenched fist measure 5 inches across. I'm certain that there will be some liberal minded females who have took a cock up the arse before, and I'm pretty certain that even the larger of cocks could only be a couple of inches wide. Not talking about mine, of course. Unfortunately I fell out of the penis tree, misunderstood the whole process, and purposely avoided contact with every branch on the way down. I've had a few memorable shits in my lifetime which have been colossal in size, felt like they were coming out sideways and certainly enough to make me weep. They could only have been a couple of inches wide. All of the above points to the fact that something registering 5 inches in width should not be inserted into anyone's arse.
Apart from it being unnatural in the physical sense it is also the idea of someone who's brain just wasn't wired up the correct way. I can understand that mental stimulation is a very important part of the whole disgusting act of sex. Different smells and sounds and feelings can provoke numerous different responses of arousal. The strangest one for me was the time I was about to have sex out the back of a fish shop and I jizzed in my pants due to the smell of the fat fryer. The expectation is also a fun part of the process, knowing that from when you kiss a certain person there's a probability that at some point you will get the chance to spunk in her face and run away laughing your head off. What sort of person gets turned on at the thought of arse fisting, seriously? Regardless of whether you're the fister or the fistee it can't be pleasurable. The excitement of expectation would be replaced by fear of having your arsehole turned from small opening to mouth of a yawning dog in a matter of minutes. Am I the only person thinking this is just fucking weird?
I think we can all agree we have covered something pretty disturbing here. Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that women still find this man attractive to the point where they have scornful thoughts and actions towards their respective partners for not being exactly like this cretin. I'm sure that females will defend themselves by telling us he has many other great and desirable qualities, that in the book Miss Blandy McBlandpants actually opposes the act of arse fisting and has it removed from the sex contract. But that isn't the point. The point is he actually thought about performing this act and suggested it, and you still fantasize about him.
And that makes you fucked up.
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.
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.
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