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.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
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.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Anything Can Happen
Zombies and Vampires. Can't swing a fucking undead cat without hitting one nowadays. Not in actual life, you understand. But on the telly, in books, computer games, the "talkies" at the cinema. Although they have been around for an age it seems pop culture has taken a real liking to them in the 21st century. It's a strange thing to like; Vampires are near invincible undead creatures that feast on us humans, Zombies are near invincible undead creatures that feast on us humans. If they are on a page or behind a TV screen, maybe it's ok for us to be fascinated by them. We are safe on the other side. Or are we? The respective groups are currently most popularly represented by Twilight and The Walking Dead.
Twilight is a love story. It's also fucking shit. It tries to humanise Vampires. I wasn't aware we were being too prejudiced against them? They have unbelievable strength and power and the ability to live forever, but our stories are too cruel and hurt their feelings so why not make them more human in an attempt for the general public to relate to their struggle? The problem there is the humans they are being related to could be replaced by cardboard cutouts with speech bubbles attached showing phrases such as "I'm a miserable cunt", and "Oh look at the new Volvo". The Cullens "cure" Vampires of their urge to kill humans for their blood, teaching them control so they only have to chin animals instead. They sparkle when hit by sunlight. Yes, that's correct. They sparkle in the sunlight. Vampires usually meet a flaming demise when hit by the rays of the sun but here the author thought it would be a bright idea to make them look like a gay disco queen from the 1970's. The Cullens probably have Donna Summer's Greatest Hits on their Pink iPod shuffles. The stupid twats. It's just so fucking bland. Like a clear glass of tap water and a slice of white bread being thrown against a blank canvas.
The Walking Dead on the other hand is a different breed. It takes advantage of what is a tremendous time for serial drama programming. We are fortunate that for every stupid fucking horrible TV Talent show that is made, there is something else out there to watch instead. Because of their length and depth and sheer amount available we have a huge back catalogue of shows we haven't seen. I really do urge you to try one. You will have heard your friends talking about "24" "The Shield" "Dexter", "Twin Peaks", "LOST". Pick one, or any other of the hundreds available, and try it. If all you watch is dumbed down TV for the masses, then you can only expect to become as dumb as them. If you would rather watch Simon Cowell's clay-face say "It's a yes from me" while a Westlife "stand-up key change" plays in the background then please close this page and shut down your computer. Preferably by putting your face through your monitor so the glass blinds you. You really don't deserve the gift of sight.
The Walking Dead is brilliant. Coming from such a rich source material and having such a dedicated fan base it would've been difficult to fuck it up. It has the human element, like Twilight, but gives you characters you actually care about. It puts them in seemingly real life situations. It's not a show about zombies, but rather a show about humans and how we would react if placed in that situation. The pace is slow and builds real tension. It's not just about fighting zombies, it's the feeling that every corner you turn could be your last. Everyone who has seen a monster movie must realise that the feeling of knowing the monster is out there is far scarier than seeing it up close. I concede that zombies are fairly one dimensional and you would struggle to make a TV series based solely on their output. Vampires can talk so they can take an active part in films, such as Twilight, but that doesn't mean they should. Like giving James Corden a microphone, sometimes it will end in tears.
What I take from The Walking Dead, the most gripping real aspect, is the question "what would you do?" How would you survive, really? The thought provoking side of this show leaves you with these questions. Some of the instances are extreme, like being faced with a loved one who has been turned. Could you do the right thing and finish them off? Think about your partner, your children. If you had to could you damage their brain with the first blunt instrument available? It also details the lesser asked questions about your survival, and that is where The Walking Dead shows it's worth! The problem isn't zombies, the problem is other humans. I would like to think that I would help people, I've helped people all my life and pride myself on my outlook. That's not to say that I'm foolish enough to forget that there are some evil people in this World. Like it or not, you would be forced to rely on the kindness of strangers, regardless of whether they enjoyed TV talent shows or not. Actually, if I was given the option of safe haven in a place where all the people wanted to watch TV talent shows I think I would take my chances with the undead.
You can dismiss all of the above though, it's just not going to happen. Is it? Think about how far we have come as a race of people. We can clone animals. We cn put men in outer space. We can create biological warfare. As humans we push ourselves to the very limits of our imaginsations, whether for good or bad. I'm not saying you should prepare yourself, but always remember; Anything can happen.
Twilight is a love story. It's also fucking shit. It tries to humanise Vampires. I wasn't aware we were being too prejudiced against them? They have unbelievable strength and power and the ability to live forever, but our stories are too cruel and hurt their feelings so why not make them more human in an attempt for the general public to relate to their struggle? The problem there is the humans they are being related to could be replaced by cardboard cutouts with speech bubbles attached showing phrases such as "I'm a miserable cunt", and "Oh look at the new Volvo". The Cullens "cure" Vampires of their urge to kill humans for their blood, teaching them control so they only have to chin animals instead. They sparkle when hit by sunlight. Yes, that's correct. They sparkle in the sunlight. Vampires usually meet a flaming demise when hit by the rays of the sun but here the author thought it would be a bright idea to make them look like a gay disco queen from the 1970's. The Cullens probably have Donna Summer's Greatest Hits on their Pink iPod shuffles. The stupid twats. It's just so fucking bland. Like a clear glass of tap water and a slice of white bread being thrown against a blank canvas.
The Walking Dead on the other hand is a different breed. It takes advantage of what is a tremendous time for serial drama programming. We are fortunate that for every stupid fucking horrible TV Talent show that is made, there is something else out there to watch instead. Because of their length and depth and sheer amount available we have a huge back catalogue of shows we haven't seen. I really do urge you to try one. You will have heard your friends talking about "24" "The Shield" "Dexter", "Twin Peaks", "LOST". Pick one, or any other of the hundreds available, and try it. If all you watch is dumbed down TV for the masses, then you can only expect to become as dumb as them. If you would rather watch Simon Cowell's clay-face say "It's a yes from me" while a Westlife "stand-up key change" plays in the background then please close this page and shut down your computer. Preferably by putting your face through your monitor so the glass blinds you. You really don't deserve the gift of sight.
The Walking Dead is brilliant. Coming from such a rich source material and having such a dedicated fan base it would've been difficult to fuck it up. It has the human element, like Twilight, but gives you characters you actually care about. It puts them in seemingly real life situations. It's not a show about zombies, but rather a show about humans and how we would react if placed in that situation. The pace is slow and builds real tension. It's not just about fighting zombies, it's the feeling that every corner you turn could be your last. Everyone who has seen a monster movie must realise that the feeling of knowing the monster is out there is far scarier than seeing it up close. I concede that zombies are fairly one dimensional and you would struggle to make a TV series based solely on their output. Vampires can talk so they can take an active part in films, such as Twilight, but that doesn't mean they should. Like giving James Corden a microphone, sometimes it will end in tears.
What I take from The Walking Dead, the most gripping real aspect, is the question "what would you do?" How would you survive, really? The thought provoking side of this show leaves you with these questions. Some of the instances are extreme, like being faced with a loved one who has been turned. Could you do the right thing and finish them off? Think about your partner, your children. If you had to could you damage their brain with the first blunt instrument available? It also details the lesser asked questions about your survival, and that is where The Walking Dead shows it's worth! The problem isn't zombies, the problem is other humans. I would like to think that I would help people, I've helped people all my life and pride myself on my outlook. That's not to say that I'm foolish enough to forget that there are some evil people in this World. Like it or not, you would be forced to rely on the kindness of strangers, regardless of whether they enjoyed TV talent shows or not. Actually, if I was given the option of safe haven in a place where all the people wanted to watch TV talent shows I think I would take my chances with the undead.
You can dismiss all of the above though, it's just not going to happen. Is it? Think about how far we have come as a race of people. We can clone animals. We cn put men in outer space. We can create biological warfare. As humans we push ourselves to the very limits of our imaginsations, whether for good or bad. I'm not saying you should prepare yourself, but always remember; Anything can happen.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Cat-like. Fat, Like?
I'm unsure who coined the phrase "Cougar". It was probably some daft cunt like Samantha Jones from Sex & The City. Whoever it was, you can probably guess what I would like to do to them; murder them until their teeth fell out. For those unaware in our modern world a Cougar is an older woman, probably 40 something who put her life on hold while she chased a career, using the attentions of men her same age, and older, to her advantage. She is motivated by money, power, greed, and designer accessories. She got to 40 and realised that she was missing the ultimate accessory; a toyboy. Named after the predatory cat (of the same name, funnily enough) she pounces on her young prey and fucks the living shit out of him, possibly without regard for his safety or her dignity.
Lets get one thing abundantly clear; no woman should ever, EVER refer to herself as a Cougar. The term Cougar should be reserved for use by people taking the piss out of the daft old strumpets stupid enough to think of themselves that way. If you think Cougar is a cool, hip way to describe your post-divorce exploits then lets face facts, pet, you're just too fucking old. So old that your tits, face, and arse went South, along with your sense of propriety, a long time ago.
The Cougar is a beautiful feline creature. It is found at the far reaches of the World, using it's cunning and stealth to secure it's targets. A reclusive cat that rarely bothers humans. It sounds and looks like a seriously classy animal, and rare to see in most areas of civilisation.
The "Cougar" you're likely to encounter is a little different. They are likely to be plastered in far too much make-up in an attempt to hide a face that has more cracks than a fist-punched mirror. It's a common animal, most likely drunk and clinging onto the end of a nightclub table or a fucking wass kebab. It uses brash nonsense, a shit sense of humour, and over-powering intimidation to corner it's prey. Most times they will be classy enough to ask you to buy them a drink before dry-humping your leg. Unfortunately they are not a rare sight.
I described a Cougar as a woman of business, which immediately brings images in your brain of a bird with nice clothes, a no-nonsense attitude, and a Mulberry clutch welded to her arm. A bit different to my description of the cougar you're likely to encounter. That's because the term has been twisted. That's correct, a shit term invented by some shit face has been made even shittier. It's now acceptable for any woman over the age of 35 to start describing herself as a Cougar. As you may have gathered, I think it's a term that should be put to bed and shot while it sleeps under the covers. Like an elderly grandparent. However I have to concede that if you are a high-powered, motivated, successful woman who has purposely foregone a life of family and real friends and you happen to have pulled an attractive younger man, it might just be acceptable (by other people, not yourself) for you to be referred to as a Cougar. If you are a 50 year old chain smoking work dodging fatty sitting in your pyjamas, and to rebound from your failed marriage you take advantage of your neighbour's 15 year old son while your 5 kids are at school, a cougar you ain't.
So if women our own age are out desperately trying to ride the pole of a younger man, where does that leave men? We should be thankful. Do you really want to end up with any of the women I have described here? For years men have had to endure the whinging line from women everywhere, "how come when a bloke shags loads of women he's a "legend", but when a woman does it she's a slag?" Aye, trap shut, bint. Now we can respond "how come when an older woman bags a young lad she's a "Cougar", and when I lashed that 17 year old temp from work all over I got a disciplinary reprimand and was labelled a "perv?" Women, you want Cougar? You're going to have to let "Slag" go.
I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the age difference, here. If you are with someone you care about, or even just with someone you have great sex with, then age shouldn't really be a question (within legal limits, I hasten to add). Love can be found in a number of different places. At work, in the supermarket, in a bar, at someone elses wedding. Who's to say that it can't be found in the damp, musty old claptrap of a "Cougar?"
Lets get one thing abundantly clear; no woman should ever, EVER refer to herself as a Cougar. The term Cougar should be reserved for use by people taking the piss out of the daft old strumpets stupid enough to think of themselves that way. If you think Cougar is a cool, hip way to describe your post-divorce exploits then lets face facts, pet, you're just too fucking old. So old that your tits, face, and arse went South, along with your sense of propriety, a long time ago.
The Cougar is a beautiful feline creature. It is found at the far reaches of the World, using it's cunning and stealth to secure it's targets. A reclusive cat that rarely bothers humans. It sounds and looks like a seriously classy animal, and rare to see in most areas of civilisation.
The "Cougar" you're likely to encounter is a little different. They are likely to be plastered in far too much make-up in an attempt to hide a face that has more cracks than a fist-punched mirror. It's a common animal, most likely drunk and clinging onto the end of a nightclub table or a fucking wass kebab. It uses brash nonsense, a shit sense of humour, and over-powering intimidation to corner it's prey. Most times they will be classy enough to ask you to buy them a drink before dry-humping your leg. Unfortunately they are not a rare sight.
I described a Cougar as a woman of business, which immediately brings images in your brain of a bird with nice clothes, a no-nonsense attitude, and a Mulberry clutch welded to her arm. A bit different to my description of the cougar you're likely to encounter. That's because the term has been twisted. That's correct, a shit term invented by some shit face has been made even shittier. It's now acceptable for any woman over the age of 35 to start describing herself as a Cougar. As you may have gathered, I think it's a term that should be put to bed and shot while it sleeps under the covers. Like an elderly grandparent. However I have to concede that if you are a high-powered, motivated, successful woman who has purposely foregone a life of family and real friends and you happen to have pulled an attractive younger man, it might just be acceptable (by other people, not yourself) for you to be referred to as a Cougar. If you are a 50 year old chain smoking work dodging fatty sitting in your pyjamas, and to rebound from your failed marriage you take advantage of your neighbour's 15 year old son while your 5 kids are at school, a cougar you ain't.
So if women our own age are out desperately trying to ride the pole of a younger man, where does that leave men? We should be thankful. Do you really want to end up with any of the women I have described here? For years men have had to endure the whinging line from women everywhere, "how come when a bloke shags loads of women he's a "legend", but when a woman does it she's a slag?" Aye, trap shut, bint. Now we can respond "how come when an older woman bags a young lad she's a "Cougar", and when I lashed that 17 year old temp from work all over I got a disciplinary reprimand and was labelled a "perv?" Women, you want Cougar? You're going to have to let "Slag" go.
I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the age difference, here. If you are with someone you care about, or even just with someone you have great sex with, then age shouldn't really be a question (within legal limits, I hasten to add). Love can be found in a number of different places. At work, in the supermarket, in a bar, at someone elses wedding. Who's to say that it can't be found in the damp, musty old claptrap of a "Cougar?"
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
BURDIS SMASH!
If you were given a choice to be who you are right now this very second or a super-hero what would you choose? Bit of an easy question really. I'm assuming everyone thought being a super-hero would be the best choice. Don't get me wrong, I like you. You like you. I bet you're a wonderful person full of happiness and kindness. Maybe you're an absolute fucktard with a brain as useful as mashed sweet potato served with custard. Regardless of whether I like you or not, and whether you have a happy life filled with croissants, fast cars, and big tits you are not a super-hero. None of us are and frankly that's fucking depressing.
Cinema is a great way to escape. Escape your life for just a couple of hours so you don't have to think about work, money, or those little brats you spawned. We sit in front of a big screen and willngly allow colourful pictures and loud noises infiltrate our minds. Few things bring escapism like a good super-hero movie. There have been some good ones. I'm not talking the sort of films that win Oscars, here. I'm talking massive explosions, solid special effects, and some tights-wearing do-gooder bashing baddies for the safety of the World. Where does our fascination stem from?
Initially it's fantasy. You can't look at Iron Man or Wolverine and not think "Oh you fucking mint bastard". Even though Wolverine has hair that looks like it was chopped by Phil the Hacker from Shiney Row. They have charisma, style, and power beyond that of us normals. It's natural to hope that we will one day possess such abilities. Whether it's created by man's inventions (Iron Man's suit, Wolverine's Adamantium Skeleton, Mark Wahlberg's cock in Boogie Nights) or accidental (Peter Parker bitten by a radioactive spider, Bruce Banner smashed by Gamma Rays, the incredibly bland "Fantastic 4") we all wish for a piece of it. Just imagine being able to save the World because you were Captain Fucking Fantastic! Or, for starters, being able to blow up your place of work because no-one could stop you.
Tonight I am going to see The Avengers movie, something a lot of us have looked forward to for quite a few years now since the end credits scene in Iron Man. The build up to the movie has been huge. The four main characters (Iron Man, Captain Man, Hammer Man, and Big Green Bastard Man) already have at least one feature under their respective belts. I can't wait to forget everything and be blinded by a myriad of things getting smashed, jokes being quipped, and Scarlett Johansson's arse. Oh for the love of God I would motorboat her arse until the police arrived. With the 4 main characters, and the ensuing hi-jinx, there will be plenty of fantasy escapism. Is there a human element that grounds the experience?
The Hulk. The big green guy that grows the angrier he gets? Definitely the most human element of The Avengers. Captain America is a cardboard cut-out. Little geeky kid gets turned into a super-soldier to chin Hitler? Dull. Thor is a God King of Valhalla and wouldn't have even travelled to Earth if he didn't lose his hammer. Most people keep theirs in a toolbox, mate, sort your fucking gash out. Iron Man is amazing. He's a tech geek who builds epic inventions in his basement, but is also very comfortable being the centre of attention. As likeable as he is, you can't relate to that on a human level. Bruce Banner, on the other hand, just wants to be left alone. He wants to go about his business without being disturbed. His power is a burden, something which starts beyond his control but he's trying, he's trying hard, man. When his buttons are pressed, he becomes even more human. You're driving your car and someone cuts across your lane without indicating, you will probably flash your lights, beep your horn, shout expletives. That's The Hulk trying to get out. Playing your xbox and a cold-caller knocks at your door to ask if you've been injured in the last 5 years? "Nah mate, but I was just about to go for 30 kills so I think I might be injuring my fist on your balls". That's The Hulk again. You're at McDonalds spending a tenner on food, and you want a little pot of ketchup, the dungfuck behind the counter says "that'll be 5p". Oi toss! I just spent what you would earn in 2 hours on a fucking burger and you want 5p for an obscenely tiny pot of sauce? The anger builds, you grow uncontrollably ripping all of your clothes. The pain is unfathomable as your bones shift shapes to compensate for your growing size. You turn green. Your fists are now the size of horses and the rage clouding your brain means you only have the capability of shouting "BURDIS SMASH" before you demolish McDonalds in Barmston, and everyone inside. OK, maybe that's a stretch.
I'm saying The Hulk is the most human, but no matter how big he gets his trousers always fit and turn purple. That's voodoo shit right there!
Cinema is a great way to escape. Escape your life for just a couple of hours so you don't have to think about work, money, or those little brats you spawned. We sit in front of a big screen and willngly allow colourful pictures and loud noises infiltrate our minds. Few things bring escapism like a good super-hero movie. There have been some good ones. I'm not talking the sort of films that win Oscars, here. I'm talking massive explosions, solid special effects, and some tights-wearing do-gooder bashing baddies for the safety of the World. Where does our fascination stem from?
Initially it's fantasy. You can't look at Iron Man or Wolverine and not think "Oh you fucking mint bastard". Even though Wolverine has hair that looks like it was chopped by Phil the Hacker from Shiney Row. They have charisma, style, and power beyond that of us normals. It's natural to hope that we will one day possess such abilities. Whether it's created by man's inventions (Iron Man's suit, Wolverine's Adamantium Skeleton, Mark Wahlberg's cock in Boogie Nights) or accidental (Peter Parker bitten by a radioactive spider, Bruce Banner smashed by Gamma Rays, the incredibly bland "Fantastic 4") we all wish for a piece of it. Just imagine being able to save the World because you were Captain Fucking Fantastic! Or, for starters, being able to blow up your place of work because no-one could stop you.
Tonight I am going to see The Avengers movie, something a lot of us have looked forward to for quite a few years now since the end credits scene in Iron Man. The build up to the movie has been huge. The four main characters (Iron Man, Captain Man, Hammer Man, and Big Green Bastard Man) already have at least one feature under their respective belts. I can't wait to forget everything and be blinded by a myriad of things getting smashed, jokes being quipped, and Scarlett Johansson's arse. Oh for the love of God I would motorboat her arse until the police arrived. With the 4 main characters, and the ensuing hi-jinx, there will be plenty of fantasy escapism. Is there a human element that grounds the experience?
The Hulk. The big green guy that grows the angrier he gets? Definitely the most human element of The Avengers. Captain America is a cardboard cut-out. Little geeky kid gets turned into a super-soldier to chin Hitler? Dull. Thor is a God King of Valhalla and wouldn't have even travelled to Earth if he didn't lose his hammer. Most people keep theirs in a toolbox, mate, sort your fucking gash out. Iron Man is amazing. He's a tech geek who builds epic inventions in his basement, but is also very comfortable being the centre of attention. As likeable as he is, you can't relate to that on a human level. Bruce Banner, on the other hand, just wants to be left alone. He wants to go about his business without being disturbed. His power is a burden, something which starts beyond his control but he's trying, he's trying hard, man. When his buttons are pressed, he becomes even more human. You're driving your car and someone cuts across your lane without indicating, you will probably flash your lights, beep your horn, shout expletives. That's The Hulk trying to get out. Playing your xbox and a cold-caller knocks at your door to ask if you've been injured in the last 5 years? "Nah mate, but I was just about to go for 30 kills so I think I might be injuring my fist on your balls". That's The Hulk again. You're at McDonalds spending a tenner on food, and you want a little pot of ketchup, the dungfuck behind the counter says "that'll be 5p". Oi toss! I just spent what you would earn in 2 hours on a fucking burger and you want 5p for an obscenely tiny pot of sauce? The anger builds, you grow uncontrollably ripping all of your clothes. The pain is unfathomable as your bones shift shapes to compensate for your growing size. You turn green. Your fists are now the size of horses and the rage clouding your brain means you only have the capability of shouting "BURDIS SMASH" before you demolish McDonalds in Barmston, and everyone inside. OK, maybe that's a stretch.
I'm saying The Hulk is the most human, but no matter how big he gets his trousers always fit and turn purple. That's voodoo shit right there!
Thursday, 19 April 2012
I Cultivate Bromances
There's a difference between a cuddle and a hug. A cuddle is usually applied to a partner. It's tender and soft. It's a way of sharing your love for a woman without also sharing saliva. It provides comfort to someone who hasn't had the best of days, it shows that despite your failings and petty bickering, you are there for them. It's a warm expression in a cold bed before you fall asleep.
A hug is different. It's an embrace, but of a manly nature. Although a handshake is still the most appropriate exchange between two strangers, between friends it has been replaced. It's a tight grip, a show of strength and might. It is a pleasant show of kinship. The man on the other side of this burly entrapment not only knows your plight and quarry, but understands it implicitly. They may not have the words, but they have the action.
My attitude towards this action is likely to be rooted to my relationship with my father. He's a fine man. In fact, that description is a little empty. He is truly a man amongst men; someone that other men look up to. Educated and artistic, with an innate ability to make you laugh. A keen drinker and ferocious supporter of Sunderland Football. On Christmas Day he recognises his friends who have nowhere else to go, and offers them a top quality day of drink, food, and entertainment. He is also an incredible father figure. He makes a giant lunch for me every Sunday, and while it's well cooked and enough to feed a herd of fat cattle, I look forward to the man-hug just as much. It doesn't matter who is present or where we are; in the pub, at work, or watching strippers. My dad always greets me with a giant hug.
There has definitely been a change of attitude towards this behaviour between men over the past 20 years. If I were to guess (and I will because I do very little research for my writing) it would be that homosexuality has become more acceptable in society. 20 years ago people's attitudes towards being gay were very different. The gays were camp, and soft like fairies. They probably hugged each other in public, the bastards! For men to act the same as a gay would surely be seen as a sign of weakness, a sign of their masculinity on the wane. As attitudes towards homosexuality became more educated, I'm sure this also altered the opinion of hetero men and their displays of public affection. Because a hug between two men is not about physical attraction. I can state quite comfortably that I'm not "gay" for anyone, except the actor Ryan Reynolds. The strong hug that men share is about friendship.
As we get older, we need the support of our friends as much as we did when we were young. You should never devalue friendship. Whether you are single or in a committed relationship, your brood contains a wealth of experience and knowledge and know exactly how you feel and what you are going through. This is regardless of the situation. While women can listen and provide support, only men understand. You need that solidarity to survive. When you were young you all went out drinking together. It was fun. You would get drunk and break off from your friends at some point in the evening to go hunting for women. When we go out now it's not the same, and rightly so. Drinking is now about the company you keep, the conversations and stories you share while trying to speak loudly over music which must have gotten louder since you were 18. Don't get me wrong, a sly neck-on with a bird at the end of the night is a welcome bonus. But the event of a night out with the lads is to spend time together.
A woman who tries to stop a man from seeing his friends is evil. They think that by letting him "off the leash" his behaviour will regress to childhood and he will wander around a nightclub with his cock hanging out of his trousers actively seeking an accepting and acceptable female. This is not the case. A man needs time with his friends to talk about man-things. He might have problems that he can't share with you. He wants to share jokes and stories that you wouldn't find funny. He wants to talk about the new Avengers movie, or the Halo 4 release date, or how fucking absolutely mint Aliens is. It gives him time to relax himself for the unstoppable barrage of shit that is your life. Ever wonder why he is a good listener to all of your problems? Because he already shared his with his fellow brothers, and now he can focus 100% on you. Be thankful for his relationship with his friends, as it's probably saved your relationship more times than you'll ever know.
I had some words about the Monroe quote the other day, and would like to offer this rebuttal:
"I am a man. At times I act like a child; I play video games, I watch cartoons and sci-fi, and I laugh freely at things you may not find amusing. I spend time with my friends and we share man-hug greetings. I also possess more conventional qualities; I cook, I clean, I listen, I am thoughtful, and I always put the toilet seat down. I don't have a "best" or "worst". I was just born with a fine set of gonads. If you can't "handle" any of the above then you may leave, by door or by window".
Granted it's not as concise or snappy as the Monroe quote, but it definitely covers more ground than that tit-stick ever did.
A hug is different. It's an embrace, but of a manly nature. Although a handshake is still the most appropriate exchange between two strangers, between friends it has been replaced. It's a tight grip, a show of strength and might. It is a pleasant show of kinship. The man on the other side of this burly entrapment not only knows your plight and quarry, but understands it implicitly. They may not have the words, but they have the action.
My attitude towards this action is likely to be rooted to my relationship with my father. He's a fine man. In fact, that description is a little empty. He is truly a man amongst men; someone that other men look up to. Educated and artistic, with an innate ability to make you laugh. A keen drinker and ferocious supporter of Sunderland Football. On Christmas Day he recognises his friends who have nowhere else to go, and offers them a top quality day of drink, food, and entertainment. He is also an incredible father figure. He makes a giant lunch for me every Sunday, and while it's well cooked and enough to feed a herd of fat cattle, I look forward to the man-hug just as much. It doesn't matter who is present or where we are; in the pub, at work, or watching strippers. My dad always greets me with a giant hug.
There has definitely been a change of attitude towards this behaviour between men over the past 20 years. If I were to guess (and I will because I do very little research for my writing) it would be that homosexuality has become more acceptable in society. 20 years ago people's attitudes towards being gay were very different. The gays were camp, and soft like fairies. They probably hugged each other in public, the bastards! For men to act the same as a gay would surely be seen as a sign of weakness, a sign of their masculinity on the wane. As attitudes towards homosexuality became more educated, I'm sure this also altered the opinion of hetero men and their displays of public affection. Because a hug between two men is not about physical attraction. I can state quite comfortably that I'm not "gay" for anyone, except the actor Ryan Reynolds. The strong hug that men share is about friendship.
As we get older, we need the support of our friends as much as we did when we were young. You should never devalue friendship. Whether you are single or in a committed relationship, your brood contains a wealth of experience and knowledge and know exactly how you feel and what you are going through. This is regardless of the situation. While women can listen and provide support, only men understand. You need that solidarity to survive. When you were young you all went out drinking together. It was fun. You would get drunk and break off from your friends at some point in the evening to go hunting for women. When we go out now it's not the same, and rightly so. Drinking is now about the company you keep, the conversations and stories you share while trying to speak loudly over music which must have gotten louder since you were 18. Don't get me wrong, a sly neck-on with a bird at the end of the night is a welcome bonus. But the event of a night out with the lads is to spend time together.
A woman who tries to stop a man from seeing his friends is evil. They think that by letting him "off the leash" his behaviour will regress to childhood and he will wander around a nightclub with his cock hanging out of his trousers actively seeking an accepting and acceptable female. This is not the case. A man needs time with his friends to talk about man-things. He might have problems that he can't share with you. He wants to share jokes and stories that you wouldn't find funny. He wants to talk about the new Avengers movie, or the Halo 4 release date, or how fucking absolutely mint Aliens is. It gives him time to relax himself for the unstoppable barrage of shit that is your life. Ever wonder why he is a good listener to all of your problems? Because he already shared his with his fellow brothers, and now he can focus 100% on you. Be thankful for his relationship with his friends, as it's probably saved your relationship more times than you'll ever know.
I had some words about the Monroe quote the other day, and would like to offer this rebuttal:
"I am a man. At times I act like a child; I play video games, I watch cartoons and sci-fi, and I laugh freely at things you may not find amusing. I spend time with my friends and we share man-hug greetings. I also possess more conventional qualities; I cook, I clean, I listen, I am thoughtful, and I always put the toilet seat down. I don't have a "best" or "worst". I was just born with a fine set of gonads. If you can't "handle" any of the above then you may leave, by door or by window".
Granted it's not as concise or snappy as the Monroe quote, but it definitely covers more ground than that tit-stick ever did.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
We Were All Invincible
I'm going to mention childhood today. I thought I would start with an unrelated story.
My father once told me that I had a magnet effect when it came to turds. We would walk from Ashbrooke, where he lived, to Sunderland City Centre most weekends. One time I walked into what must have been the World's Largest Dog-Shit. You know the kind that is like an egg; hard crust on the outside, broken to reveal a mass of yellow foulness. The smell alone would've been enough to floor an Rhino with no nose. If the Grim Reaper had a giant dog, it would drop shites like this. My father was annoyed, but slightly amused. Nowt funnier than an idiot walking through a big load. We headed back to his flat where my trainer was cleaned, father being less amused at this point. We walked along the same path again, now with clean feet. My father said he was watching me wander along barely paying attention when I turned slightly and managed to walk through the exact same shit-pile. Exasperated is probably the best word to describe my father's reaction, inexplicable was my seemingly never-satisfied attraction to dog's mess. Given the size of it I would be highly surprised if there was not a monument where this great turd resided:
"Here Lies The Remains of Turdosaurus. Trampled twice in a 15 minute spell by the same person".
Anyways, Mortality!
As I get older I am forced to face the fact that I will die. It's not unexpected, it's something we will all have to do eventually. It can get quite overwhelming if you give it too much attention. Your family, friends, loved ones, all will leave your life or you will leave theirs. Probably best to ignore it, eh? Well, no. Your awareness of your mortality can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Knowing that you have a deadline on your life, and you don't know when it will be, should push you to take giant fun-filled steps everyday. Trying new experiences, and reliving previous ones. It urges you to take chances, whether that be seeing the World or putting an extra chocolate bar in that milkshake you're making. Extra chocolate bars are always good. However, being aware of your mortality can also have the opposite effect; the fear that what you do may adversely affect the time you have left. We have safe lives, locks on our doors, money in our bank accounts from our safe jobs. What's the point in taking a risk for more when you are content with what you have? Suppose it depends on if you're really content or not. Are you sure your contentedness isn't just fear masking itself as something safe?
I tell myself I'm not afraid to die. How can I be afraid of something that I know is inevitable? Simply accepting this eventuality should be enough yet I find myself afraid to take risks. I enjoy my job, but it becomes increasingly unfulfilling. The wage is excellent, and I have bills to pay. I don't have a wage, I can't afford the essentials; gas/electric, the roof over my head, and Clotted Ice Cream for milkshakes. Now I'm not saying if I quit my job I will die, possibly by bursting into flames and running around a bit, but I'm not sure I would enjoy a life without the things I enjoy. Especially the milkshakes.
It's surely an age thing. I never thought about death as a young un. If I could describe myself as a child it would be that I graduated with a 1st in Daft Shite Studies from Mongington University. In my yearbook there was a picture of me under the heading "Most Likely to Shit Himself in Public". Fortunately, at least in the last few months, I've managed to avoid shitting my pants. Although I did shit someone elses. I was fearless. Regardless of how high up and unsafe the tree swing looked, I would be first one to try it. Most times I was fine. One time the rope snapped, I plummeted 15 feet down into a stream and smashed my hand onto a sharp rock. I needed stitches and almost lost the use of my thumb. Which was lucky as I would find it very useful in later life, especially when tossing off. I would spend hours on my BMX, racing at speed down large hills. You could guarantee some berk would've built a ramp at the bottom from some discarded plyboard and a couple of large bricks. I would be first to try it, again with the high likelihood of being injured. Or falling into a massive pile of dog-shit. But I didn't care. I never thought about actually breaking any bones. Thankfully the only serious injuries I ever inflicted upon my person were a dislocated elbow (trying to dance like Vanilla Ice at a disco), and breaking my nose (smashing my head through a water slide).
I'm giving this some thought as I head to Thorpe Park in a few days and I'm becoming concerned at the size and speed and likelihood of death these rides include. Never would've been a problem as a kid. I would be skipping to the front of the queue, and likely to try and free the contraption that holds you in your seat, just for a bigger thrill. But I know, now at the age of 31, that when I am actually standing in front of these gargantuan metal contraptions, I think it might be the first time in recent memory that I do shit myself.
I am getting older, we all are. On a large scale our increasing life-expectancy is already resulting in changes to our built environment. In ten years time I would like to be doing something different to what I am now, and feel a change too. Not safety or security, but happiness. Maybe fear will hold me back. Maybe it will hold us all back. But I know one thing for certain; telling a story about going on a roller coaster, full of screaming and swearing and possibly injuring someone, will make for a much better story than if I bottled it.
"Stealth" a ride at Thorpe Park. Soiled underwear, not pictured.
My father once told me that I had a magnet effect when it came to turds. We would walk from Ashbrooke, where he lived, to Sunderland City Centre most weekends. One time I walked into what must have been the World's Largest Dog-Shit. You know the kind that is like an egg; hard crust on the outside, broken to reveal a mass of yellow foulness. The smell alone would've been enough to floor an Rhino with no nose. If the Grim Reaper had a giant dog, it would drop shites like this. My father was annoyed, but slightly amused. Nowt funnier than an idiot walking through a big load. We headed back to his flat where my trainer was cleaned, father being less amused at this point. We walked along the same path again, now with clean feet. My father said he was watching me wander along barely paying attention when I turned slightly and managed to walk through the exact same shit-pile. Exasperated is probably the best word to describe my father's reaction, inexplicable was my seemingly never-satisfied attraction to dog's mess. Given the size of it I would be highly surprised if there was not a monument where this great turd resided:
"Here Lies The Remains of Turdosaurus. Trampled twice in a 15 minute spell by the same person".
Anyways, Mortality!
As I get older I am forced to face the fact that I will die. It's not unexpected, it's something we will all have to do eventually. It can get quite overwhelming if you give it too much attention. Your family, friends, loved ones, all will leave your life or you will leave theirs. Probably best to ignore it, eh? Well, no. Your awareness of your mortality can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Knowing that you have a deadline on your life, and you don't know when it will be, should push you to take giant fun-filled steps everyday. Trying new experiences, and reliving previous ones. It urges you to take chances, whether that be seeing the World or putting an extra chocolate bar in that milkshake you're making. Extra chocolate bars are always good. However, being aware of your mortality can also have the opposite effect; the fear that what you do may adversely affect the time you have left. We have safe lives, locks on our doors, money in our bank accounts from our safe jobs. What's the point in taking a risk for more when you are content with what you have? Suppose it depends on if you're really content or not. Are you sure your contentedness isn't just fear masking itself as something safe?
I tell myself I'm not afraid to die. How can I be afraid of something that I know is inevitable? Simply accepting this eventuality should be enough yet I find myself afraid to take risks. I enjoy my job, but it becomes increasingly unfulfilling. The wage is excellent, and I have bills to pay. I don't have a wage, I can't afford the essentials; gas/electric, the roof over my head, and Clotted Ice Cream for milkshakes. Now I'm not saying if I quit my job I will die, possibly by bursting into flames and running around a bit, but I'm not sure I would enjoy a life without the things I enjoy. Especially the milkshakes.
It's surely an age thing. I never thought about death as a young un. If I could describe myself as a child it would be that I graduated with a 1st in Daft Shite Studies from Mongington University. In my yearbook there was a picture of me under the heading "Most Likely to Shit Himself in Public". Fortunately, at least in the last few months, I've managed to avoid shitting my pants. Although I did shit someone elses. I was fearless. Regardless of how high up and unsafe the tree swing looked, I would be first one to try it. Most times I was fine. One time the rope snapped, I plummeted 15 feet down into a stream and smashed my hand onto a sharp rock. I needed stitches and almost lost the use of my thumb. Which was lucky as I would find it very useful in later life, especially when tossing off. I would spend hours on my BMX, racing at speed down large hills. You could guarantee some berk would've built a ramp at the bottom from some discarded plyboard and a couple of large bricks. I would be first to try it, again with the high likelihood of being injured. Or falling into a massive pile of dog-shit. But I didn't care. I never thought about actually breaking any bones. Thankfully the only serious injuries I ever inflicted upon my person were a dislocated elbow (trying to dance like Vanilla Ice at a disco), and breaking my nose (smashing my head through a water slide).
I'm giving this some thought as I head to Thorpe Park in a few days and I'm becoming concerned at the size and speed and likelihood of death these rides include. Never would've been a problem as a kid. I would be skipping to the front of the queue, and likely to try and free the contraption that holds you in your seat, just for a bigger thrill. But I know, now at the age of 31, that when I am actually standing in front of these gargantuan metal contraptions, I think it might be the first time in recent memory that I do shit myself.
I am getting older, we all are. On a large scale our increasing life-expectancy is already resulting in changes to our built environment. In ten years time I would like to be doing something different to what I am now, and feel a change too. Not safety or security, but happiness. Maybe fear will hold me back. Maybe it will hold us all back. But I know one thing for certain; telling a story about going on a roller coaster, full of screaming and swearing and possibly injuring someone, will make for a much better story than if I bottled it.
"Stealth" a ride at Thorpe Park. Soiled underwear, not pictured.
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