Many things annoy me. Not winning the lottery. Idiot drivers who don't indicate at roundabouts. The fact my dishes won't wash themselves. I could easily fill a page with everything that annoys me, the page itself would be the length of the entire universe, and I could still continue over onto the other side. I will shout expletives, I will make an angry face and probably gesture wildly, like some sort of mad clown played by Tim Curry. The majority of annoyances will be petty, the sort of thing you shouldn't really get mad about. There are some annoyances which take you further than anger. It's a feeling that is difficult to describe. Like you've bashed your head into a brick wall for so long that there's no head left, just bits of skin flopping around your neck by the time you realise that no amount of cranial torture will make a difference. Have you ever been so annoyed that the anger just stays in your stomach? You close your eyes, mutter to yourself in disbelief. You know this feeling cannot be resolved by shouting, punching, or indeed, smashing your head into a wall.
This feeling is reserved solely for the match.com advert. The one with the twat and his twatty small guitar at the train station.
Make no mistake, this is the most annoying piece of anything that has ever, ever been brought into the World. If you haven't seen it I suggest you do, only because I am going to write about it and it'll probably help. I apologise for bringing it upon your person. *Please note that the advert on youtube is a full minute long, the advert you've probably seen on the telly is a shorter version.
The video is posted on youtube by ukmatch, the description reading "This is a classic tale of boy meets girl to remind us all what it feels like to meet someone you're attracted to for the first time". Except it's not. It's an advert to encourage people to use match.com because they can't talk to people in real life. It's a tool to get your website more traffic and subscribers. It burns into my very soul. It is not, and never will be a "classic" tale of boy meets girl. Such praise is reserved for greatness, like When Harry Met Sally, The Wedding Singer, and The Terminator.
The description also lets us know that the song featured "She Began to Dance" by Matthew P is available to download on iTunes. I had to fight every urge not to break my fingers so I couldn't type that sentence. It's fortunate that the song is on iTunes and not available on CD. If it were I would have to spend all my money on buying every copy in existence, snap them in half and throw them into the fiery pit of Mount Doom. The song is so bad I would even apologise to Sauron on my way out, "Soz mate, I know your fiery belly should be reserved for such items as the One ring, but I couldn't take a risk by disposing of this shit by any other means. To be fair you're just a big eye on a tower so I fancied my chances of getting away with it. Taraaaaa". Also worth noting that his surname is only an initial, the calling card of an absolute cunt. Like Jessie J, Diddy P, and Anthony B. His surname is quite likely "Piss". In my head, it is.
I encourage you to watch this advert, and I shall continue in the near future.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
The World In Which We Don't Live
As I opened my front door this morning I was greeted by something we all take for granted: The World before us. Have you ever just simply looked at it? From my front door I see cars, people, trees, roads, the pavements on which we take our steps. The sky above. We take it for granted because it is there everyday. We know when we open that door we are going to get what we expect. But what we don't see is possibility. If you take the time to think about the possibility before you, it seems endless. The possibility that today you might see something you've never seen, or the possibility that today just might be your last.
I was being driven back from York. I had never experienced rain like what was beating down on the road in front of me. A sheet of water so thick it looked like the final battle from "The Matrix Revolutions", and any minute a million Agent Smiths would come into view ready to end the World. Although sight was minimal I noticed something in the distance. On the opposite side of the road was a car coming in the opposite direction, immediately noticeable as one of those huge BMW status symbols that rich people drive but don't really need. It was upside down, then upright but on it's side, then upside down again. It was bouncing high in the air, and crashing to the ground, rotating like a giant mechanical gymnast. Graceful, yet with powerful devastation. You know the feeling when you witness something your mind can barely comprehend, and time just seems to slow down to the point where you can visibly see a bird's wings flapping. Your mind is simply trying to process the image in front of you.
It was like something out of a movie.
You've probably said the above sentence to yourself and to others to describe events in your life without even noticing. People take trips around the World to visit monuments, experiencing them first-hand. It's like something out of a movie. Remember that first kiss you had with a significant other. Grabbing that person by the waist, the light brush of their soft skin on your cheek and the fragrant beauty being so close to your person. The feeling that no force was strong enough to unlock your lips after they first touched. And the first stirrings of an almighty hard-on. It was like something out of a movie. When the planes were flown into the World Trade Centre buildings on 9/11, the 9th of November. Pictures and videos that stunned our whole population. It was incomprehendable, unimaginable, destroying. Yet there it was, right there in front of you, even after you blinked. I remember people not being able to come to terms with the images staring them in the face, saying "It's like something out of a movie".
You see, the World in which we live is full of possibility. The World in which we don't live is full of endless possibility.
Films are a gateway to another dimension, where the only limit is imagination. Worlds built and created, stories crafted by amazing minds. We are blessed to live in this generation where fiction, science or otherwise, is visible due to technological advancements, and ironically they are one of the only things in real life where the possibilities are indeed endless. I hope it doesn't go all Skynet at some point, but for now it's definitely something to be heralded.
I watched Transformers: Dark of the Moon last week. It was in 3D Blu-Ray. I'm not saying it was a good film, because it wasn't. It was too slow paced, far too long, and the human emotion element that is used to tie you to the characters seemed like it was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. Like someone was playing pin the tail on the donkey, removed their blindfold, and still managed to put the pin on it's fucking forehead. You also couldn't pay me to enjoy Shia LeBeouf. But there was one scene, some stupid robot snake controlled by Shockwave was chewing the shit out of a glass building, and it looked amazing. More than amazing. Unbe-fucking-lievable. Someone created this. Just think about how much time was spent, how detailed this was. It was simply staggering. So while the film will never match the childhood excitement it invokes, it gives us something unprecedented.
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Harry Potter, Alien, The Matrix, Tron Legacy, Up. I could easily go on. There's a chance that you will have seen one, if not all of these creations. If you haven't, I suggest taking yourself to the nearest mirror, remove your head, and leave it there for a fortnight while you take a long hard look at yourself. Seriously, look deep into that detatched head and ask yourself "Why?". Inception for fucks sake. It's like the greatest people of their craft at the top of their respective games decided to get together with the sole purpose of creating something that would just blow my mind to a million tiny pieces.
Strive to be like the creators, not the workers. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a worker, I am one myself, but don't think for one second that's all there is. If you can see it, it can be created. In the World in which we don't live the only limit is your our imagination. Use it. Godspeed.
I was being driven back from York. I had never experienced rain like what was beating down on the road in front of me. A sheet of water so thick it looked like the final battle from "The Matrix Revolutions", and any minute a million Agent Smiths would come into view ready to end the World. Although sight was minimal I noticed something in the distance. On the opposite side of the road was a car coming in the opposite direction, immediately noticeable as one of those huge BMW status symbols that rich people drive but don't really need. It was upside down, then upright but on it's side, then upside down again. It was bouncing high in the air, and crashing to the ground, rotating like a giant mechanical gymnast. Graceful, yet with powerful devastation. You know the feeling when you witness something your mind can barely comprehend, and time just seems to slow down to the point where you can visibly see a bird's wings flapping. Your mind is simply trying to process the image in front of you.
It was like something out of a movie.
You've probably said the above sentence to yourself and to others to describe events in your life without even noticing. People take trips around the World to visit monuments, experiencing them first-hand. It's like something out of a movie. Remember that first kiss you had with a significant other. Grabbing that person by the waist, the light brush of their soft skin on your cheek and the fragrant beauty being so close to your person. The feeling that no force was strong enough to unlock your lips after they first touched. And the first stirrings of an almighty hard-on. It was like something out of a movie. When the planes were flown into the World Trade Centre buildings on 9/11, the 9th of November. Pictures and videos that stunned our whole population. It was incomprehendable, unimaginable, destroying. Yet there it was, right there in front of you, even after you blinked. I remember people not being able to come to terms with the images staring them in the face, saying "It's like something out of a movie".
You see, the World in which we live is full of possibility. The World in which we don't live is full of endless possibility.
Films are a gateway to another dimension, where the only limit is imagination. Worlds built and created, stories crafted by amazing minds. We are blessed to live in this generation where fiction, science or otherwise, is visible due to technological advancements, and ironically they are one of the only things in real life where the possibilities are indeed endless. I hope it doesn't go all Skynet at some point, but for now it's definitely something to be heralded.
I watched Transformers: Dark of the Moon last week. It was in 3D Blu-Ray. I'm not saying it was a good film, because it wasn't. It was too slow paced, far too long, and the human emotion element that is used to tie you to the characters seemed like it was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. Like someone was playing pin the tail on the donkey, removed their blindfold, and still managed to put the pin on it's fucking forehead. You also couldn't pay me to enjoy Shia LeBeouf. But there was one scene, some stupid robot snake controlled by Shockwave was chewing the shit out of a glass building, and it looked amazing. More than amazing. Unbe-fucking-lievable. Someone created this. Just think about how much time was spent, how detailed this was. It was simply staggering. So while the film will never match the childhood excitement it invokes, it gives us something unprecedented.
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, Harry Potter, Alien, The Matrix, Tron Legacy, Up. I could easily go on. There's a chance that you will have seen one, if not all of these creations. If you haven't, I suggest taking yourself to the nearest mirror, remove your head, and leave it there for a fortnight while you take a long hard look at yourself. Seriously, look deep into that detatched head and ask yourself "Why?". Inception for fucks sake. It's like the greatest people of their craft at the top of their respective games decided to get together with the sole purpose of creating something that would just blow my mind to a million tiny pieces.
Strive to be like the creators, not the workers. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a worker, I am one myself, but don't think for one second that's all there is. If you can see it, it can be created. In the World in which we don't live the only limit is your our imagination. Use it. Godspeed.
Sunday, 19 February 2012
You're An Individual, Just Like Everyone Else
We see each other everyday. Literally billions of people roaming this World. Think about that for a second, the sheer enormity of what is out there. I went to my front door for my morning cigarette and was greeted by glorious sunshine, and a cold breeze. The morning air was so fresh I could barely wait to inhale smoke into my lungs. Two people, a man and a woman walked past. They were dressed very similar, very average looking, like neither of them was punching above their respective weights. They were each holding a leash connected to a walking dog. The dogs were identical. I finished my cigarette and the line at the top of the page appeared in my head. There's no doubt I will see countless other people today, all walking around with purpose. All ever so slightly different. All the same as everyone else.
It's probably why this generation abuses and over-uses the word "random". Although it's mostly used incorrectly and, in fact, used with pathetic misplacement. That's not the point. The point is it appears everywhere. They label Facebook photo albums "random" so everyone else can see that they have done something no-one else has done before. Just like everyone else. They wear Adidas Star Wars jackets because they want the feeling of importance. Just like everyone else. People everywhere striving to be individual. To be different. To be special. People everywhere terrified that their life has no meaning, and that we are here with no purpose whatsover.
The truth is you are no different. I am no different. We are all the same. Just like those two dogs I saw this morning.
It's not your fault, and it's certainly not mine. The great thing about life is we can just about blame anybody for absolutely everything. Our feeling of inadaquecy is the fault of our parents. They coached us from a young age that we are in a World of endless possibilities. They didn't explain that most endeavours are ultimately pointless and achievements were unattainable. They told us we were special, and we believed them. Without the ability to think that there are millions of others being told the exact same thing at the exact same time. The rotten bastards. As we grow older we should know different, yet we're still being coached. TV replaced our parents a long time ago.
Adverts on TV are sickening. They tell us to strive for perfection. They tell us that if we purchase and use a particular product we will become something more. If we own particular items we will be the envy of our peers. Yet the outcome is we all end up with the same products. Everyone knows the secret of youth is in a bottle, and that bottle sits in your bathroom. It also sits in countless others too. We go to people's homes via friendly invitation yet are ambushed by the new sofa/television/vibrating cock ring they just spent 17 squillion quid on and have our faces rubbed in it, like a dog being trained not to shit on the carpet. It's ok though, what you have at home is far superior, and cost 18 squillion quid. You're still better. Or are you both the same?
The problem with TV adverts is that they have sodomised the feeling of individuality to the point where all it means is fear. Fear that we live in a World where we can walk down the street and see someone else wearing the same clothes you're wearing yourself.
But the TV would never lie to us, right?
"Cribs" on MTV has to be the most shameful piece of television programming ever created. Forget for a second that it shouldn't even belong on a channel called "Music Television". I despise MTV so much I want to delete everything I've just written so I can write them a letter that simply says "Fuck Off, Cunts". For those unaware, Cribs is a grotesque showing of the homes and cars of the richest, most famous people we've ever heard of. It's so depressing even thinking about it makes me want to stop typing, get in my car, drive it off a bridge while laughing gleefully at the prospect that I will soon be home to a watery grave and will never have to know of it's existence. It provides unrealistic expectations on a mass scale. So the initial feeling of excitement at learning Snoop Dogg has 17 bedrooms in his mansion and 46 cars is rapidly replaced by a feeling of resentment, bitterness, and crushing disappointment at the fact it's overwhelmingly likely you will never have the same. I want you to think for a second, to yourself because if you say this outloud it may get a you few funny looks. Ask yourself this question, and do it slowly so that every fucking word sinks in:
Am I really, really interested in what Richard Branson's bathroom looks like, or where Alex Zane keeps his underwear?
If you answered "no", well done. I like you, kind of. If you answered "yes" please just stop. Stop reading this, stop getting out of bed on a morning, stop living. Preferably, stop living by having your head exploded by a rogue firecracker lodged in your brain. I'm simply aghast that we were ever friends.
So we all grasp at thoughts of brilliance, of financial well-being, of consumerist bliss. To be different, to be better, to be individual. Unfortunately all we do is frantically grab at mediocrity. We fail because of fear. We want to be special so badly yet we're too scared to leave the bubble of individuality created for us by the things we were told to buy. So we immerse ourselves in, what should be, temporary measures. Like Reality TV. Other people living their lives for our own enjoyment. A genre that is dead inside, and that deadness spreads to your heart like a black fog intent on sapping every bit of life you ever had. It follows people that are so dull their reality now needs a fucking script to make it worthwhile. That sentence is so ridiculous it feels like every letter I type is looking at me, goading me to start punching my own face in. Shows like Made in Chelsea, Desperate Scousewives, and Geordie Shore make me want to smash my face into this netbook til I cry in desperation and then set myself on fire.
Scripted "Reality" is so depressing it makes me think talent shows are a good idea. The daft cunt singing badly in front of Simon Cowell's perfectly square head might have no clue how to hold a note, or hold their own cock when they go to the toilet, but at least they had a shot. The truth is I'm as fearful as the next person, slowly coming to terms that this is it, and that's all there is. We're all so ruled by Mortgages and Credit Card debt that we failed to see the end coming.
But it's ok. We're alive. We're happy. We just bought something new off eBay, bargain price as well. It'll look so nice next to that other thing we bought last week that we didn't need. We have everything we never needed.
We're individual, just like everyone else.
It's probably why this generation abuses and over-uses the word "random". Although it's mostly used incorrectly and, in fact, used with pathetic misplacement. That's not the point. The point is it appears everywhere. They label Facebook photo albums "random" so everyone else can see that they have done something no-one else has done before. Just like everyone else. They wear Adidas Star Wars jackets because they want the feeling of importance. Just like everyone else. People everywhere striving to be individual. To be different. To be special. People everywhere terrified that their life has no meaning, and that we are here with no purpose whatsover.
The truth is you are no different. I am no different. We are all the same. Just like those two dogs I saw this morning.
It's not your fault, and it's certainly not mine. The great thing about life is we can just about blame anybody for absolutely everything. Our feeling of inadaquecy is the fault of our parents. They coached us from a young age that we are in a World of endless possibilities. They didn't explain that most endeavours are ultimately pointless and achievements were unattainable. They told us we were special, and we believed them. Without the ability to think that there are millions of others being told the exact same thing at the exact same time. The rotten bastards. As we grow older we should know different, yet we're still being coached. TV replaced our parents a long time ago.
Adverts on TV are sickening. They tell us to strive for perfection. They tell us that if we purchase and use a particular product we will become something more. If we own particular items we will be the envy of our peers. Yet the outcome is we all end up with the same products. Everyone knows the secret of youth is in a bottle, and that bottle sits in your bathroom. It also sits in countless others too. We go to people's homes via friendly invitation yet are ambushed by the new sofa/television/vibrating cock ring they just spent 17 squillion quid on and have our faces rubbed in it, like a dog being trained not to shit on the carpet. It's ok though, what you have at home is far superior, and cost 18 squillion quid. You're still better. Or are you both the same?
The problem with TV adverts is that they have sodomised the feeling of individuality to the point where all it means is fear. Fear that we live in a World where we can walk down the street and see someone else wearing the same clothes you're wearing yourself.
But the TV would never lie to us, right?
"Cribs" on MTV has to be the most shameful piece of television programming ever created. Forget for a second that it shouldn't even belong on a channel called "Music Television". I despise MTV so much I want to delete everything I've just written so I can write them a letter that simply says "Fuck Off, Cunts". For those unaware, Cribs is a grotesque showing of the homes and cars of the richest, most famous people we've ever heard of. It's so depressing even thinking about it makes me want to stop typing, get in my car, drive it off a bridge while laughing gleefully at the prospect that I will soon be home to a watery grave and will never have to know of it's existence. It provides unrealistic expectations on a mass scale. So the initial feeling of excitement at learning Snoop Dogg has 17 bedrooms in his mansion and 46 cars is rapidly replaced by a feeling of resentment, bitterness, and crushing disappointment at the fact it's overwhelmingly likely you will never have the same. I want you to think for a second, to yourself because if you say this outloud it may get a you few funny looks. Ask yourself this question, and do it slowly so that every fucking word sinks in:
Am I really, really interested in what Richard Branson's bathroom looks like, or where Alex Zane keeps his underwear?
If you answered "no", well done. I like you, kind of. If you answered "yes" please just stop. Stop reading this, stop getting out of bed on a morning, stop living. Preferably, stop living by having your head exploded by a rogue firecracker lodged in your brain. I'm simply aghast that we were ever friends.
So we all grasp at thoughts of brilliance, of financial well-being, of consumerist bliss. To be different, to be better, to be individual. Unfortunately all we do is frantically grab at mediocrity. We fail because of fear. We want to be special so badly yet we're too scared to leave the bubble of individuality created for us by the things we were told to buy. So we immerse ourselves in, what should be, temporary measures. Like Reality TV. Other people living their lives for our own enjoyment. A genre that is dead inside, and that deadness spreads to your heart like a black fog intent on sapping every bit of life you ever had. It follows people that are so dull their reality now needs a fucking script to make it worthwhile. That sentence is so ridiculous it feels like every letter I type is looking at me, goading me to start punching my own face in. Shows like Made in Chelsea, Desperate Scousewives, and Geordie Shore make me want to smash my face into this netbook til I cry in desperation and then set myself on fire.
Scripted "Reality" is so depressing it makes me think talent shows are a good idea. The daft cunt singing badly in front of Simon Cowell's perfectly square head might have no clue how to hold a note, or hold their own cock when they go to the toilet, but at least they had a shot. The truth is I'm as fearful as the next person, slowly coming to terms that this is it, and that's all there is. We're all so ruled by Mortgages and Credit Card debt that we failed to see the end coming.
But it's ok. We're alive. We're happy. We just bought something new off eBay, bargain price as well. It'll look so nice next to that other thing we bought last week that we didn't need. We have everything we never needed.
We're individual, just like everyone else.
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
The See-Saw That Broke
I was sitting in my car waiting for someone to show up and view a flat. A day old bottle of juice was my only sustenance, and while it wasn't exactly cold it was still wet enough to drink. Like most bottled juices. You've seen the scene in Jurassic Park, the introduction of the monstrous and terrifying T-Rex. It was happening right here, in the middle of a Sunderland housing estate. Loud thunderous footsteps getting closer. The sound alone is enough to scare you into eating your underwear just so you don't do a big shit in it. I look over to my juice which is rippling in time with each sound, getting louder, getting closer. I turn my head to see a massive creature waddling towards me. It wasn't a dinosaur though. School had just finished and the children were escaping. Great big fat children, salivating at the thought of getting home so their parent can take them to KFC.
It is a serious problem. Kids are fat. Not just fat, unhumanly fucking obese. So obese they should have another word created just to describe their massive form. Jabbarific! However the only Hut these poor uneducated fat bastards are aware of is "Pizza".
I would like to point out at this time I am fully aware that the Hutt race from Star Wars ends with double T. I simply dropped the T in a previous sentence for humour purposes.
Where does the blame lie? America, that's where. The good old US of States. The Land of the Free, and Fucking Huge. We follow them everywhere. Their trends. Their ungodly excuse for RnB music. Home to the most famous and powerful people in the World. We once even followed them to War. Can you believe that? It used to be a running joke. The Americans would mock our horrible teeth and over-drinking of tea. In turn we could always respond with "So what, fat twat". Not anymore.
It's easy to blame other people. Forget something in the shopping? Well it's your partner's fault for not putting it on the list. Relationship breakdown? Well it's her fault she slept with the neighbour's lawnmower. Kids getting fat? Yeah, well they don't put health warnings on a lot of fast food. Excuses. Lets be clear.
It is your fault. If you have a fat child no-one else is to blame but you. You have no self control, especially when it comes to your children. Kids want a bag of crisps or some chocolate from the cupboard? "They would only throw a tantrum if I didn't let them". Kids want a machine gun? "Well they have to defend themselves from paedophiles". Kids want a McDonalds? "A Happy Meal isn't going to hurt them". One Happy Meal will not hurt them at all. 5 a week, you start to see a big difference when all of a sudden they are fitting into your trousers. Then the only people that are happy is the Devil that pops up on your left shoulder, laughing at your inept parenting skills. The same Devil that slept with your wife and killed your cat, the bastard. The other person laughing, maniacally might I add, is that fucking clown. So addictive is McDonalds that we will gladly take in images of an evil looking beast donned in red and yellow, while chuffing a McFatto Speciale down our wedgepipes.
It's just a sign of sheer laziness. I see the hordes slowly dragging their feet towards the local chip shop. Instead of having a nice sandwich made for them they are fighting to the front of the queue for a Kebab Butty covered in curry sauce. If you're a parent who can't be arsed to get yourself out of your pyjama bottoms, you're certainly not going to help your child's healthy lifestyle.
The takeaway culture we live in doesn't help mind. Pallion front street used to be a community of local grocers, bakers, fine shops occupied by fine people. It's now like a ghost town. A ghost town inhabited by fat people and takeaway shops. In a stretch of no more than 200 metres there is a Subway, Pizza Hut, Dominos, 2 other lesser known pizza shops, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, a chip shop, some KFC rip-off, and I'm pretty sure there's a Greggs too. It is a North East rule that if you turn your head and can't see a Greggs in every direction, you're not in the North East of England.
Why not blame video games and mobile phones while were rolling. I never see kids playing out in the street anymore. Part of me is glad because I'm now a sour-faced grown-up, but a small part of me disappointed. Why bother going out when you can just text a friend, or speak to them over Xbox Live. It'll get to a point where we can't read human emotion on each others faces, unless we tattoo a winking smiley face to our foreheads. My summers were spent running around like a bell-end with my mates, and I would be climbing trees and trying to finger lasses til I had to be dragged to bed. Every kid should experience it.
I might seem quite scathing about people who care for children. I'm not ever sure I will be part of your group. But as an outsider it seems blatantly obvious that you are the only people who can make a difference. There will come a point where they will stop "growing into" themselves and just become another obese adult. Eventually we will be over-populated my large humans that are collectively heavier than the Sun, and our country will sink. People will lament in future years of how the British Isles simply disappeared under the ocean, leaving nothing but a slew of wet and empty Big Mac cartons.
Do you really want that?
It is a serious problem. Kids are fat. Not just fat, unhumanly fucking obese. So obese they should have another word created just to describe their massive form. Jabbarific! However the only Hut these poor uneducated fat bastards are aware of is "Pizza".
I would like to point out at this time I am fully aware that the Hutt race from Star Wars ends with double T. I simply dropped the T in a previous sentence for humour purposes.
Where does the blame lie? America, that's where. The good old US of States. The Land of the Free, and Fucking Huge. We follow them everywhere. Their trends. Their ungodly excuse for RnB music. Home to the most famous and powerful people in the World. We once even followed them to War. Can you believe that? It used to be a running joke. The Americans would mock our horrible teeth and over-drinking of tea. In turn we could always respond with "So what, fat twat". Not anymore.
It's easy to blame other people. Forget something in the shopping? Well it's your partner's fault for not putting it on the list. Relationship breakdown? Well it's her fault she slept with the neighbour's lawnmower. Kids getting fat? Yeah, well they don't put health warnings on a lot of fast food. Excuses. Lets be clear.
It is your fault. If you have a fat child no-one else is to blame but you. You have no self control, especially when it comes to your children. Kids want a bag of crisps or some chocolate from the cupboard? "They would only throw a tantrum if I didn't let them". Kids want a machine gun? "Well they have to defend themselves from paedophiles". Kids want a McDonalds? "A Happy Meal isn't going to hurt them". One Happy Meal will not hurt them at all. 5 a week, you start to see a big difference when all of a sudden they are fitting into your trousers. Then the only people that are happy is the Devil that pops up on your left shoulder, laughing at your inept parenting skills. The same Devil that slept with your wife and killed your cat, the bastard. The other person laughing, maniacally might I add, is that fucking clown. So addictive is McDonalds that we will gladly take in images of an evil looking beast donned in red and yellow, while chuffing a McFatto Speciale down our wedgepipes.
It's just a sign of sheer laziness. I see the hordes slowly dragging their feet towards the local chip shop. Instead of having a nice sandwich made for them they are fighting to the front of the queue for a Kebab Butty covered in curry sauce. If you're a parent who can't be arsed to get yourself out of your pyjama bottoms, you're certainly not going to help your child's healthy lifestyle.
The takeaway culture we live in doesn't help mind. Pallion front street used to be a community of local grocers, bakers, fine shops occupied by fine people. It's now like a ghost town. A ghost town inhabited by fat people and takeaway shops. In a stretch of no more than 200 metres there is a Subway, Pizza Hut, Dominos, 2 other lesser known pizza shops, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, a chip shop, some KFC rip-off, and I'm pretty sure there's a Greggs too. It is a North East rule that if you turn your head and can't see a Greggs in every direction, you're not in the North East of England.
Why not blame video games and mobile phones while were rolling. I never see kids playing out in the street anymore. Part of me is glad because I'm now a sour-faced grown-up, but a small part of me disappointed. Why bother going out when you can just text a friend, or speak to them over Xbox Live. It'll get to a point where we can't read human emotion on each others faces, unless we tattoo a winking smiley face to our foreheads. My summers were spent running around like a bell-end with my mates, and I would be climbing trees and trying to finger lasses til I had to be dragged to bed. Every kid should experience it.
I might seem quite scathing about people who care for children. I'm not ever sure I will be part of your group. But as an outsider it seems blatantly obvious that you are the only people who can make a difference. There will come a point where they will stop "growing into" themselves and just become another obese adult. Eventually we will be over-populated my large humans that are collectively heavier than the Sun, and our country will sink. People will lament in future years of how the British Isles simply disappeared under the ocean, leaving nothing but a slew of wet and empty Big Mac cartons.
Do you really want that?
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
A Valentines Day Post-Mortem
So how was it for you then? Everything you hoped and dreamed it would be? Disappointing like the last day of term at school and you were the only person who didn't have his shirt signed by the feckless mob? Or was it just another Tuesday?
The whole notion of Valentines Day is wrong, whether you're single or otherwise. When you were a kid at school it was a popularity contest, the better looking kids fighting it out over who got the most cards, usually from girls younger than yourself as all the girls your own age bestowed their teenage adulation on idiots much older just because they smoked tabs at lunchtime. The other kids were left to fester over another reason to hate those more popular. I was popular at school and I enjoyed it at the time, but I fucking despise it now. Maybe looking back is a story best saved for another time.
The point is it should've been left in the past, left to innocent minds, before we became grown ups and gained responsibilities we never really wanted.
It's a myth that single people hate Valentines Day, although they have every right to. I've had good experiences, and experiences so dull I can't even remember them both as a single person and in a loving relationship. Regardless, I've always been of the same opinion:
It doesn't mean a fucking thing.
It's one day out of your life, one day every year when people are forced into buying something unnecessary at an unreasonable cost just because somebody decided people weren't spending enough between Christmas and Easter. Everywhere you look from Boxing Day, advertisers will be putting out subtle hints that Feb 14th isn't far away. Then nearer to the time you are bombarded with an onslaught of red, like someone had gone on a stabbing spree in the middle of Clintons leaving nothing but shit poetry behind. Cards, for fucks sake. Cards the size of actual people! Cards that are bigger than some people's housing. Cards that could swallow a person whole and act as some sort of novelty fucking coffin. Teddy Bears that look so real they are only one short leap from creating their own army and taking over civilisation. If that happens it would be your fault for buying this bobbins in the first place. If you've ever bought an over-sized bear take yourself outside and give yourself a good shake. Shake yourself off the nearest fucking bridge.
People in relationships are poor bastards. They are the slaves to a pointless tradition. How many actually want to take part? How many are screaming for someone to humanise Valentines Day just so they can work out where to point the gun? There's great pressure to perform here, anxiety builds that should really be reserved for a birthday, or going to the toilet in a public lavatory. These soppy shitsacks are in trouble, throwing money at love. At least with a hooker you're guaranteed a legover. Spending money like it grows on the underside of a cow. It doesn't, I looked. Just udders, and if you're really unlucky big swinging bollocks.
Single people have a different kind of pressure. Another reason to hate everyone else. A day which magnifies your thoughts about how you're still single, and, if you're really unlucky, WHY you're still single. Those thoughts will hurt you more than you're first girlfriend. You remember her? She told you she was going to University when really she was just popping round your mates because he had a car and a bigger willy? Aye, that's the one. Even that is bearable to a degree, in comparison to the looks and smug sympathy people in relationships give you. "Never mind, maybe next year you'll be with someone". Agreed, and maybe next year Black Death will make a timely re-appearance and wipe out your entire family. Hope springs eternal.
The whole point of this is to explain that you don't need a day to show someone you love them. Do you really believe that? Do you? Buy your loved one some flowers, or a novelty vibrator, next week. Even the week after. You can kiss them everyday, tell them you are in love, and with great effort and concentration raise an erection and penetrate them. In case you hadn't realised there are 364 other days in the year, and unless you are on your game for every single one of them you will be joining me for Valentines Day in the single party.
We'll be celebrating another Valentines Day avoided like there's no 15th of February, but that's not the point.
The whole notion of Valentines Day is wrong, whether you're single or otherwise. When you were a kid at school it was a popularity contest, the better looking kids fighting it out over who got the most cards, usually from girls younger than yourself as all the girls your own age bestowed their teenage adulation on idiots much older just because they smoked tabs at lunchtime. The other kids were left to fester over another reason to hate those more popular. I was popular at school and I enjoyed it at the time, but I fucking despise it now. Maybe looking back is a story best saved for another time.
The point is it should've been left in the past, left to innocent minds, before we became grown ups and gained responsibilities we never really wanted.
It's a myth that single people hate Valentines Day, although they have every right to. I've had good experiences, and experiences so dull I can't even remember them both as a single person and in a loving relationship. Regardless, I've always been of the same opinion:
It doesn't mean a fucking thing.
It's one day out of your life, one day every year when people are forced into buying something unnecessary at an unreasonable cost just because somebody decided people weren't spending enough between Christmas and Easter. Everywhere you look from Boxing Day, advertisers will be putting out subtle hints that Feb 14th isn't far away. Then nearer to the time you are bombarded with an onslaught of red, like someone had gone on a stabbing spree in the middle of Clintons leaving nothing but shit poetry behind. Cards, for fucks sake. Cards the size of actual people! Cards that are bigger than some people's housing. Cards that could swallow a person whole and act as some sort of novelty fucking coffin. Teddy Bears that look so real they are only one short leap from creating their own army and taking over civilisation. If that happens it would be your fault for buying this bobbins in the first place. If you've ever bought an over-sized bear take yourself outside and give yourself a good shake. Shake yourself off the nearest fucking bridge.
People in relationships are poor bastards. They are the slaves to a pointless tradition. How many actually want to take part? How many are screaming for someone to humanise Valentines Day just so they can work out where to point the gun? There's great pressure to perform here, anxiety builds that should really be reserved for a birthday, or going to the toilet in a public lavatory. These soppy shitsacks are in trouble, throwing money at love. At least with a hooker you're guaranteed a legover. Spending money like it grows on the underside of a cow. It doesn't, I looked. Just udders, and if you're really unlucky big swinging bollocks.
Single people have a different kind of pressure. Another reason to hate everyone else. A day which magnifies your thoughts about how you're still single, and, if you're really unlucky, WHY you're still single. Those thoughts will hurt you more than you're first girlfriend. You remember her? She told you she was going to University when really she was just popping round your mates because he had a car and a bigger willy? Aye, that's the one. Even that is bearable to a degree, in comparison to the looks and smug sympathy people in relationships give you. "Never mind, maybe next year you'll be with someone". Agreed, and maybe next year Black Death will make a timely re-appearance and wipe out your entire family. Hope springs eternal.
The whole point of this is to explain that you don't need a day to show someone you love them. Do you really believe that? Do you? Buy your loved one some flowers, or a novelty vibrator, next week. Even the week after. You can kiss them everyday, tell them you are in love, and with great effort and concentration raise an erection and penetrate them. In case you hadn't realised there are 364 other days in the year, and unless you are on your game for every single one of them you will be joining me for Valentines Day in the single party.
We'll be celebrating another Valentines Day avoided like there's no 15th of February, but that's not the point.
Friday, 10 February 2012
Show Me One (Mad) Man
Mad Men is staggeringly good television. I'm sure lots of people have written about how it looks, the style, character development, story etc. The aspects of the programme I've mentioned make it look beautiful, and sound cooler than Dick Whitman's army career. You see what I did there? I took the word "cool" and used 2 of it's meanings in one sentence. Clever bastard.
This is not the main reason I love it so.
TV and Gaming. For me it is all about escaping. I am an unstoppable soldier fighting hordes of aliens one minute, the next I am a superhero taking to the skies. Mad Men is the same, but not at all similar. It's a different kind of escaping. I'm not just dreaming of flying away from a financially crippled life with no direction. I'm actually living someone else's life, its just there for the taking. Its as easy as taking a Stanley Knife from a baby.
Why escape there? I mentioned above how this place looks, its like everyone is so good looking they come with a coating of gloss. The big city shines, and the suburbs glow colourfully.
The men are hurtingly handsome, immaculately dressed in suits and ties that scream "look at how fucking good I look". They are the boss of every situation they come across. Or at least act like it. They drink scotch during the day and smoke wherever they want. The smoking I can deal with, but I may look a little out of place with my 2 litre bottle of Strongbow hanging out of my gob. So fuck, it was created by someone else but in my imagination it belongs to me. The amount of responsibility these gentlemen have is only matched by their lack of responsibility towards it. Why? Because it can be handled in whichever way they want it to be. That is a man, right there.
The women are sublime. I could've said "beautiful, sexy, gorgeous" and I woul've been correct, but sublime describes accurately how they are. Not just their looks, but an all-round persona. The show gives us an idea of how complex they were, in a time when they were perceived as dinner-serving bimboids, a simple clone of one another. But they weren't. They were an emerging force, using their intelligence, as well as their bodies to bend men to their will. They are both submissive and over-powering. Intelligent at playing the game. The men may have created the rules, but the women own your ability to play it.
That said, there is something about a woman that you can bend yourself. While I'm for equal opportunities in the workplace, it would be nice to know that after a hard day at the office you were returning home to food, a beer, and love. All of which prepared by the most sublime woman you ever set eyes on.
Think for a second about a simpler time. Have you ever left your phone in the house when going out for a night? We are a people so obsessed with our phones that it is seemingly the end of civilisation if we are without our mobile robot arm extensions. Sounds a bit silly really. So what if you lived in a time before mobile phones, before internet and search engines, before CCTV. No texts from drunken friends waking you up at 3am. No electronic letters advising you that the only way a woman you want will love you is if you take a pill that will grow your cock to the size of a tree. Definitely no incriminating evidence of you fucking that trampy bird outside a nightclub in Sunderland. None of it was necessary, and it sounds like fucking bliss.
Imagine your whole day, stroll into work at 10am, greeted by a wonderful secretary, fix a drink and talk with friends, have a couple of meetings that more resemble a jolly boys outing, finish early, see the mistress, go home to a gorgeous wife with dinner ready. You tell me one guy that doesn't want that and I'll show you a lying sack of crap.
This is not the main reason I love it so.
TV and Gaming. For me it is all about escaping. I am an unstoppable soldier fighting hordes of aliens one minute, the next I am a superhero taking to the skies. Mad Men is the same, but not at all similar. It's a different kind of escaping. I'm not just dreaming of flying away from a financially crippled life with no direction. I'm actually living someone else's life, its just there for the taking. Its as easy as taking a Stanley Knife from a baby.
Why escape there? I mentioned above how this place looks, its like everyone is so good looking they come with a coating of gloss. The big city shines, and the suburbs glow colourfully.
The men are hurtingly handsome, immaculately dressed in suits and ties that scream "look at how fucking good I look". They are the boss of every situation they come across. Or at least act like it. They drink scotch during the day and smoke wherever they want. The smoking I can deal with, but I may look a little out of place with my 2 litre bottle of Strongbow hanging out of my gob. So fuck, it was created by someone else but in my imagination it belongs to me. The amount of responsibility these gentlemen have is only matched by their lack of responsibility towards it. Why? Because it can be handled in whichever way they want it to be. That is a man, right there.
The women are sublime. I could've said "beautiful, sexy, gorgeous" and I woul've been correct, but sublime describes accurately how they are. Not just their looks, but an all-round persona. The show gives us an idea of how complex they were, in a time when they were perceived as dinner-serving bimboids, a simple clone of one another. But they weren't. They were an emerging force, using their intelligence, as well as their bodies to bend men to their will. They are both submissive and over-powering. Intelligent at playing the game. The men may have created the rules, but the women own your ability to play it.
That said, there is something about a woman that you can bend yourself. While I'm for equal opportunities in the workplace, it would be nice to know that after a hard day at the office you were returning home to food, a beer, and love. All of which prepared by the most sublime woman you ever set eyes on.
Think for a second about a simpler time. Have you ever left your phone in the house when going out for a night? We are a people so obsessed with our phones that it is seemingly the end of civilisation if we are without our mobile robot arm extensions. Sounds a bit silly really. So what if you lived in a time before mobile phones, before internet and search engines, before CCTV. No texts from drunken friends waking you up at 3am. No electronic letters advising you that the only way a woman you want will love you is if you take a pill that will grow your cock to the size of a tree. Definitely no incriminating evidence of you fucking that trampy bird outside a nightclub in Sunderland. None of it was necessary, and it sounds like fucking bliss.
Imagine your whole day, stroll into work at 10am, greeted by a wonderful secretary, fix a drink and talk with friends, have a couple of meetings that more resemble a jolly boys outing, finish early, see the mistress, go home to a gorgeous wife with dinner ready. You tell me one guy that doesn't want that and I'll show you a lying sack of crap.
Why Facebook is Fucking Shit! Pt.2
The second part. That's how shit Facebook really is. A moderately educated mong can write 2 separate pieces on why it's the worst place on Earth. Fred West's back garden? Facebook is worse. The Dead Marshes of Middle-Earth? A delightful place in comparison to Facebook. That part of your brain which visualizes your partner cheating on you with a friend, a recurring thought that you can't even dispose of with a mind-screwdriver? Much rather be spending my time there than on "Facey".
I am not above my own comments, I am not above my own ridicule. I can never over-state this point enough. In fact, by writing this off-the-cuff guff I am just highlighting my own shortcomings. Facebook is addictive. Barely 30 minutes goes by when I don't refresh my timeline, comment on someone's status, or post some pithy nonsense littered with swearwords because, you know, I'm fucking mint and that. Let me remind you, "The idiots are everywhere...and I'm the worst one". Facebook is indeed addictive, but so is crack. How long before our thoughts are "Well, updated the shit out of that status. Time to hit the pipe".
Check Ins
Beautiful. If you check in from a made up place. Like the time I "checked in" at "Yer Ma's Knicker Basket". It doesn't exist, and if it does I've never been there. I know for certain it's not on the street in Sunderland where I placed it's location. Reading that Billy Pissface checked in at Nando's is not beautiful. It's dull. More dull than people who quote Frankie Boyle, daft cunts. Create somewhere, somewhere that doesn't exist anywhere but your own imagination, and check in. It'll be fun, I promise.
There's also something sinister about knowing where people are all the time. In 5 years time TV will be non-existent. We shall simply be following each other around, chasing to points where people check in and watching them eat chicken. You see, we all lost our jobs because we became obsessed with where people were all of the time, and now chicken is unattainable. We watch you eat chicken. And you like it.
Work Friends
Continuing with another version of sinister spying. People have lost jobs because of Facebook. Not just the stupid bastards who decided to complain about how shit their job is, while knowing their boss can see it. They deserve it, kind of. Your future employers have people trained to look at your social media output to see if you are a suitable candidate for a given position. All them photos of you downing shots of Jager, vomiting on a priest's shoes, eating a live deer? Yep, that's why you didn't get that promotion. Would it have happened before Facebook? Of course not. You could've wiped that deer blood from the side of your mouth seconds before a job interview and nobody would be any wiser. Except for the receptionist who had to remove a deer carcass from the lobby. She wouldn't say anything though, you could just eat her when successfully in your new post.
Notifications After "Liking" or Posting a Comment
You have 15 new notifications! My Christ! At long last popularity has been charitable in my favour! No, wait, 15 schleps have commented on a status I commented on earlier. Someone posts a semi-interesting or amusing status update, you comment or "like" it. In a matter of minutes a colossal barrage of idiots will appear on your newsfeed. Your comment could've been a work of brilliance, but now you have to weather the pain of other peoples mind-crushingly poor attempts at humour, intelligence, spelling and grammar. And for fucks sake do not leave a comment on a good-looking girl's status because every meat-head, computer-perv, and friend-zoned effort will be hitting your notification bar like it's going out of fashion. Oh for the love of Sauron and all his minions, please let it go out of fashion.
"Friends"
Lets be friends. Be honest, how many people have you contacted recently on your Facebook friends list? I bet less than 10. I'm never wrong. Ever avoided someone in a supermarket, or a bookshop, or an abattoir and then realised they are actually your "friend" on Facebook? I have people on my friends list, no fucking clue of how they got there. Did they sneak on while I was sleeping, or distracted by a large pie? The only legitimate reasons for adding someone on Facebook are:
1. You know them, you have a quality rapport and wish to explore this further.
2. You really want to have sex with them.
Yet we add everyone. Someone we met at a party once that said hello? You have 1 new friend request. Someone from school you never spoke to, had nothing in common with, and have even less in common with now? You have 1 new friend request. The person you stumbled into as you both watched a couple frantically going at it in an open dogging session? Friend request declined.
90% of people on Facebook are not your friends. They aren't even people. It's just a list of names, mis-represented by profile pictures that make them look more attractive/interesting/fun than what they actually are, collected like Top Trumps.
Anthony Burdis
Profile Pic - 8 (a clearly false 8, does not look anything like that)
Personality - 7 (grossly exaggerated to make himself seem interesting)
Cock Size - 0 (accurate)
Oh the amount of times I've been beaten in Facebook Top Trumps because of "Cock Size".
That said there's around 10% of your friend list that does not fall into this category. They are the real people that matter. The people you will share private messages with. The ones who know that your profile picture is a work of fiction. The ones who you see everyday, and the ones you wish you could see more frequently.
It's comforting to know that Facebook is good for something.
I am not above my own comments, I am not above my own ridicule. I can never over-state this point enough. In fact, by writing this off-the-cuff guff I am just highlighting my own shortcomings. Facebook is addictive. Barely 30 minutes goes by when I don't refresh my timeline, comment on someone's status, or post some pithy nonsense littered with swearwords because, you know, I'm fucking mint and that. Let me remind you, "The idiots are everywhere...and I'm the worst one". Facebook is indeed addictive, but so is crack. How long before our thoughts are "Well, updated the shit out of that status. Time to hit the pipe".
Check Ins
Beautiful. If you check in from a made up place. Like the time I "checked in" at "Yer Ma's Knicker Basket". It doesn't exist, and if it does I've never been there. I know for certain it's not on the street in Sunderland where I placed it's location. Reading that Billy Pissface checked in at Nando's is not beautiful. It's dull. More dull than people who quote Frankie Boyle, daft cunts. Create somewhere, somewhere that doesn't exist anywhere but your own imagination, and check in. It'll be fun, I promise.
There's also something sinister about knowing where people are all the time. In 5 years time TV will be non-existent. We shall simply be following each other around, chasing to points where people check in and watching them eat chicken. You see, we all lost our jobs because we became obsessed with where people were all of the time, and now chicken is unattainable. We watch you eat chicken. And you like it.
Work Friends
Continuing with another version of sinister spying. People have lost jobs because of Facebook. Not just the stupid bastards who decided to complain about how shit their job is, while knowing their boss can see it. They deserve it, kind of. Your future employers have people trained to look at your social media output to see if you are a suitable candidate for a given position. All them photos of you downing shots of Jager, vomiting on a priest's shoes, eating a live deer? Yep, that's why you didn't get that promotion. Would it have happened before Facebook? Of course not. You could've wiped that deer blood from the side of your mouth seconds before a job interview and nobody would be any wiser. Except for the receptionist who had to remove a deer carcass from the lobby. She wouldn't say anything though, you could just eat her when successfully in your new post.
Notifications After "Liking" or Posting a Comment
You have 15 new notifications! My Christ! At long last popularity has been charitable in my favour! No, wait, 15 schleps have commented on a status I commented on earlier. Someone posts a semi-interesting or amusing status update, you comment or "like" it. In a matter of minutes a colossal barrage of idiots will appear on your newsfeed. Your comment could've been a work of brilliance, but now you have to weather the pain of other peoples mind-crushingly poor attempts at humour, intelligence, spelling and grammar. And for fucks sake do not leave a comment on a good-looking girl's status because every meat-head, computer-perv, and friend-zoned effort will be hitting your notification bar like it's going out of fashion. Oh for the love of Sauron and all his minions, please let it go out of fashion.
"Friends"
Lets be friends. Be honest, how many people have you contacted recently on your Facebook friends list? I bet less than 10. I'm never wrong. Ever avoided someone in a supermarket, or a bookshop, or an abattoir and then realised they are actually your "friend" on Facebook? I have people on my friends list, no fucking clue of how they got there. Did they sneak on while I was sleeping, or distracted by a large pie? The only legitimate reasons for adding someone on Facebook are:
1. You know them, you have a quality rapport and wish to explore this further.
2. You really want to have sex with them.
Yet we add everyone. Someone we met at a party once that said hello? You have 1 new friend request. Someone from school you never spoke to, had nothing in common with, and have even less in common with now? You have 1 new friend request. The person you stumbled into as you both watched a couple frantically going at it in an open dogging session? Friend request declined.
90% of people on Facebook are not your friends. They aren't even people. It's just a list of names, mis-represented by profile pictures that make them look more attractive/interesting/fun than what they actually are, collected like Top Trumps.
Anthony Burdis
Profile Pic - 8 (a clearly false 8, does not look anything like that)
Personality - 7 (grossly exaggerated to make himself seem interesting)
Cock Size - 0 (accurate)
Oh the amount of times I've been beaten in Facebook Top Trumps because of "Cock Size".
That said there's around 10% of your friend list that does not fall into this category. They are the real people that matter. The people you will share private messages with. The ones who know that your profile picture is a work of fiction. The ones who you see everyday, and the ones you wish you could see more frequently.
It's comforting to know that Facebook is good for something.
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