Cunt and Clunt.
I was telling my mother the other week about the difference between the word Cunt and the word Clunt. She doesn't like to swear, or hear me swear so I was telling her that if you are so inclined, you can call someone a Clunt and not feel bad. You're not actually calling them a cunt, but you are really. A guilt free swearing theory.
I met up with her yesterday and was thrilled to hear her comment to me about some inconsequential person. She called him a Clock. Haha.
I had to explain to her that while i enjoyed her innovation, it didn't quite fit into the guilt free swearing theory.
Ah, bless her, she is 63.
Saturday 6 October 2007
Thursday 4 October 2007
Never Tell The Truth
I was talking to my best friend in Australia today and he was telling me another humorous story about his love life. I really can't be bothered to go into details. The bit that made me laugh out loud until tears were flowing freely, was when he told me how he stopped himself from cumming too quickly whilst shagging some new bird he had pulled.
He basically made a pizza in his head from scratch. Made the dough, rolled it out, added the sauce, cheese and other toppings. Put it in the oven at 225 for 20 minutes (he actually envisaged waiting the 20 minutes) and viola, he came like a charging elephant. Very funny stuff. The thing is I got carried away when I told him my version. This only happened once by the way.
Don't judge me.
When I was in school, there was a heavily autistic kid in my class. His name was next to mine on the register so my form tutor made me look after him for the first year of school. It was a very big school, about 2000 pupils. Subsequently it was pretty easy to get lost. Brilliant way to have to start your school year.
Anyway, this kid had a kind of Tourettes thing going on too. He was a big lad and would stop walking for no reason and shout swear words at the top of his voice. All of this was done whilst dribbling. It is pretty hard to attract female attention when you have a hulking swear machine dribbling onto you. I didn't like this kid very much. Not his fault I know, but I was 12 years old, what do you expect?
Back to what I was saying originally. I was swapping stories with my drunk friend in Australia. I told him that one time I pulled this absolutely gorgeous girl. I was punching well above my weight here and I knew it. We went out one night and after many drinks, me and this amazing girl go back to mine. She had made it abundantly clear that my luck was in that night and so the pressure was on so to speak. One thing leads to another and we start having sex. I knew I wasn't going to last long at all and needed to stop myself from cumming too quickly. I racked my brain for the most disgusting image it held and the thing that popped up was this autistic kid from school. I hadn't thought of this guy for maybe 6 or 7 years and he chooses now to pop into my head.
To clarify, I was shagging the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. For the first time. And here I was thinking about a 12 year old spastic shouting the word "CUNT" at the top of his voice whilst dribbling. Well, it certainly had the desired effect. Only thing was it happened too well and my erection rapidly lost all interest in this Amazon beneath me. I swear I tried so hard to not think of this kid. You try it now. It is impossible. Once that image is there, it is GOING NOWHERE.
Needless to say she wasn't too impressed with me. I did try to explain to her what had happened in the hope that she would think it was sweet that I needed to stop myself. Thinking of her. She asked me what I had thought of and like a fucking idiot I told her, hoping she would find it funny. She didn't, and neither did I as I watched her get dressed and get the fuck out of my house.
My brilliant life.
He basically made a pizza in his head from scratch. Made the dough, rolled it out, added the sauce, cheese and other toppings. Put it in the oven at 225 for 20 minutes (he actually envisaged waiting the 20 minutes) and viola, he came like a charging elephant. Very funny stuff. The thing is I got carried away when I told him my version. This only happened once by the way.
Don't judge me.
When I was in school, there was a heavily autistic kid in my class. His name was next to mine on the register so my form tutor made me look after him for the first year of school. It was a very big school, about 2000 pupils. Subsequently it was pretty easy to get lost. Brilliant way to have to start your school year.
Anyway, this kid had a kind of Tourettes thing going on too. He was a big lad and would stop walking for no reason and shout swear words at the top of his voice. All of this was done whilst dribbling. It is pretty hard to attract female attention when you have a hulking swear machine dribbling onto you. I didn't like this kid very much. Not his fault I know, but I was 12 years old, what do you expect?
Back to what I was saying originally. I was swapping stories with my drunk friend in Australia. I told him that one time I pulled this absolutely gorgeous girl. I was punching well above my weight here and I knew it. We went out one night and after many drinks, me and this amazing girl go back to mine. She had made it abundantly clear that my luck was in that night and so the pressure was on so to speak. One thing leads to another and we start having sex. I knew I wasn't going to last long at all and needed to stop myself from cumming too quickly. I racked my brain for the most disgusting image it held and the thing that popped up was this autistic kid from school. I hadn't thought of this guy for maybe 6 or 7 years and he chooses now to pop into my head.
To clarify, I was shagging the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. For the first time. And here I was thinking about a 12 year old spastic shouting the word "CUNT" at the top of his voice whilst dribbling. Well, it certainly had the desired effect. Only thing was it happened too well and my erection rapidly lost all interest in this Amazon beneath me. I swear I tried so hard to not think of this kid. You try it now. It is impossible. Once that image is there, it is GOING NOWHERE.
Needless to say she wasn't too impressed with me. I did try to explain to her what had happened in the hope that she would think it was sweet that I needed to stop myself. Thinking of her. She asked me what I had thought of and like a fucking idiot I told her, hoping she would find it funny. She didn't, and neither did I as I watched her get dressed and get the fuck out of my house.
My brilliant life.
Vindictive Wasps Are Funny
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Tuesday 21 August 2007
More Nonsense
A friend of mine left work this week. She was off to pastures greener and in recognition of this fact we all went out for a few drinks on Thursday night. After a few drinks, and then a few more drinks, the pub we were in shut and we decided to move onto a club to have even more drinks. Got to the club (an immensely wanky joint infested with media (read cunty) types) and ventured downstairs to the main room where I could hear dirty beats emanating from the other side of the door. I opened the door and then it hit me. A wall of body odour assaulted my sinuses with such distinction that I forgot to sneer at the ultra trendily dressed clubbers, who were all too concerned with the way they looked as they danced along with the music.
On July 1st smoking was banned from all public places in England. I am a heavy smoker of many types of dried leaves and have been for many years now. I awaited the total ban on smoking with trepidation. Smoking is quite a central part of my nights entertainment and I knew that this ban would effect the way I liked to do things. Having said that I quite enjoyed the smokeless atmosphere and going outside for a cigarette wasn't so bad, quite an ice breaker in fact. No problem.
Thursday night was the first time I had actually gone to a club since the ban and I honestly could not believe the hideous stench in this place. This was a clean and tidy club as well, not some dirty little heaving sweatbox. It was an immense smell of locker rooms with a gentle hint of vomit. On top of this I was expected to buy myself a drink that would cost me around £8 a pop. May as well have been a toilet. No thanks.
Oh, it is all rather neat isn't it, no smoking no passive smoking. No passive smoking less cancers. High ranking dignitaries are sitting in padded leather chairs smiling smugly to themselves with the thought that they have indeed struck a hammer blow for the people. Oh how clever they are, wiping another stain from humanities battle scarred body. Guess what, i'd rather have cancer.
Everything in life is becoming sanitised, wiped surgically clean almost. The only problem with this is that it is often the rough edges in life that present the most entertainment. The darker corners of a room you have to explore, the mysterious half smile of a stranger that makes you want more. We are drawn to the unknown. If you throw a huge light over everything you will soon see it for what it really is. Yet another every day experience you have had a million times before.
This is a fucking virus.
Antibacterial soaps weren't around when I was a kid. I was one of the last generations that had the benefit of being able to culture antibodies within myself, and they now wonder why children are so sickly. What fucking chance have they had when their entire existence has been in a completely bacteria free bubble.
I want to make these fucking choices for myself. Fine, if non smokers want a place to hang out, ban smoking in those places. I want the fucking choice to fuck my own body up if I want. If I want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs, what the fuck does it have to do with you? Telling someone what not to do is just as prohibitive as telling someone what to do.
I reserve the right to do as I please with myself.
If there was a God he would be inflicting particularly aggressive cancers on all those seeking to inhibit our movements and choices right now.
Fuck you. My choice.
On July 1st smoking was banned from all public places in England. I am a heavy smoker of many types of dried leaves and have been for many years now. I awaited the total ban on smoking with trepidation. Smoking is quite a central part of my nights entertainment and I knew that this ban would effect the way I liked to do things. Having said that I quite enjoyed the smokeless atmosphere and going outside for a cigarette wasn't so bad, quite an ice breaker in fact. No problem.
Thursday night was the first time I had actually gone to a club since the ban and I honestly could not believe the hideous stench in this place. This was a clean and tidy club as well, not some dirty little heaving sweatbox. It was an immense smell of locker rooms with a gentle hint of vomit. On top of this I was expected to buy myself a drink that would cost me around £8 a pop. May as well have been a toilet. No thanks.
Oh, it is all rather neat isn't it, no smoking no passive smoking. No passive smoking less cancers. High ranking dignitaries are sitting in padded leather chairs smiling smugly to themselves with the thought that they have indeed struck a hammer blow for the people. Oh how clever they are, wiping another stain from humanities battle scarred body. Guess what, i'd rather have cancer.
Everything in life is becoming sanitised, wiped surgically clean almost. The only problem with this is that it is often the rough edges in life that present the most entertainment. The darker corners of a room you have to explore, the mysterious half smile of a stranger that makes you want more. We are drawn to the unknown. If you throw a huge light over everything you will soon see it for what it really is. Yet another every day experience you have had a million times before.
This is a fucking virus.
Antibacterial soaps weren't around when I was a kid. I was one of the last generations that had the benefit of being able to culture antibodies within myself, and they now wonder why children are so sickly. What fucking chance have they had when their entire existence has been in a completely bacteria free bubble.
I want to make these fucking choices for myself. Fine, if non smokers want a place to hang out, ban smoking in those places. I want the fucking choice to fuck my own body up if I want. If I want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs, what the fuck does it have to do with you? Telling someone what not to do is just as prohibitive as telling someone what to do.
I reserve the right to do as I please with myself.
If there was a God he would be inflicting particularly aggressive cancers on all those seeking to inhibit our movements and choices right now.
Fuck you. My choice.
Sunday 15 July 2007
Attacked by a Buzzy Thing
I was out and about today meeting with some friends, having a few beers and enjoying myself. It was a beautiful early evening and I was heading home, walking lazily in the sun, listening to my MP3 player.
Then it all went a bit Matrix.
First thing I remember was seeing a buzzing something approaching my mouth which happened to be open at the time. Next thing I know the buzzing something had scored a direct hit and had traversed the pitfalls of my teeth and tongue to smash, exocet like, into the back of my throat. Well, in kicked the gag reflex and I bent over whilst spluttering explosively and realising for the first time that this was a big buzzing something and not just a mosquito. I could feel it scrabbling back there which in turn made me cough harder and harder until two things happened simultaneously. I had coughed so hard that my perineum ached, like I had just been kicked in the nuts and twisted at the last minute. My hands cupped my nuts with an automatic precision that my subconscious calmly complimented me on. Secondly I ran out of breath and it made me drop onto my knees, coughing like a plague sufferer.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the titanic struggle between throat and big buzzing thing was won as one of these chunky fuckers...
...spat out onto the floor, dead, as I slowly regained my breath. It was then I realised that an old lady was standing next to me looking concerned.
We have a fucking plague of these flying ants here right now. I know it won't last long, maybe a couple of days, but they are such indiscriminate little wankers and they aren't expert aviators. A pesky combination.
Then it all went a bit Matrix.
First thing I remember was seeing a buzzing something approaching my mouth which happened to be open at the time. Next thing I know the buzzing something had scored a direct hit and had traversed the pitfalls of my teeth and tongue to smash, exocet like, into the back of my throat. Well, in kicked the gag reflex and I bent over whilst spluttering explosively and realising for the first time that this was a big buzzing something and not just a mosquito. I could feel it scrabbling back there which in turn made me cough harder and harder until two things happened simultaneously. I had coughed so hard that my perineum ached, like I had just been kicked in the nuts and twisted at the last minute. My hands cupped my nuts with an automatic precision that my subconscious calmly complimented me on. Secondly I ran out of breath and it made me drop onto my knees, coughing like a plague sufferer.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the titanic struggle between throat and big buzzing thing was won as one of these chunky fuckers...
...spat out onto the floor, dead, as I slowly regained my breath. It was then I realised that an old lady was standing next to me looking concerned.
We have a fucking plague of these flying ants here right now. I know it won't last long, maybe a couple of days, but they are such indiscriminate little wankers and they aren't expert aviators. A pesky combination.
Saturday 14 July 2007
This week.
I'm in serious mental debate mode right now. It has been building all week and it seems to have come to a head today.
If I had to sum up this week in a word it would be: Shit. Nothing too heavy, no particular event has brought me here but...Ah well. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Sometimes I go on about it a bit too much but I hate my job. I hate the industry, I hate my colleagues. Even the ones I do get on with don't really mean too much to me. If I got a half decent and interesting offer from somewhere or something else I would grab it with both hands and wouldn't give a backwards glance as I walked away.
So when I get a phonecall from my best friend over in Australia telling me how much fun he is having and telling me I should get myself over there, well, it's gonna make you think more than twice about it.
I honestly don't know why I am just thinking about it and not actually packing up my shit, ignoring my loose ends and hitting Oz hard.
If I had to sum up this week in a word it would be: Shit. Nothing too heavy, no particular event has brought me here but...Ah well. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Sometimes I go on about it a bit too much but I hate my job. I hate the industry, I hate my colleagues. Even the ones I do get on with don't really mean too much to me. If I got a half decent and interesting offer from somewhere or something else I would grab it with both hands and wouldn't give a backwards glance as I walked away.
So when I get a phonecall from my best friend over in Australia telling me how much fun he is having and telling me I should get myself over there, well, it's gonna make you think more than twice about it.
I honestly don't know why I am just thinking about it and not actually packing up my shit, ignoring my loose ends and hitting Oz hard.
Proper jobs
I had the day off work today, I had a big night out last night and thought it prudent to book the next day off. You know how it is, one beer leads to two, leads to 6, leads to a club, leads to swimming in the Thames fully clothed trying to club seals with my shoes whilst attempting a rather inelegant backstroke. Anyway, I digress.
Midday found me pottering in my local high street doing necessary and boring things. I went to the cobbler because I needed to re sole my shoes. I dropped them off and then hit the supermarket for a few essentials. As much as I do not enjoy these tasks, it is far more pleasant to do these kind of things during the week, not too many people about and I can almost bear the normality of it all. I went home after that and did pretty much fuck all and enjoyed it. At about 5pm I made my way back to the cobblers to pick up my shoes (He did a good job and I didn't need to remortgage to get it done which is becoming common these days in London). After I picked them up I made my way back to my flat. On my journey home I pass through a little underpass that takes me under the railway line near my house. Now, as I made my way to the underpass the local station burped out around 30 people who were also making their way home after a hard day at the office. We all made our way down the stairs and into the underpass and were greeted by the sight of a young woman, maybe about 18 who had set up a camera with a tripod slap bang in the middle of the tunnel with her camera pointing at us. This tunnel is about 7 feet wide and her cumbersome tripod and herself (not standing behind but next to it) were taking up maybe 4 foot of space. I was wondering to myself if she was going to move her set up when I noticed she was looking into a view finder and wasn't concerned at all that she was blocking our path . This was rush hour traffic, we wanted home NOW and were pissed off she was in our way all so she could take our shot. She had crusty looking dreads and she was white, so it made it look contrived and pathetic. The fact her clothes looked a little too expensive for her attempt at the new age traveller look, betrayed the fact that she probably took a big fat cheque from daddy every month and gave us bucket loads of sympathy (and irony) for her "perfect angle and lighting". I muttered darkly to myself as I checked my step and got in fucking line to make it through the small gaps either side of her. I was hearing the same from my fellow annoyed cunts. I squeezed past and a couple of steps after I heard an almighty crash. I turned around to see her camera tripod mid flight and the sight of an enraged looking young man of about 25 with an extended leg and a violent look on his face. Obviously the camera hit the wall and made a satisfying crump where it separated into many pieces. The young guy dropped the look of hate and carried on walking as the young photographer burst into tears. None of us annoyed cunts really said too much and carried on down the tunnel.
Now, I feel a little sorry for the young girl but I am of the firm belief that lessons learnt youngest are learnt longest and she won't be doing that again in a hurry so you can all smile now. Everyday is a schoolday when you learn something they say, and never wasted. I have to admit that I did smile.
I read the other day that there are 3 times the number of students studying photography in the UK right now than are needed in the whole of Western Europe. These people will not be able to pay the bills when they grow up and being broke and not being able to feed yourself is no joke. I am a little worried for these guys in later life. Kicked cameras generate no income, and due to the fact that they are unlikely to be able to find the work to pay to fix their kicked cameras they will be forced to ditch the whole idea and find a PROPER job. In this way we can stop a whole generation from poverty. We are helping them by doing this. It hurts us as much as it hurts them (bruised toes are also no joke) but this is tough love and I am Cupid.
Save the UK from becoming a real life Flikr. Save us from being swamped by pictures of droplets hanging off a leaf reflecting a frogs cock at sunrise absofuckinglutely everywhere we look.
Do it because you love them. oh, and you don't need to be in the UK to do this either.
Kick a camera, save a life
Midday found me pottering in my local high street doing necessary and boring things. I went to the cobbler because I needed to re sole my shoes. I dropped them off and then hit the supermarket for a few essentials. As much as I do not enjoy these tasks, it is far more pleasant to do these kind of things during the week, not too many people about and I can almost bear the normality of it all. I went home after that and did pretty much fuck all and enjoyed it. At about 5pm I made my way back to the cobblers to pick up my shoes (He did a good job and I didn't need to remortgage to get it done which is becoming common these days in London). After I picked them up I made my way back to my flat. On my journey home I pass through a little underpass that takes me under the railway line near my house. Now, as I made my way to the underpass the local station burped out around 30 people who were also making their way home after a hard day at the office. We all made our way down the stairs and into the underpass and were greeted by the sight of a young woman, maybe about 18 who had set up a camera with a tripod slap bang in the middle of the tunnel with her camera pointing at us. This tunnel is about 7 feet wide and her cumbersome tripod and herself (not standing behind but next to it) were taking up maybe 4 foot of space. I was wondering to myself if she was going to move her set up when I noticed she was looking into a view finder and wasn't concerned at all that she was blocking our path . This was rush hour traffic, we wanted home NOW and were pissed off she was in our way all so she could take our shot. She had crusty looking dreads and she was white, so it made it look contrived and pathetic. The fact her clothes looked a little too expensive for her attempt at the new age traveller look, betrayed the fact that she probably took a big fat cheque from daddy every month and gave us bucket loads of sympathy (and irony) for her "perfect angle and lighting". I muttered darkly to myself as I checked my step and got in fucking line to make it through the small gaps either side of her. I was hearing the same from my fellow annoyed cunts. I squeezed past and a couple of steps after I heard an almighty crash. I turned around to see her camera tripod mid flight and the sight of an enraged looking young man of about 25 with an extended leg and a violent look on his face. Obviously the camera hit the wall and made a satisfying crump where it separated into many pieces. The young guy dropped the look of hate and carried on walking as the young photographer burst into tears. None of us annoyed cunts really said too much and carried on down the tunnel.
Now, I feel a little sorry for the young girl but I am of the firm belief that lessons learnt youngest are learnt longest and she won't be doing that again in a hurry so you can all smile now. Everyday is a schoolday when you learn something they say, and never wasted. I have to admit that I did smile.
I read the other day that there are 3 times the number of students studying photography in the UK right now than are needed in the whole of Western Europe. These people will not be able to pay the bills when they grow up and being broke and not being able to feed yourself is no joke. I am a little worried for these guys in later life. Kicked cameras generate no income, and due to the fact that they are unlikely to be able to find the work to pay to fix their kicked cameras they will be forced to ditch the whole idea and find a PROPER job. In this way we can stop a whole generation from poverty. We are helping them by doing this. It hurts us as much as it hurts them (bruised toes are also no joke) but this is tough love and I am Cupid.
Save the UK from becoming a real life Flikr. Save us from being swamped by pictures of droplets hanging off a leaf reflecting a frogs cock at sunrise absofuckinglutely everywhere we look.
Do it because you love them. oh, and you don't need to be in the UK to do this either.
Kick a camera, save a life
Hayfever or Cancer?
Another story about me being a dick.
I have a very short fuse with the general public on the whole. I can be a grumpy bastard sometimes. Only last night on the tube home an old and posh (bad bad mix) lady started muttering to herself because I was sniffing. I have nasty hayfever right now and I had no tissues. I didn't particularly enjoy sniffing but she seemed to think I was doing it to piss her off. Her muttering got louder and louder until I turned to her and asked her if she had a problem (I was very polite). She looked straight down the end of her nose at me through her half moon glasses and told me that it was incredibly bad manners to sniff. She said all this in a voice loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. I calmly and politely told her that I was very sorry (again in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear) that I didn't have a handkerchief. She angrily told me that I should make sure I had a handkerchief with me at all times if I suffered from hayfever. I told her ( and the whole carriage ) that I had never suffered from hayfever and the sniffing was in fact a side effect from the chemotherapy I had been receiving. You should have seen her face, unbelievable, her jaw dropped and her mouth was trying to speak but no noise was coming out. If I could turn on tears at a whim I would have cried to make her shame all the greater. As it was she looked horrified at her rash outburst and to tell the truth I felt a little bad but the whole carriage went deathly silent. She apologised in a very quiet voice, I replied (In a loud voice) that I hadn't heard what she said and made her apologise in a voice loud enough for the now horrified carriage to hear as well.
I am such a cunt sometimes and I can honestly say that I feel ashamed for saying that. Fucking awesome at the time though, I am just glad there wasn't a doctor in the carriage who would say "Actually, a runny nose has nothing to do with chemotherapy"
Fuck that though, I went out today and bought a new MP3 player so the guilt didn't last too long.
I have a very short fuse with the general public on the whole. I can be a grumpy bastard sometimes. Only last night on the tube home an old and posh (bad bad mix) lady started muttering to herself because I was sniffing. I have nasty hayfever right now and I had no tissues. I didn't particularly enjoy sniffing but she seemed to think I was doing it to piss her off. Her muttering got louder and louder until I turned to her and asked her if she had a problem (I was very polite). She looked straight down the end of her nose at me through her half moon glasses and told me that it was incredibly bad manners to sniff. She said all this in a voice loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. I calmly and politely told her that I was very sorry (again in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear) that I didn't have a handkerchief. She angrily told me that I should make sure I had a handkerchief with me at all times if I suffered from hayfever. I told her ( and the whole carriage ) that I had never suffered from hayfever and the sniffing was in fact a side effect from the chemotherapy I had been receiving. You should have seen her face, unbelievable, her jaw dropped and her mouth was trying to speak but no noise was coming out. If I could turn on tears at a whim I would have cried to make her shame all the greater. As it was she looked horrified at her rash outburst and to tell the truth I felt a little bad but the whole carriage went deathly silent. She apologised in a very quiet voice, I replied (In a loud voice) that I hadn't heard what she said and made her apologise in a voice loud enough for the now horrified carriage to hear as well.
I am such a cunt sometimes and I can honestly say that I feel ashamed for saying that. Fucking awesome at the time though, I am just glad there wasn't a doctor in the carriage who would say "Actually, a runny nose has nothing to do with chemotherapy"
Fuck that though, I went out today and bought a new MP3 player so the guilt didn't last too long.
How old are you really?
On this day I am 32 years and 264 days old. Remember that number.
Last Wednesday found me having lunch with my cousin. He works 5 minutes away from me and sometimes we meet up to grab a sandwich and take the piss out of each other. My cousin tells me that he is flying to Spain that night to spend a week with his family. I asked him if he was leaving work early and he said no. This surprised me as I knew he lived an hour from work and it takes 2 hours from his to the airport door to door. If he finishes work at 6:30 it's gonna be tight. I asked him what time he was leaving and he told me 5:30 am the next day. I chuckled patronisingly and told him that technically that was tomorrow. I then spent five extensively elaborate minutes explaining to him that he was in fact a cunt. It was fun.
Now, I'm not here to debate this point with you all, I see the logic in his opinion, but we were now in mode and everyone knows that the winner of any argument is the one who makes the funniest comments, not the one who is in fact right.
I won.
I think most of us mark the beginning of the day when we wake and the end when we go to bed. So, what happens if we don't sleep for two days? I know we'd say that we hadn't slept for two days, but it is never tomorrow, so how can it have been two days? Subconsciously, we had only been awake for a day.
Back to that number. 32 years and 264 days old. What about all the times I've not slept for two days, or even three, or even on rare occasions 4. Without drugs I think staying up more than 2 days is an achievement. With them it's a piece of piss.
In those 32 years I reckon I didn't do a "double shift" until maybe the age of 15, lets say 3 in that year. Thats 362 days I experienced that year (I can't be arsed to work out leap years in this post). At 16 it became much more frequent, maybe 15 weekends had only one day in them. 15 that year. 17 -21 were stepped up even more and introduced the 3 dayer to me. Maybe three 3 dayers and 25 or so doubles. 31 a year for five years, I make that 155 days. 21-25 found me straight back to maybe 3 doubles a year. 3 a year, five years. 15 days. 25 got mental for the first 6 months. Every weekend for six months was a double. Four a month, six months. 24 days. From the second half of that year and the first half of next I was Travelling. The odd mad weekend but maybe 10 in the whole year. 10 more days to the tally then. When I got back from travelling at 25 1/2, I hit it hard. For about 5 years. I reckon on that five years I did 2 four dayers, maybe fifty 3 dayers and a ridiculous number of doubles, *plucking a number from thin air* maybe 200 doubles. Quick calculation, 306 days. From my 30th until now there have maybe been 10 doubles, thats it. 10 more days.
Grand total, 528 days.
If a year is 365 days. 32 years + 264 = 11944.
Thats the number of days I have spent on this planet.
11944 - 528 = 11416.
11416 divided by 365 = 31.276....
There you have it. I am actually 31.276 years old (give or take a few days here or there for leap years and shitty maths. That would make a great name for a band, Leap Years and Shitty Maths.)
Having said that, it has just occured to me that I have spent the last 20 minutes of my life conveying this point to total strangers.
Woo
Last Wednesday found me having lunch with my cousin. He works 5 minutes away from me and sometimes we meet up to grab a sandwich and take the piss out of each other. My cousin tells me that he is flying to Spain that night to spend a week with his family. I asked him if he was leaving work early and he said no. This surprised me as I knew he lived an hour from work and it takes 2 hours from his to the airport door to door. If he finishes work at 6:30 it's gonna be tight. I asked him what time he was leaving and he told me 5:30 am the next day. I chuckled patronisingly and told him that technically that was tomorrow. I then spent five extensively elaborate minutes explaining to him that he was in fact a cunt. It was fun.
Now, I'm not here to debate this point with you all, I see the logic in his opinion, but we were now in mode and everyone knows that the winner of any argument is the one who makes the funniest comments, not the one who is in fact right.
I won.
I think most of us mark the beginning of the day when we wake and the end when we go to bed. So, what happens if we don't sleep for two days? I know we'd say that we hadn't slept for two days, but it is never tomorrow, so how can it have been two days? Subconsciously, we had only been awake for a day.
Back to that number. 32 years and 264 days old. What about all the times I've not slept for two days, or even three, or even on rare occasions 4. Without drugs I think staying up more than 2 days is an achievement. With them it's a piece of piss.
In those 32 years I reckon I didn't do a "double shift" until maybe the age of 15, lets say 3 in that year. Thats 362 days I experienced that year (I can't be arsed to work out leap years in this post). At 16 it became much more frequent, maybe 15 weekends had only one day in them. 15 that year. 17 -21 were stepped up even more and introduced the 3 dayer to me. Maybe three 3 dayers and 25 or so doubles. 31 a year for five years, I make that 155 days. 21-25 found me straight back to maybe 3 doubles a year. 3 a year, five years. 15 days. 25 got mental for the first 6 months. Every weekend for six months was a double. Four a month, six months. 24 days. From the second half of that year and the first half of next I was Travelling. The odd mad weekend but maybe 10 in the whole year. 10 more days to the tally then. When I got back from travelling at 25 1/2, I hit it hard. For about 5 years. I reckon on that five years I did 2 four dayers, maybe fifty 3 dayers and a ridiculous number of doubles, *plucking a number from thin air* maybe 200 doubles. Quick calculation, 306 days. From my 30th until now there have maybe been 10 doubles, thats it. 10 more days.
Grand total, 528 days.
If a year is 365 days. 32 years + 264 = 11944.
Thats the number of days I have spent on this planet.
11944 - 528 = 11416.
11416 divided by 365 = 31.276....
There you have it. I am actually 31.276 years old (give or take a few days here or there for leap years and shitty maths. That would make a great name for a band, Leap Years and Shitty Maths.)
Having said that, it has just occured to me that I have spent the last 20 minutes of my life conveying this point to total strangers.
Woo
A slow week
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Lorne Spicer - Dirty words
Lorne spicer. Lorne, from the Ancient Greek - To hate. And Spicer, from the Ancient Sumerian - To stab repeatedly in the eye with the snapped off end of a pencil.
She is the one person on this planet I hate with distinction. With distinction. One of the very few areas within which I excel. Hating Lorne Spicer. I am the PREMIER agent within the academic circle founded to express utter derision and abhorrance towards Lorne Spicer. In the world I might add.
*Buffs fingernails on lapel*
Seriously Lorne, do the fucking world a favour and become the very first recipient of the evil new disease Cancer 2.0. It is exactly the same as normal Cancer but the 2.0 bit relates to the fact that the skin on your forehead pigments to read "CUNT" in big red letters so that deaf people who have never heard your whiny voice can hate you on sight too...at a distance.
Oh, and your knees would take on grasshopper-like qualities so that they emit a chirping sound as you walk. So that blind people can hear you coming at a distance too and get the fuck out of your way, or grab the nearest machete and make for you. Like a blind machete wielding moth, but drawn to sound instead of light.
Seriously Lorne. Die
She is the one person on this planet I hate with distinction. With distinction. One of the very few areas within which I excel. Hating Lorne Spicer. I am the PREMIER agent within the academic circle founded to express utter derision and abhorrance towards Lorne Spicer. In the world I might add.
*Buffs fingernails on lapel*
Seriously Lorne, do the fucking world a favour and become the very first recipient of the evil new disease Cancer 2.0. It is exactly the same as normal Cancer but the 2.0 bit relates to the fact that the skin on your forehead pigments to read "CUNT" in big red letters so that deaf people who have never heard your whiny voice can hate you on sight too...at a distance.
Oh, and your knees would take on grasshopper-like qualities so that they emit a chirping sound as you walk. So that blind people can hear you coming at a distance too and get the fuck out of your way, or grab the nearest machete and make for you. Like a blind machete wielding moth, but drawn to sound instead of light.
Seriously Lorne. Die
Chicken Genocide
Can you think of a country where chicken isn't one of the staple foods? Obviously Eskimos don't partake, too fucking cold for chickens to live there. Every other country does. The chicken has to be the most maligned creature on the planet. Just because they are easy to breed we forget the sheer number of them killed and eaten each year. Would we give a fuck about Pandas if they could breed like rabbits and tasted awesome in a southern fried crispy coating? Maybe Noodles could answer that one for me.
Even more disrespectful to the chicken is the fact that we crack open their babies and make cakes with them.
Having said all that, I love a bit of chicken.
So planet Earth, continue in this Perpetual Chicken Holocaust ( To be referred to as PCH from now on. I'm not finished with this one ). When chickens have nightmares they aren't dreaming of rogue foxes but fat cunts in take aways.
KFC has a lot to answer for.
Even more disrespectful to the chicken is the fact that we crack open their babies and make cakes with them.
Having said all that, I love a bit of chicken.
So planet Earth, continue in this Perpetual Chicken Holocaust ( To be referred to as PCH from now on. I'm not finished with this one ). When chickens have nightmares they aren't dreaming of rogue foxes but fat cunts in take aways.
KFC has a lot to answer for.
Anyone want to hear a story about me being a dick?
My whole office went out for a drink on Thursday night. We have 6 new starters joining us on Monday. New starters are always invited out with us the Thursday before they join to get wrecked and break the proverbial ice.
I've mentioned on here beofre that I work in the Media industry. 98% of the industry in populated with offensively narcissistic drones who are more concerned with their blue tooth headsets and Blackberry Pearls. I wish them Cancer on a daily basis.
Two things are immediately apparent here.
1. I do not care for 98% of my co-workers
2. 6 new starters in an office is an opportunity, however slight, for the odd OK person to slip through the media industry keep net. Maybe, just maybe 1 of these people would brighten my working day by being a non wanker.
We reserved 3 tables at the swankiest bar in Soho for the evening. Drop the "S" and that perfectly describes the clientelle and bar staff that were present. New starters arrived and the CEO put his card behind the bar (idiot) and invited us to help ourselves. We subsequently hit the bar with force and the beers and cocktails were flowing as if provided from above by a caring God feeding his starving Israelites in the desert.
After circulating with the new guys I have this to report:
4 were typical media employees and ergo of zero interest to me
1 was dressed like a clown, gayer than John Inman and used the word Cunt half a dozen times within the first half hour. He may be some use to the team
1 was a young lady who had joined to be the PA to the CEO. She seemed nice, Quite pleasant actually.
An hour or four into proceedings we were all on our way to being predictably leathered. I had raced ahead of the crowd a little and was being generally raucous. One of my new co-workers commented in a jovial fashion that I was hammering it somewhat and behaving like a bit of an animal. He cannot have been referring to me. Absolutely everything I was saying was witty, intelligent and of interest to EVERYONE at the bar. That was the reason I was saying it in such a loud voice and sloshing my drink around to exacerbate my extremely pertinent observations.
I decided that enough was enough for the evening and stumbled out to get a cab home. I stopped off to buy a sandwich and found myself an illegal cab driven by a big African man. We agreed a price of £25. In I jumped and tore into the sandwich like a caveman hollowing out a Brontosaurus, spilling a few pieces of lettuce onto the leather seats of his precious Mercedes. He shouted at me, I shouted back (with food in my mouth, classy). The shouting festival got more and more heated until the only word audible from him was "LETTUCE" and the only word audible from myself was "CUNT". We had built up quite a rapport on the journey and things were going swimmingly as we turned into my road. Unfortunatelty I chose that exact moment, mid shout, to vomit on his precious leather seats. I am very proud of that. Like, really really proud.
Soon, parked up outside my place, he had added a new word to his screaming vocabulary. Unfortunately he was adding my word to his plainly stuck record. I threw £50 in his general direction and got out and stumbled up my path half listening to the words cunt and lettuce being screamed at me. I was also immensely glad that all my neighbours were hearing all of this.
The hangover on Friday was due payment for my behaviour.
Probably the worst I have ever experienced, and I knew I deserved it.
I've mentioned on here beofre that I work in the Media industry. 98% of the industry in populated with offensively narcissistic drones who are more concerned with their blue tooth headsets and Blackberry Pearls. I wish them Cancer on a daily basis.
Two things are immediately apparent here.
1. I do not care for 98% of my co-workers
2. 6 new starters in an office is an opportunity, however slight, for the odd OK person to slip through the media industry keep net. Maybe, just maybe 1 of these people would brighten my working day by being a non wanker.
We reserved 3 tables at the swankiest bar in Soho for the evening. Drop the "S" and that perfectly describes the clientelle and bar staff that were present. New starters arrived and the CEO put his card behind the bar (idiot) and invited us to help ourselves. We subsequently hit the bar with force and the beers and cocktails were flowing as if provided from above by a caring God feeding his starving Israelites in the desert.
After circulating with the new guys I have this to report:
4 were typical media employees and ergo of zero interest to me
1 was dressed like a clown, gayer than John Inman and used the word Cunt half a dozen times within the first half hour. He may be some use to the team
1 was a young lady who had joined to be the PA to the CEO. She seemed nice, Quite pleasant actually.
An hour or four into proceedings we were all on our way to being predictably leathered. I had raced ahead of the crowd a little and was being generally raucous. One of my new co-workers commented in a jovial fashion that I was hammering it somewhat and behaving like a bit of an animal. He cannot have been referring to me. Absolutely everything I was saying was witty, intelligent and of interest to EVERYONE at the bar. That was the reason I was saying it in such a loud voice and sloshing my drink around to exacerbate my extremely pertinent observations.
I decided that enough was enough for the evening and stumbled out to get a cab home. I stopped off to buy a sandwich and found myself an illegal cab driven by a big African man. We agreed a price of £25. In I jumped and tore into the sandwich like a caveman hollowing out a Brontosaurus, spilling a few pieces of lettuce onto the leather seats of his precious Mercedes. He shouted at me, I shouted back (with food in my mouth, classy). The shouting festival got more and more heated until the only word audible from him was "LETTUCE" and the only word audible from myself was "CUNT". We had built up quite a rapport on the journey and things were going swimmingly as we turned into my road. Unfortunatelty I chose that exact moment, mid shout, to vomit on his precious leather seats. I am very proud of that. Like, really really proud.
Soon, parked up outside my place, he had added a new word to his screaming vocabulary. Unfortunately he was adding my word to his plainly stuck record. I threw £50 in his general direction and got out and stumbled up my path half listening to the words cunt and lettuce being screamed at me. I was also immensely glad that all my neighbours were hearing all of this.
The hangover on Friday was due payment for my behaviour.
Probably the worst I have ever experienced, and I knew I deserved it.
Are you still afraid of the dark?
I just finished reading this book. There was a conversation in it towards the end where one said to the other " Shut up or i'll cut your throat wide open and put spiders in it. " Freaked the crap out of me. Funny thing is I had read this book before quite a few times (Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith) and never noticed that before.
In the same book there is a quick reference to "evil babies". Not a baby with an attitude problem, but genuinely evil babies. Like the pic above.
Clowns, babies, dolls. Why are these things so fucking scary when viewed in a slightly different light? My guess is that these are things that are usually associated with childhood and innocence, but this analogy doesn't necessarily carry with all objects associated with childhood and all the innocence that is supposed to come with it.
Lego for instance. Never gonna be scary. I used to have bucket loads of the stuff as a kid. I only ever used to do two things with it.
1) Make spaceships
2) Throw it out of the window for no good reason (that used to piss my mum off no end)
It was great fun.
Ice pops
How are these scary?
I remember buying these for 4p and playing in the park for hours. That was before paedophiles were invented, a gentler day. I remember playing in the forest in the summer holidays with my friends. We used to get there at about 8am and get home about 10 hours later, covered in mud and stinking of the fires we had started all day but grinning like idiots for the fun we had had. If kids spent 10 hours in the forest alone now they would be abducted and abused at least 3 times and be home in time for dinner.
Angel Delight
Good enough for royalty this stuff. Butterscotch flavour too. If you look up the dictionary definition (thats Oxford Dictionary) of Angel Delight, you shall see this:
Angel Delight
[eyn-juhl di-lahyt]
Tastes fucking rancid. You know how when you are having a bath and topping up with your toe and check to see if the water is hot with your foot and for a split second if feels cold.... And then the skin peels back from your leg as the water burns it off because it actually hotter than the sun. Well, Angel Delight is so fucking nice that it is rancid. The end.
So says The Oxford English Dictionary, not that Websters one that is packed full of spelling mistakes, the Oxford one, you know, the REAL one. Check if you don't believe me.
Jumpers for goal posts
Ah, this one is completely incapable of being anything other than a warm and hazy memory. Never ever scary.
For those who don't have Football as their national sport (can only think of 2 countries) this one may need explaining. I'm not going to though.
Good days
I very much doubt someone could make a horror film with Lego, Angel Delight, Ice pops and jumpers for goal posts that is scary.
So , in summary, kill all Clowns, babies and dolls and the world shall be a happier place.
In the same book there is a quick reference to "evil babies". Not a baby with an attitude problem, but genuinely evil babies. Like the pic above.
Clowns, babies, dolls. Why are these things so fucking scary when viewed in a slightly different light? My guess is that these are things that are usually associated with childhood and innocence, but this analogy doesn't necessarily carry with all objects associated with childhood and all the innocence that is supposed to come with it.
Lego for instance. Never gonna be scary. I used to have bucket loads of the stuff as a kid. I only ever used to do two things with it.
1) Make spaceships
2) Throw it out of the window for no good reason (that used to piss my mum off no end)
It was great fun.
Ice pops
How are these scary?
I remember buying these for 4p and playing in the park for hours. That was before paedophiles were invented, a gentler day. I remember playing in the forest in the summer holidays with my friends. We used to get there at about 8am and get home about 10 hours later, covered in mud and stinking of the fires we had started all day but grinning like idiots for the fun we had had. If kids spent 10 hours in the forest alone now they would be abducted and abused at least 3 times and be home in time for dinner.
Angel Delight
Good enough for royalty this stuff. Butterscotch flavour too. If you look up the dictionary definition (thats Oxford Dictionary) of Angel Delight, you shall see this:
Angel Delight
[eyn-juhl di-lahyt]
Tastes fucking rancid. You know how when you are having a bath and topping up with your toe and check to see if the water is hot with your foot and for a split second if feels cold.... And then the skin peels back from your leg as the water burns it off because it actually hotter than the sun. Well, Angel Delight is so fucking nice that it is rancid. The end.
So says The Oxford English Dictionary, not that Websters one that is packed full of spelling mistakes, the Oxford one, you know, the REAL one. Check if you don't believe me.
Jumpers for goal posts
Ah, this one is completely incapable of being anything other than a warm and hazy memory. Never ever scary.
For those who don't have Football as their national sport (can only think of 2 countries) this one may need explaining. I'm not going to though.
Good days
I very much doubt someone could make a horror film with Lego, Angel Delight, Ice pops and jumpers for goal posts that is scary.
So , in summary, kill all Clowns, babies and dolls and the world shall be a happier place.
The God of Small Things
The God of Small Things is fucking with me right now. He isn't in charge of the things that really matter like whether you're gonna get run over by a truck today, or whether your doctor calls you to tell you that you have cancer. No. He is in charge of things like, where did I just put my lighter, the batteries in my remote control just died and I've just run out of milk.
Someone somewhere made a pact with The God of Small Things to have a totally hassle free life. What a great situation to be in eh? Everything he tries comes off effortlessly, all his plans reach fruition, and his life generally follows the "hollywood happy family" route.
Only one problem here. Where does all his pre appropriated hassle go? You can't just release it into the ether, where would we be if that happened? No, everything has a place and The God of Small Things has to redistribute this hassle. He can be a rather cantankerous deity at times and right now he is hovering inches above my head, milking himself and raining hassle juice liberally onto me. I can see him, he doesn't know that, but I can.
If you push your finger into your closed eyelid gently for about 2/3cms your ability to view the Gods opens and as I type this with my right hand, believe me when I tell you that the index finger of my left hand is firmly pushing my eyeball painfully about 2/3cms into my eye socket.
He's rubbing his hands together now, cackling. HA, he wouldn't be laughing so hard if he could see me poking my eyeball so painfully right now, thus ensuring I could see him would he?
So far today I have:
Got rained on to the extent that I was soaked through to my underwear, lost my keys, lost my glasses (twice), lost at least four lighters, realised I forgot to take my suit to the dry cleaners on Friday, burnt my dinner, smashed a plate, and ran a bath and forgot about it and got a tongue lashing from the old lady who lives downstairs.
Time I went to bed I think.
Someone somewhere made a pact with The God of Small Things to have a totally hassle free life. What a great situation to be in eh? Everything he tries comes off effortlessly, all his plans reach fruition, and his life generally follows the "hollywood happy family" route.
Only one problem here. Where does all his pre appropriated hassle go? You can't just release it into the ether, where would we be if that happened? No, everything has a place and The God of Small Things has to redistribute this hassle. He can be a rather cantankerous deity at times and right now he is hovering inches above my head, milking himself and raining hassle juice liberally onto me. I can see him, he doesn't know that, but I can.
If you push your finger into your closed eyelid gently for about 2/3cms your ability to view the Gods opens and as I type this with my right hand, believe me when I tell you that the index finger of my left hand is firmly pushing my eyeball painfully about 2/3cms into my eye socket.
He's rubbing his hands together now, cackling. HA, he wouldn't be laughing so hard if he could see me poking my eyeball so painfully right now, thus ensuring I could see him would he?
So far today I have:
Got rained on to the extent that I was soaked through to my underwear, lost my keys, lost my glasses (twice), lost at least four lighters, realised I forgot to take my suit to the dry cleaners on Friday, burnt my dinner, smashed a plate, and ran a bath and forgot about it and got a tongue lashing from the old lady who lives downstairs.
Time I went to bed I think.
Harry F*cking Potter
I came across this article a few days ago. http://www.hmnh.org/archives/2006/05/22/dragon-people-dear-readers/
Here is a little sample from the page:
Here is a little sample from the page:
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The dangers of Australian border control
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Fuck off and leave me alone...
I'm one of those people who go everywhere with my MP3 player. The only time I don't have the earphones in my ear is when i'm talking to someone. Music makes my day to day life easier, i'm pretty sure it's the same for a huge proportion of all of us.
Has anyone else noticed how till attendants are briefed by their bosses to ask so many fucking questions nowadays? It never used to be this bad.
"You want cash back?".... No
"Do you have a customer loyalty card?".... If I did you'd know about it
"Would you like fries with that?".... This is a bookshop motherfucker
"Would you like chocolate sprinkles on top?".... I just ordered a cup of tea, why the fuck would I want chocolate sprinkles on top of a cup of tea.
Now, I'm not an anti social person, I love human company, crave it sometimes, and genuinely value my friends, and i'm not averse to chatting to complete strangers, but when I want to. I HAVE EARPHONES IN. For the intentionally stupid that means I am listening to music, that means I DO NOT want to talk to you.
I may be being a little harsh when I am saying this because I understand that companies brief their staff to make more sales, thus the stupid questions, but please, fuck off.
The best way I have found of dealing with this is to stand there at the till, hand out waiting for change, staring the attendant dead in the eye, blatantly making no attempt to understand what they are saying. Standing like a statue, until they realise that they may be seconds away from a violent stabbing and quit with the incessant nonsense and just hand the change back. If they have been extra annoying and keep asking questions that I haven't understood (OBVIOUSLY, seeing as my earphones are in and the volume is turned right up) then I stand there palm still open, with the change freshly deposited in my hand for a couple more seconds, still staring them dead in the eye. You know what I mean, just a second too long. Thats when the nervous smiles come out and they eagerly try to break eye contact with me, but they can't.
It is a little harsh I know. They are just doing their job, but almost every time I have been back to the same shop, same till, same attendant, they stop trying to engage me in conversation, conversation with the sole intention of making me give them more of my cash. Cash that I have earned in my soul destroying job. I have a fucking right to guard against nonsense when spending it.
Cunts
Has anyone else noticed how till attendants are briefed by their bosses to ask so many fucking questions nowadays? It never used to be this bad.
"You want cash back?".... No
"Do you have a customer loyalty card?".... If I did you'd know about it
"Would you like fries with that?".... This is a bookshop motherfucker
"Would you like chocolate sprinkles on top?".... I just ordered a cup of tea, why the fuck would I want chocolate sprinkles on top of a cup of tea.
Now, I'm not an anti social person, I love human company, crave it sometimes, and genuinely value my friends, and i'm not averse to chatting to complete strangers, but when I want to. I HAVE EARPHONES IN. For the intentionally stupid that means I am listening to music, that means I DO NOT want to talk to you.
I may be being a little harsh when I am saying this because I understand that companies brief their staff to make more sales, thus the stupid questions, but please, fuck off.
The best way I have found of dealing with this is to stand there at the till, hand out waiting for change, staring the attendant dead in the eye, blatantly making no attempt to understand what they are saying. Standing like a statue, until they realise that they may be seconds away from a violent stabbing and quit with the incessant nonsense and just hand the change back. If they have been extra annoying and keep asking questions that I haven't understood (OBVIOUSLY, seeing as my earphones are in and the volume is turned right up) then I stand there palm still open, with the change freshly deposited in my hand for a couple more seconds, still staring them dead in the eye. You know what I mean, just a second too long. Thats when the nervous smiles come out and they eagerly try to break eye contact with me, but they can't.
It is a little harsh I know. They are just doing their job, but almost every time I have been back to the same shop, same till, same attendant, they stop trying to engage me in conversation, conversation with the sole intention of making me give them more of my cash. Cash that I have earned in my soul destroying job. I have a fucking right to guard against nonsense when spending it.
Cunts
Psychotherapist Fodder
When I was a kid I used to bring back any sort of bug or creepy crawly to my house, keep them in jars and feed them other bugs.
FYI: Holding beetles makes their mandibles open and close continously. If you are so inclined, you can then hold a fly or other inconsequential bug in your other hand and oh so slowly move it closer to the ever moving jaws of death whilst reciting monologues from any James Bond film.
Example: "...So Mr. Fly, it all comes to this, your temerity up to this point has served you well but alas it all ends here..." etc.
I'm surprised I didn't end up as a serial killer.
Another game I used to play that was more indicative of serial killer intentions was thus. I used to draw circles within circles, like an archery target, and I used to document which bug got the farthest out of the target before the pinpoint beam of light from an angled magnifying glass burnt them, and in some cases, popped them.
Not particularly wholesome I know and I offer no excuses.
FYI: Holding beetles makes their mandibles open and close continously. If you are so inclined, you can then hold a fly or other inconsequential bug in your other hand and oh so slowly move it closer to the ever moving jaws of death whilst reciting monologues from any James Bond film.
Example: "...So Mr. Fly, it all comes to this, your temerity up to this point has served you well but alas it all ends here..." etc.
I'm surprised I didn't end up as a serial killer.
Another game I used to play that was more indicative of serial killer intentions was thus. I used to draw circles within circles, like an archery target, and I used to document which bug got the farthest out of the target before the pinpoint beam of light from an angled magnifying glass burnt them, and in some cases, popped them.
Not particularly wholesome I know and I offer no excuses.
Personal Pain
I work in the advertising industry.
Here are a list of words used in the advertising industry that make me want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs.
1. Synergy
2. Crystallisation
3. Learnings
More, as and when they appear.
Here are a list of words used in the advertising industry that make me want to inject heroin directly into my eyeballs.
1. Synergy
2. Crystallisation
3. Learnings
More, as and when they appear.
Saturday 3 March 2007
News Readers
Now, before I get into this one, I would like to point out that I live in the UK and if you don't, this may seem like nonsense to you, so please bear with me.
Ok, newsreaders. This is something that I have noticed for some years now and it has bothered me, there is no way this can be a coincidence. Here are a list of current Newsreaders/Journalists.
Matthew Amroliwala
Damian Grammaticus
Guto Harri
Manisha Tank
Mark Pugash (pronounced Poo-Gash, oh deary me...)
By the way, these are no low level hacks, these are all BBC employees.
...and my personal favourite
Balthazar Fabricius.
Ok, Balthazar is no longer a correspondent, but fuck me, are you serious? As an aside, his fathers name is Rodney.
What the fuck possesses someone to name their child Balthazar, especially when your surname is Fabricius. Please, have some sense of the future, and more importantly try to imagine your child being beaten up continuously in the playground because that is what is going to happen. I surely would have given Balthazar a few digs on a daily basis if we went to the same school.
I do wonder about the selection process at the BBC. I can imagine an applicant with all the boxes ticked, Oxford educated and exemplary delivery being given the cold shoulder because their name was Alan Johnson, where maybe another applicant with no qualifications, useless delivery and a face that looked like a bag of smashed fannies would get the job because their name was Aspidistra Farcourtulude.
Imagine it.
"...Good evening, this is the BBC News at Ten with Aspidistra Farcourtulude..."
Ok, newsreaders. This is something that I have noticed for some years now and it has bothered me, there is no way this can be a coincidence. Here are a list of current Newsreaders/Journalists.
Matthew Amroliwala
Damian Grammaticus
Guto Harri
Manisha Tank
Mark Pugash (pronounced Poo-Gash, oh deary me...)
By the way, these are no low level hacks, these are all BBC employees.
...and my personal favourite
Balthazar Fabricius.
Ok, Balthazar is no longer a correspondent, but fuck me, are you serious? As an aside, his fathers name is Rodney.
What the fuck possesses someone to name their child Balthazar, especially when your surname is Fabricius. Please, have some sense of the future, and more importantly try to imagine your child being beaten up continuously in the playground because that is what is going to happen. I surely would have given Balthazar a few digs on a daily basis if we went to the same school.
I do wonder about the selection process at the BBC. I can imagine an applicant with all the boxes ticked, Oxford educated and exemplary delivery being given the cold shoulder because their name was Alan Johnson, where maybe another applicant with no qualifications, useless delivery and a face that looked like a bag of smashed fannies would get the job because their name was Aspidistra Farcourtulude.
Imagine it.
"...Good evening, this is the BBC News at Ten with Aspidistra Farcourtulude..."
Monday 26 February 2007
Kick me...
Go on, kick me.
Boredom is a dangerous state, if you think about it it's one of the most dangerous or miraculous mental states to be in as a human being.
A saying that I am quite fond of is "Necessity is the mother of all invention". I like it, it strikes true with me. Look at the mad advances made by the super powers during the Second World War. The race for the Jet Engine and ultimately, the big kicker, the big bomb. Game over.
My guess is that these things would have been invented anyway, just not as quickly and maybe with a little more care. A rhetorical statement there, it matters not now. In the time of greatest need, the human mind will excel to an extent that is quite amazing when reflected upon in calmer times. Of course, the big bomb is arguably a step back in terms of human development, but the sheer shape of the whole process is stunning. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.
In total and utter contrast to the time of greatest need, is the time of greatest indulgence. No desperate needs, no defending ones family with ones life on the front line for necessities sake. Just indulgence. The Roman Empire fell apart on it's own sickness, debauchery was rife. The concept of a vomitorium is immense in it's simplicity. A place to be sick, and get off on it. An actual specific place!
This is almost approaching my relationship with boredom. It is the bane of my life, in every single aspect. I have the attention span of a Triffid with Downs Syndrome (this is an equal opportunities blog, I figured as there are no such thing as Triffids then the only people I would offend with that last statement are people with Downs Syndrome, and I could easily take one of those guys in a fight).
A remarkably long winded way of telling you, the dear reader, that I am easily bored.
I'm bored of writing this now.
Boredom is a dangerous state, if you think about it it's one of the most dangerous or miraculous mental states to be in as a human being.
A saying that I am quite fond of is "Necessity is the mother of all invention". I like it, it strikes true with me. Look at the mad advances made by the super powers during the Second World War. The race for the Jet Engine and ultimately, the big kicker, the big bomb. Game over.
My guess is that these things would have been invented anyway, just not as quickly and maybe with a little more care. A rhetorical statement there, it matters not now. In the time of greatest need, the human mind will excel to an extent that is quite amazing when reflected upon in calmer times. Of course, the big bomb is arguably a step back in terms of human development, but the sheer shape of the whole process is stunning. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.
In total and utter contrast to the time of greatest need, is the time of greatest indulgence. No desperate needs, no defending ones family with ones life on the front line for necessities sake. Just indulgence. The Roman Empire fell apart on it's own sickness, debauchery was rife. The concept of a vomitorium is immense in it's simplicity. A place to be sick, and get off on it. An actual specific place!
This is almost approaching my relationship with boredom. It is the bane of my life, in every single aspect. I have the attention span of a Triffid with Downs Syndrome (this is an equal opportunities blog, I figured as there are no such thing as Triffids then the only people I would offend with that last statement are people with Downs Syndrome, and I could easily take one of those guys in a fight).
A remarkably long winded way of telling you, the dear reader, that I am easily bored.
I'm bored of writing this now.
Sunday 25 February 2007
Frustrations in my cure for boredom.
One of the most successful temporary cures for boredom that I have come across is music, in any form. Whether that release comes from listening to it, playing it or writing it, the buzz is the same for me.
I was never into music as a kid, didn't really become aware of it until I was about 13. Ever since then I always wanted to play an instrument, and didn't finally succumb until I was about 23, haven't looked back since.
Having said all this, I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to have a tune or piece of music in my head that I am simply not talented enough to express. The more you learn, the less you realise you know, and while that sounds negative, it happens to be the most interesting aspect of it for me. The boundaries are truly endless and subsequently the opportunities for boredom are extremely limited.
Right now it is pissing me off to an extent that I want to smash things (another cure for boredom), and am fighting the urge because I am told by others that smashing things is bad.
Now where did I put that fucking hammer?
I was never into music as a kid, didn't really become aware of it until I was about 13. Ever since then I always wanted to play an instrument, and didn't finally succumb until I was about 23, haven't looked back since.
Having said all this, I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to have a tune or piece of music in my head that I am simply not talented enough to express. The more you learn, the less you realise you know, and while that sounds negative, it happens to be the most interesting aspect of it for me. The boundaries are truly endless and subsequently the opportunities for boredom are extremely limited.
Right now it is pissing me off to an extent that I want to smash things (another cure for boredom), and am fighting the urge because I am told by others that smashing things is bad.
Now where did I put that fucking hammer?
My search for the answer to boredom...
Is there a cure for boredom?
I'm not talking about the little things that different people do to cure it, but a definitive answer, a cure-all, a panacea?
I'm looking for it, and have been searching, sometimes subconsciously, ever since I have been aware of my own being, in short, as long as I can remember. The romantic in me believes that there is an answer to this questing, but the cynic in me screams that I am being far too indulgent with myself and need a slapping. A hard one.
I'm still looking...
I'm not talking about the little things that different people do to cure it, but a definitive answer, a cure-all, a panacea?
I'm looking for it, and have been searching, sometimes subconsciously, ever since I have been aware of my own being, in short, as long as I can remember. The romantic in me believes that there is an answer to this questing, but the cynic in me screams that I am being far too indulgent with myself and need a slapping. A hard one.
I'm still looking...
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