I WILL DESTROY BLOG

SPAIN

2005-06-09T16:20:00.000+01:00

What is about the English and Spain, eh? I dunno. But it’s as good a place as any when you’re on the run from government forces. So I’ve shacked up in a little villa for a couple of months and I have to say, in all honesty, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit. The weather is hot, the beer is reasonably priced and prostitutes walk freely through the streets. At least I think they were prostitutes. They didn’t speak any English so I suppose they could have just been people walking through the streets…

So I shack up in Spain a while until the heats off, when who should I bump into but RICKY MARTIN! That’s right, Latino music star Ricky Martin. I’ve always wanted to meet him ever since I found his autobiography on the floor of a pound shop in Sussex, so I was naturally overjoyed when I met him at the all male nightclub I’m living next to.

We got to chatting about all sorts of things and every couple of drinks I’d say ‘Hey, Ricky, we’re really living the ‘Vi Li La Loca’ now aren’t we?’ And he’d smile and nod and tell me to stop saying it, but in a friendly way, like.

Well he started telling me about himself and it turns out that Latino orientated pop music can actually trace its routes back to Spain, which used to called Latinaria before the war. So Ricky is back in Spain to try and absorb some culture.

“I just can’t hack it anymore, mate.’ He told me. ‘I’ve lost me groove and the ladies don’t cream at me as much as they used to. I’m starting to think I’ll be performing in backwater gay bars for the rest of my life.’

Cheer up Ricky! The world still loves you! Here, have a cigarette. Oh, go on. Here, I’ll light it for you. There we go.

“I am hoping that here in the country of latinaria I can get in touch with my Spanish soul and sell records again.”

Well there’s no chance of that, now, is there Ricky? I mean, you’re a nice bloke and all, but you’re a bit shit, really, aren’t you?

“What the fuck you mean, man? Didn’t you hear my song? They played it at the end of Shrek 2, for fuck’s sake!”

Yeah, well, but it’s a stupid song isn’t? I mean, it goes on about this girl who doesn’t realise that any real champagne is essentially French anyway, doesn’t drink any water and is addicted to a different thing every single day- and you make it sound like a good thing! If you wanna hang around with stupid, drugged up, dehydrated whore-slags then that’s your whistle, but why write a song about it? Face it Ricky, you’re shit!

Well that’s when it got ugly. Ricky punched me right in the face. Now, normally I think I could take Ricky Martin in a straight fight, but I was feeling cowardly so I just broke a beer bottle in his face. Needless to say, Ricky Martin went to casualty and the locals we’re not impressed. Once again I find myself making a sharp exit and moving on to the next country.

I should probably send Ricky a card, really. I was a bit out of order in retrospect and he didn’t really deserve massive facial wounds. Even if he is shit.

FRANCE

2005-04-05T14:31:00.000+01:00

I get off the plane in Southern France and am immediately pleased to notice this is the first country I have visited in my ‘Round the World Blog’ that doesn’t end in ‘land.’

Surely this is a good omen.

It wasn’t though, because as I stepped off the plane I was run over by truckers on their way to a protest. ‘Sorry.’ Said the trucker as he crumpled my spine, ‘but we’ve got tourists to annoy!’

I lay there bleeding quietly for a while until some kindly peasants took me to a hospital where I was treated by smug doctors who took every pain to remind me of how medieval English hospital care was. Fuck them and their poncy healthcare- if you can’t take the occasional misdiagnosis and professional misconduct then you don’t deserve to get better.

Anyway, I was laid up in hospital for yet another month… which got me thinking- ‘This is the second time I’ve been seriously injured in my fantasy blog- why can’t I have a fantasy where things go right?’

Realising this, I went back in time and avoided getting hit by a truck. Then I realised that this was impossible, and, once again I woke up in a hospital bed- this time in a different part of France. Apparently I was in a boating accident and none of that trucker business actually happened anyway.

Needless to say this has been a very confusing and disorientating start to my time in France.

Well, knowing that my time in the great country of accordion music was short- I decided to get right to the point- nuclear testing.

Many people visit France for various reasons, some for the atmosphere, some for the culture, some because France is one of the few places left in the world where smoking is still considered cool and being a skinny gay weakling is still considered ‘chic’. But me- I come for the nuclear testing.

Wanting to sample at least some of the cultural swamp of France before my experiments, I fix myself a snail and horse-cock sandwich, washed down with a glass of pureed frog wine. I’m not sure why I even bothered to eat this, because, predictably, I just threw it up on someone’s face five minutes afterwards- but I always think you have to make the effort when your in a foreign country.

So I get down to my nuclear testing viz-a-viz the DIY splitting of the atom. All you have to do (or so the theory goes) is take an ordinary sheet of paper and then tear it up as small as you can until you finally tear it into its component atoms. Then you smack fuck out of the atoms with a hammer. Theoretically (and I think I’m right on this one.) this should produce a nuclear explosion.

Needless to say, I rip up my paper, smack it with a hammer, and- lo and behold- I level half of the South of France in a cataclysmic nuclear blast.

God knows why I wasn’t killed along with the several thousand unfortunate bystanders. It might have something to do with the amount of marmite I ate as a child- but this is a working theory.

Anyway, long story short, I leg it before anyone cottons on that I blew up France.

Next stop- anywhere but here.

GREENLAND

2005-02-15T14:25:00.000Z

Greenland is full of fucking Ice. I'm emotionally confused and I don't know what to say. I've had enough of this damned 'around the world blog.' The world is a cruel and unfair place. Oh well. Maybe my next stop at France will cheer me up.

ICELAND

2005-02-15T14:18:00.000Z

My plane has just landed at Iceland. I don't see any ice. This is blatant false advetising. I tell the air waitress that I'm not setting foot off the plane until I see some damned Ice. She brings me a cola...with ice. She probably thinks she's funny. She's not. She is, however, now on my revenge list.

I'm not going to give Iceland the satisfaction of a visit. I'm just going to stay on the plane until we set off for Greenland.

HOLLAND

2005-02-01T14:44:00.000Z

As I fly from Ireland (in a plane… I can’t actually fly.) a little piece of nothing enters my brain-
Oscar Wilde was a great Irish wit and writer. Does this mean that Ireland is a country that produces great minds and personalities? If so, we have to take into consideration that Oscar Wilde was a bender, and therefore Ireland produces people who take it up the bum.

I think the moral of this little distraction is that you can’t judge an entire country by one dead guy.

This conclusion gets me neatly into Holland, where, or so I’ve heard, it literally rains drugs and prostitutes. I’ve never been before so I’m not sure how this meteorological abnormality is possible, but my mate Dave says its true so I suppose I should just operate on the assumption that he’s right and not, as I am oft to think, just a twat who talks bollocks.

I get off the plane and step into the Hollandish weather, which is exactly like Englandish weather, so, so far, the weather on my ‘round the world blog’ had been crappy.

It does not rain drugs and whores in Holland. I am more than a little disappointed.

But on the plus side- you can smoke dope without fear of authority figures stoving your head in, you can sleep with beautiful women for a fraction of the price of going out on a date with one (with less chance of getting diseased), and there’s a legal orgy a couple of times a year.

I like Holland.

Apparently there’s some windmills and trams I’m supposed to look out for, but, frankly, everything is taking a backseat to the whore and drug fuelled psycho binge I have planned for myself.

Later, as I crawl along the Amster-damn streets, crying happily to myself and trying to ignore the small blue pixie resting on my shoulders, I come across a fellow English man doing exactly the same thing.
“You do know there’s a small blue pixie on your shoulders, don’t you?” He says.
“Ahehehehehehehee.” I say. And then I fall down and laugh for about three days.

Now, red-eyed and cock-sore, I prepare to leave Holland- not falling into the trap that usually awaits the English man in this almost Babylon; that of moving to Holland and then spending the rest of your days too stoned to do anything and eventually dieing homeless. I’m going to save that one for my retirement.

I leave this wonderfully liberal country with a tear in my eye and an itch in my crotch.

Next stop Iceland.

IRELAND

2005-01-20T13:12:00.000Z

I flew into the Emerald Isles courtesy of Irish Regent Airways. I was a bit dubious about flying with them at first, but apparently the abbreviation is just an unhappy coincidence. In all actuality the flight was quite uneventful and I completely failed to be exploded at any time.

I was quite optimistic when landing in Ireland, which is apparently one of the happiest places on Earth bar Disney Land and Surrey, and I was looking forward to a warm sense of hospitality and, possibly, leprechauns.

To be honest my real reason for including Ireland in my Blog Around The World was simply the possibility of Leprechauns. I figure that if I catch one, torture it until it tells me where its god damned gold is, I could make a fortune and hire assassins to kill all of my many, many enemies.

Sadly, there were no leprechauns. I did have a run in with one likely looking chap though, and was halfway through jamming a red-hot poker up his arse before he confessed he simply had a growth defect. I apologised profusely and the chap was surprisingly good-humoured about it.
“It happens all the time.” He laughed as he limped away to casualty…

Anyway.

I stopped in at an olde Irish pub for a pint or two of Guinness. It wasn’t really an olde pub at all: in fact, the building had been completed less than six months ago, but, apparently, it was an olde Irish pub regardless.

When I got into a pub I was completely shocked by the lack of bicycles on walls, pictures of famous Irish persons, ginger people dressed in green and rustic odours I’ve come to associate with all things Irish. Apparently they only pull that crap to lull in gullible foreigners. They didn’t even serve stew for christsakes.

I was disappointed to tell you the truth. It strikes me as odd that I have to go all the way to Ealing for an authentic Irish pub experience. Oh well. The people were as friendly as advertised and we all got really smashed on the foul-smelling potato juice known as stout.

I was halfway through singing a merry song, when, all of a sudden, I was grabbed by a group of guys in balaclavas, blindfolded and thrown in the back of a van. I must admit, I was confused- this was Southern Ireland after all.

We drove for what seemed like hours until my blindfold was taken off and a light was shone in my eyes.
“Just do as we say and you wont get hurt.” Came a gruff Irish voice.
Ha! I thought. That old chestnut! Last time a group of masked men said that to me I couldn’t walk properly for a week!

Fortunately though, violent gang rape was not on my kidnappers mind. I listened in growing confusion as I he told me about his plans to get into a bank and how I was somehow central to them. Then it occurred to me- it was simply a case of mistaken identity! The group of robbers clearly had heard that I was a ‘banker’ when in actuality I was just a ‘wanker’!

Oh we all had a good laugh about that one. The lads were surprisingly alright about everything and let me off with a bullet in the back of the knee. I managed to crawl thirty miles, chuckling to myself all the way, to the nearest hospital.

There I slipped peacefully into a coma and didn’t awake ‘till just now.

Apparently I’ve been unconscious for a week! Which has put my Round The World Blog seriously behind schedule!

With this in mind, I limp away to the airport- next stop, Holland.

SCOTLAND

2005-01-13T16:55:00.000Z

I take the train up to Scotland, just to experience a little more of this archaic, barbaric, totally worthless means of transport. To my surprise and delight I find that the Northern line is one of the few trains left in England to have a smoking section. I don’t normally smoke on trains, but seeing as the opportunity to smoke in public is fast becoming outlawed in this piece-of-shit island we live on, I thought I’d smoke about seventeen packs of cigarettes and twelve cigars.

I had a delightful conversation with some chaps from Newcastle about how all southern people were essentially poofs and that Northern people had a great sense of humour. However, when I told them all they were bunch of moronic, worthless wastes of skin they failed to see the funny side and punched me quite a few times. I would have fought back but I couldn’t breathe properly because of all those cigarettes.

Oh well. I knew I’d get in at least one fight this close to Scotland so I wasn’t too upset.

The train pulled into jock territory and I was, at first, quite impressed by the large mountains. Where I come from the ground is flat, and that suits me fine, but the mountains were quite impressive nevertheless.

Some jock guy next to me seemed awfully proud of the mountains and the mist that accompanied them. I couldn’t see why. I mean, its not as if the Scottish people built the mountains or anything, is it? They were just there. Nothing to be proud of. And the mist? The Jock chap went on about how bracing the Scottish weather was. I’m going to assume that ‘bracing’ means ‘shit’ just like all the other weather in the U.K.

I told the guy he was a deluded jerk and then ran off the train before he could catch me.

Edinburgh (which is actually pronounced Edingburough) is a city filled with nice looking old buildings. Like the queen mum used to be before she died. Except not a building. And not nice looking.

In retrospect that analogy was rather poorly thought out.

Anyhoo, I wasn’t too hot on the nice old buildings because, lets face it, there just an excuse for lazy minded people not to build nice new buildings instead. Heritage my pimpled arse! Live in the now! What’s done is done and we shouldn’t dwell in the past!

With this in mind I went into the nearest pub to offend someone.

There are many ways to annoy or offend the Scots, here are a few.

a) Point out that a kilt is a dress, no matter what they say.
b) Tell them bagpipes are shit.
c) Say Haggis is shit
d) Say their whisky is over rated.
e) Tell them their football team is great and then laugh, point and do a mocking jig.

Well, I said all of these things, but, surprisingly, because my grandmother’s uncle was Scottish and of a certain clan, I was accepted as family and not pummelled to a greasespot as I originally anticipated.

Oh well. Weirdos.

I was surprised by the amount of Scottish flags I saw lying about on cars and stuff. I mean, I already knew what country I was in, and doubtless, so did the Scots, so what’s with all the flags? If they wave their flags in other countries I could understand it- that’s just plain old pissing off foreigners- but in your own country? That’s just kind of gay.

I asked a homeless person about this and he let me in on a secret. Apparently, there are so many Scottish flags in Scotland because they want to convince foreigners that they’re actually a proper country rather than a bunch of hairy squatters who couldn’t take a hint when the Roman’s moved in.

Of course, my theory is that the Scots are bunch of unnecessarily pugnacious bastards and wave their flags so some unsuspecting English guy comes along, asks about the flags, and then they pick a fight with him and thirty of their mates jump out of the shadows, beat you to a pulp and take your wallet.

I suspect this because this is exactly what happened to me.

Oh well. I wanted to take my ‘round the world blog’ from a typical tourist point of view, and I just wouldn’t be a tourist if I didn’t get headbutted in Scotland at least once.

Next stop, Ireland.

Around the World in 80 Blogs (or less...)

2005-01-11T14:34:00.000Z

LONDON

Day one of my fantastic around the world trip and, rather than trying to be clever about anything, I thought I’d start in London, seeing as its in the same country I live in. I know that there are many great cities in England, and many shit ones, but one of the prime objectives of my ‘round the world trip’ is to approach each destination through the virgin eyes of a typical tourists, and, as all tourists believe that London is in fact the only part of England and everything else is a rancid swamp land inhabited only by ghosts and demons, I thought I’d operate on that same assumption.

Oddly enough, this assumption is shared by most Londoners as well.

As I take the train down to my first destination, I check through my belongings. Wanting to look as much a tourist as possible, I have stolen the clothes of a homeless person and bought a backpack that’s far too big for me. Also, I haven’t shaved for a month and have been practising my gormless facial expression.

My inventory consists of:

a) 1 change of clothes. For my change of clothes I thought I’d bring a trenchcoat and Stetson, as these items of clothing seem to be appropriate for pretty much everywhere. At least, so the theory goes.

b) A camera. Because I wouldn’t be a tourist if I didn’t have a fucking camera now, would I?

c) Traveller’s cheques. In order to buy things.

Satisfied that I have everything I could possibly need for my ‘round the world trip’ I catch a brief nap before entering Luton, which, apparently, is on the way to London.

As I sleep I dream. Dream of the reason for this crazy quest. You see, it turns out that there’s this bank, right? And they're not doing very well, so some chap wanted to save the day for them and bet the guy who was doing them out of business a huge amount of money that I could go around the world in 80 blogs or less. I don’t know why he picked me. I think he was pissed. Anyway, the bets on now and I have 80 blogs or less in which to travel the globe.

I don’t know what’s in it for me. No-one’s giving me any money or anything…

Oh well. Action is my reward, and it beats the quiet life of a barman cum office clerk. It’s nice to have a quest once in a while, even if the reasons for said quest are a little vauge.

So I get to London and for a while I’m impressed by the large buildings. Then I think, fuck it, there only like small buildings except bigger, aren’t they? So I stop being impressed and look at the floor instead.

On my way to Buckingham Palace (apparently a popular tourist destination) I am jostled by many people with mobile phones who don’t seem to realise they’re walking into me. For a while I’m convinced I’ve gone invisible, but then I realise- they’re all a bunch of twats.

I arrive at the Palace and don my cat suit. Why a cat suit you ask? Well, isn’t it obvious? My plan was to wait around in my cat suit until the Queen walks past and then shout “Well? A cat and look at the Queen you know!”

In my head this was really funny and I could imagine the Queen being quite impressed and giving me a knighthood or something. Unfortunately I was moved on by authorities, who thought I was connected to some sort of ‘Fathers for Children’ movement. I tried to explain to them that I don’t even like kids, but they weren’t having any of it and were quite rough with me.

To cheer myself up I went to a nightclub to spend some of my meagre funds getting drunk. ‘The Purple Pussy Cat’ was a lovely place with an upbeat atmosphere and jovial clientele. No birds, though, which I thought was a bit weird.

Oddly, everyone I talked to was not originally from London, they had all moved there and were now too scared to move anywhere else because of the vampires and ghosts. Apparently, everyone who is born in London lives in a tunnel system underground, where it is less crowed and less full of twats.

I got really smashed and woke up the next day with a bit of a headache. I said goodbye to the chap I’d woke up next to (I can’t remember his name) and make my way to the train station. The next stop is Edinburgh in Scotland, and I feel a slight surge of excitement as my ‘Round the world trip’ takes me to my first foreign country.

Hangover season...

2005-01-11T14:03:00.000Z

Hey hey.. its january!!

...

In light of the fact that nothing interesting is likely to happen to me in the immediate future, rather than offend the countenance of anyone who still may read this bloging blog by typing any old boring shit about my day, I thought I'd just fabricate my life for the next couple of weeks.

So, as from now, I will be blogging about the 'round the world trip' I'm going to take.

Does it really matter if I don't actually go 'round the world'?

No, because this is the wonderful world of disinformation, and that's what the internet is all about really isn't it?

So fuck you. I can pretend to go around the world if I damn well want.

Fucking lists...

2005-01-06T17:25:00.000Z

It seems that every blogger worht his/her salt (about 5 grams on average) is writing a 'what I remember about last year' list...

well you know what I remember about last year?

Reading a load of shit blogs.

All blogs are shit. ESPECIALLY MINE.

What I did in 2004:

Read some shit blogs.
Wrote some shit blogs.

The worrying part? Most of people's 'what I did last year' lists seem to be about amusingly 'random' things that you would have had to have been there to find the slightest bit interesting. Not one genuinely interesting sounding thing at all. So I'm not going to insult your intelligence or my mighty intellect by writing one of those shitty lists.

Fact is, I have a pretty poor short/long term memory anyway, and often have to rely on others to point out what I did in which time frame. It doesn't change my point, though. All blogs are shit.

Well done 2004- the year of the catalouged mundane!
Hooray!

Boogedy boogedy.

2005-01-04T16:58:00.000Z

Still can't be bothered to write anything. I'm going over that God story until its good enough to consider sending off to magazines etc. In the mean time, here is another begining of a stor... though I haven't decided if it's going to be a short story yet. It's one of them there 'fantasy' types so don't blame me if I use the word 'Goblin'. Enjoy.

It wasn’t always like this…

The old man hunkered down by the storm drain, the ground dry from an unusually mild winter. He lay back against the wall, readjusted the tattered ends of his long, grey coat and fished a packet of cigarettes from the recesses of his under clothes. With a steady hand and practised flare he lit, inhaled and leant his head back, watching the curls of blueish smoke disperse slowly into the New York sky.
He liked New York, he really did. Of all the cities in all the world he had travelled, the crass charm of New York never ceased to bring a cynical smile to his cracked features. He liked the self-obsessed businessmen, the women who talked too loudly about nothing, the catcalls of the hoodlums and the unpunctuated shouts of the crazy. In the clamour and bustle of New York City the old man felt he could truly relax.
Squinting slightly in the afternoon sun, he looked out into the street, where, in the life and death struggles of city traffic, one cabbie was shouting abuse to another, while the other man screamed back in a completely different language. The two verbal combatants, arguing over reasons unapparent, screamed incoherently at one another- each unwilling to back down from an argument neither man could possibly understand. The incident might have amused the old man- had it not echoed a similar incident the day before… and the day before that.
The old man sat back again, brushed the long, thinning trestles of his grey hair behind his head and closed his eyes. He enjoyed the anonymity of living in a city with so many people. The more people, it seemed, the more easily one could survive without talking to anyone. Not that he had always had such a reclusive attitude, it was just that, over a life time many would find hard to measure, the old man had grew tired of the faces that came and went so rapidly from his world. He had grown tired of lovers he could not recall, grown tired of friends he would have died for, brothers in arms, fading so surreptitiously from memory.
He had grown tired of many things. But he liked New York. Liked to sit on its streets and, circumstances permitting, smoke a few cigarettes while the world whizzed by like a carousel. Liked to enjoy the mercies of a mild winter, when it was possible. Liked to watch the rat race from the sidelines, knowing, with a tired relief, that this was not his world to worry about anymore.
With a sudden start the old man sat bolt upright- he had forgotten again! So easy to forget things when one was relaxed, he always thought. Fishing around in the muggy warmth of his overcoat he retrieved a small china bowl, with a note attached that said, in delicate handwriting, ‘Thank you.’ He placed the bowl in front of him and lay back.
He was not adverse to begging or beggars. The change he would accumulate kept him in cigarettes and night shelters, and he never bothered anyone- not even those self righteous types who might make remarks about getting a job, or kick over his change bowl.
No sooner had the old man laid out the bowl than a few coins splashed noisily into it, twenty cents or so in copper. The old man looked up at the trim young businessman who had dropped the coins.
“God bless, sire.” Said the old man, his clear and clean voice contrasting oddly with his vagabond appearance.
The young man frowned slightly behind wiry spectacles. “You English?” He asked.
“Only by habit,” The old man replied, smiling at some inner joke.
“I have relatives in England.” Said the businessman. For a moment the old man thought the businessman was going to ask if he knew his relatives. He wouldn’t have been surprised- the jovial arrogance of the Americans never ceased to tickle him. Half of them seemed convinced Britain was a small town in the middle of the ocean. Far from the truth- the old man thought- at least, far from the truth I remember.
“I’ve never been,” said the businessman. “Is it nice?”
The old man sucked briefly on his cigarette. “It has its nice parts. Though none of its former glory these days…”
The businessman frowned again, not understanding. “So, what brought you to America?” He asked.
The old man gestured around him with fingerless gloves. “I came here to retire.” He grinned. The businessman chuckled and dropped another few cents into the begging bowl.
“You shouldn’t smoke, you know.” Said the young man. “You’d have a lot more money if you didn’t smoke. Plus- they’re very bad for you.”
“They remind me of home.” Said the old man, and looked thoughtfully at the glowing end of his Malboro.
The businessman, for the third time, frowned in puzzlement and then walked away, shaking his head as he went.
The old man continued to stare at the glowing embers of his cigarette, and, as he did everyday, began to remember a time when things were different…

It wasn’t always like this…
I remember a time…

…When the world writhed in adolescence- Gods danced lightening foxtrots in the sky and the fabric between the realities, the probable and the impossible, were still thin and pliable…
When Urth still struggled to find its face- the energy we called magik still crackled in the secret places and mankind shared his podium with other races…
When the universe conformed to different rules…
When life was still struggling to find its footing…
When the line between reality and perception was somewhat more blurred…
…This was the age of heroes.

Dantus Flynn stared hard at the end of his burning cigarillo, lost in contemplation. Around him a faint breeze ruffled the pleasant green of the oak tree he sat against, momentarily distracting the warmth of the late spring sun and blowing tiny fragments of ash from the end of his smoke. Faintly, very faintly, a scream of a dieing man brushed against his slightly pointed ears.
He looked up from his cigarillo and down to the struggle at the caravan, his dark eyes flashing with weary interest. In the distance, at the bottom of the valley, he saw a mercenary fall to his knees with an arrow through his back. Dantus felt a momentary pang of regret. The mercenary’s name had been Hamish. He had been young, with a love of ‘One-up’ and a good story. Dantus was sorry to see him die, but the young swordsman, who had never really been cut out for the mercenary way of life, wasn’t his responsibility anymore than the rest of the hired guard were.
“Why don’t you do something? Anything? It’s a massacre down there! They’ll take everything!” The thin voice of the merchant wobbled with panic as he clutched his sweaty hands to his expensive robe. Dantus continued to contemplate his cigarillo. He wasn’t fond of the merchant, but he had his duty and had dragged him away from the caravan as soon as the Goblin ambush had become apparent. The rest of the mercenaries had put up an expert defence, but the element of surprise and sheer weight of numbers had forced them into a quick retreat. Those who hadn’t fled in time were being polished off quickly by the Goblin bandits.
“Aren’t you listening to me? Do something! I command it!” The clammy face of the merchant, who’s caravan was quickly being plundered to nothing, was clenched into a ball of frustrated agony.
Dantus looked up from the glowing embers of his cigarillo, his dark eyes as flat and foreboding as an underground lake. “Perhaps you need reminding of the nature of our contract?” He hissed, rising up to his full height. The merchant backed off somewhat, the fury in his features giving way quickly to fear. Even the merchant, who’s arrogance was surpassed only by his appetites, knew the folly of angering a demon-born. Dantus, with his shady features and lethal reputation, was an imposing figure, and the merchant was made uneasy at the way Dantus’ hand would glide, almost unthinkingly, to the chain wrapped around his shoulder.
“We have it down in black and white.” Continued Dantus, advancing on the merchant, prodding ahead with a bony finger. “You hired me as a personal bodyguard until we reach Corrybi. The cargo, the other Mercs- not my responsibility. I am contracted simply to protect you. Now, we can renegotiate the contract here and now, but I should tell you…” The demon-born shifted the cigarillo in his mouth, “…My renegotiation fees are less than reasonable.”
The merchant flabbergasted a moment, “But…But I’m paying you nearly triple what the other guards received!”
“That’s because you’re paying for the best!” Grinned Dantus. “You’re still alive aren’t you?”
Almost as if to contest the point, an arrow from the direction of the caravan thudded into the ground near the merchant’s boots. The merchant, his nerves finally strained beyond his endurance, collapsed with a foppish wail.
Dantus sighed. Down at the caravan, the Goblins had mopped up the last of the resistance from the mercenary team and were now looking for more kills. One of the short, brutish creatures, armed with a bow and dressed in the leathery rags of a typical bandit-fighter, was screeching to his comrades. Any human bandit probably would have taken the cargo by now and not wasted time with stragglers, but Goblins, it seemed, always had something to prove… providing the odds were in their favour.
Dantus straightened the collar of his large, blood-red greatcoat and quickly counted his opposition. Of the horde that had raided the caravan only thirteen or so remained in any condition for further fighting. A group of the survivors approached now, edging their way up the slope of the dale. Dantus sighed wearily again and manoeuvred to a flat piece of ground where he could intercept the assailants at a safe distance from the unconscious merchant.
Preparing for battle, he finished his cigarillo and readied his weapon- Scorpio. The demon-born carried three weapons. His two side arms he used for cramped quarters, and they consisted of what he liked to call his ‘cleaver and sticker’. The first was a heavy short sword, originally a broad sword but blunted and filed down at the tip to make a small and weighty, cleaver-like weapon. The counter part to this clumsy but powerful tool was a long, elegant and wickedly sharp dagger. The two side arms crossed at the small of his back, looking odd but complimentary in their leather sheaves.
His weapon of choice, however, was Scorpio. He unwrapped the long chain from his shoulder in a fluid motion revealing a diamond shaped spike at one end of it and a three-pronged grapnel at the other. It was an unusual looking weapon by anyone’s standards, and perhaps only a demon-born would have the guts to use it in real combat. To Dantus Flynn, Scorpio was a more than adequate weapon for most situations- especially when out numbered.
The first of the Goblins, evidentially the leader, crested the top of the hill, a crude sabre designed for human hands rested clumsily in his monkey-like digits. Predictably, the goblin waited until five more of his comrades had crested the hill before challenging Dantus.
“You have gold?” He uttered, speaking High Common- the language of choice in the Crown Dominion.
Dantus smirked. The Goblin had unwisely left half of his remaining force to guard the caravan from any opportunistic scavengers. An amateurish mistake, but typical of a Goblin, who were so often cocky when they believed they had the initiative.
“I have gold, yes.” Said Dantus, waving a leather purse and letting it fall to the ground with an alluring chink.
The Goblin eyed the purse hungrily. “You give us gold I promise to let you live.” He said. Dantus heard the barely muffled snigger of one of the Goblins at the back of the group.
He studied his foe again, visualising strikes and defences he might use, discerning, with the mind of an experienced soldier, the best mode of attack. Two of the Goblins held bows drawn taught and ready, the other three all bore stolen mercenary blades, large and unwieldy to their shorter frames but more than likely a favourable trade for their original weapons. Only one carried a shield.
The group of Goblin fighters did not stand alert, they were slouching in their over confidence.
“I have a better idea.” Said Dantus, shifting his stance slowly, readjusting his grip on Scorpio. “How about- you run away now and I promise not to hunt you down and make you watch as I butcher your family?”
The Goblin’s almost cheerful smirk twisted into a snarl of fury. “Stupid human!” He sneered. “Now you die!”
“Oh, I’m not human.” Said Dantus and swung the bladed end of Scorpio over his head. By the time the chain had whipped a full circle it had extended the necessary distance to sever the head of the lead Goblin completely from its neck.
The Goblin troupe sat stunned momentarily, as the body of their leader, still standing, jetted brownish blood from the hole above its shoulders. One of the sword holding Goblins began screeching and babbling as the head of its former master came to a rest at his foot.
With a thump, the dead body fell to the ground.
Dantus smirked, Scorpio resting in his hands as though it had never left.
“Now.” He said. “Who else want some?”

Final part

2004-12-30T17:03:00.000Z

Here's the last of that short story. It turned out a littel more soppy than I intended, so I'm not sure if the title's appropriate anymore. Here it is anyway.

Waiting for God. (To Fuck Off and Leave Me Alone.) PART 4.

I opened my mouth to reply, but decided against it. My inevitable response in the face of uncertainty, I knew, would more than likely take the form of a hackneyed swearword, so I cut myself short and opted to drink some more of the camomile tea. It had a sort of aftertaste to it that I wasn’t sure of.
“So what do you do all day?” Said God, politely.
I thought for a bit. I didn’t want to say ‘wank’ or ‘mope’, though the two words came quickest to mind. “I play video games.” I said.
God looked confused.
“Surely you know what video games are?” I said.
“Oh, I know about video games.” Said God. “It just bothers me that you can play them all day. Surely there are more constructive ways to spend your time?”
God clearly didn’t understand the adolescent endeavour. Of course there were more constructive ways to spend my time- but none of them were as conveniently close at hand as my Playbox.
“Obviously you’ve never played any decent video games.” I said, slotting a disc into the console. “Look.”
I watched God’s face as the game’s introductory movie sequence kicked in. For someone who knew the very secrets of existence, he looked pretty impressed.
“What is this?” He breathed.
“Virtual City.” I said. “What you do is, you build up your towns and stuff into cities and just… you know… make ‘em bigger and better.”
God watched the screen as I demonstrated; building a few residential blocks and watching them grow.
“ You do all that with the push of a button?” Said God.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I replied.
“Impressive.” He said.
“You want to see what’s really cool?” I said. “Watch this.” I pressed a sequence of buttons and the screen began to shake and shimmer, there was a deep rumbling sound followed by screams and explosions. Parts of my virtual city began to catch fire.
“Hell fire!” Exclaimed God. “You’re world is burning!”
“Relax.” I said, worried at the excitement in God’s voice. “It’s just a simulated earthquake. You get them sometimes. You can even have tornados and floods and even a weird monster thing that stomps about… It’s pretty cool.”
“That’s brilliant!” Said God. “Can I have a go?”
“Sure.” I said, and handed God the control, which he accepted with enthusiasm.
I watched him play for a while, amused at seeing the old man so fixated by a computer game. Eventually, I lay back on my bed and relaxed.

I must have nodded off, because the next thing I know I hear the front door slam and my mum call my name.
“Darrell?”
I panic and bolt upright, God is still on the Playbox, so rapt is his attention I don’t think he even heard my mum calling. I think quickly as I hear the sound of feet coming up the stairs. Somehow I doubt I’ll be able to explain the presence of a strange old man being in my room to my mum’s satisfaction.
Before I can think of what to do my mother bursts into my room, her usual look of permanent annoyance pinching her brow.
“Darrell! How many times…” She stops and looks to where God is sitting, I daren’t even follow her gaze. “Who’s this?” She says.
I look over to where God is sitting and double take in shock. Where before had sat an old man who had no place in a teenagers bedroom, now sat a young man, of my own age, slouching in a tracksuit and baseball cap.
“Hiya.” Said the boy.
I thought fast. “Mum, this is God…frey. Godfrey.” I said.
My mum’s look of confusion snapped back to her standard issue of vague irksomeness. “You didn’t tell me you were having friends over.” She said.
“Yeah…um… Godfrey’s new in town. Thought I’d make him welcome.” I said.
My mum looks to God and back to me. “Aw. That’s nice. You forgot to take the bin out last night.” And then she goes.
I wait until my heartbeat quietens before I speak to God again. “That was close.” I said.
“Mmm?” Said God, still giving the screen his full attention.
“That was my mum.” I said, pointedly.
“She seems nice.”
“No. What I mean is, you can’t stay here!”
“Why not?” Says God.
“Because if my mum finds out you’re God she’ll have a fit! She’ll go mental!”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“She’s an atheist.” I said. “I should imagine finding God in her house is the last thing she wants.”
God considered the problem for a while. “I’m nearly at level eight.” He said reproachfully.
“I can’t risk it.”
God clucked his tongue. “I tell you what, what if I can guarantee your mother wont find me?”
“How the hell could you do that?”
“Let there be privacy.” He muttered and clicked his fingers again.
“Darrell?” Came the voice of my mum. “I’m going out. I’ll be gone indefinitely.” I heard the front door slam once again.
I gaped a moment, floundering for some objection. “O.K” I conceded. “You can stay. But only ‘till level ten.”
God grinned and turned back to his game.

We played into the night, and I have to admit I had a really good time. Playing video games with God was like discovering them all over again. I did wonder, now and again, why a deity who held the power of creation and destruction in his fingertips would use his time off to play a game like Virtual City. I supposed it was a similar phenomenon to the drivers who stopped to relax at service stations and ended up pumping money into the ‘Danger Driver 2’ arcade- or an off duty soldier who plays ‘Operation Destruction’ in his living room.
We played longer than I had expected to and now and again we talked and laughed and drank camomile tea and for a brief period I didn’t once think of sex, hate, violence or any combination of the three.
We played until my eyes grew heavy and my last memory of the night, now morning, was lying on my bed watching the mirthful old man, his grey eyes twinkling as he said “Yes! Level twelve!”
I fell asleep.

I awoke the next morning and felt for certain it had all been a dream. There was a the bittersweet moment of melancholy you get sometimes, in the hazy confused periods of awakening recollection, when you realise that what you thought had been a happy memory was merely a work of fiction penned by your imagination while you slept.
I sat up, still fully clothed, and gazed blearily around my room. The power light for the Playbox was still on, though the television wason stand-by. I turned the TV back on and, sure enough, a paused game of Virtual City was still in progress. I looked at the city that had been built. It was quite good, not bad at all, for a beginner.
Looking around my eyes fell on a scrap of paper by the Playbox control pad. There was a message:

Dear Darrell,
Thank you for a great time. I best be getting back to work.
Cheers.
God.

I looked at the note for some time and was surprised to find I felt neither happy nor sad. The old familiar apathy was creeping back up on me and the only emotion I could say I felt for certain was anger. Though I couldn’t tell you what I was angry about.

I kept the note. Not so much for sentimentality, but also as evidence. Not for anyone else, but for myself- to prove that what had happened had actually happened. For a few years I kept hold of the note and kept a box of camomile tea at the back of the pantry- just in case. But I never saw God again.
I wasn’t sure if a personal message from God would be counted as a holy relic or not, it certainly didn’t contain anything profound, even though it did prove, to myself at least, that God existed. The argument was solved for me later, in my university years, when, stoned out of my head, I decided the note wasn’t that important after all and tore it up for roaches.
Yeah, that’s right, I went to university. No, I’m not going to tell you that my brief encounter with the Almighty set me on the straight and narrow. Truth be told, it’s hard to stop being an arsehole once it’s become and every day habit. But I grew up, as everybody does, for better or worse. I grew away from my tracksuits and baseball caps, my glue sniffing and hanging around outside super markets. Away from the constant anger.
I grew into an introspective kind of guy, the kind of guy that talks metaphysics when he’s had a few, and for a while I said ‘man’ a lot and smoked a lot of weed. But I grew away from that too.
I grew into a man with a family, a man who’s kids would one day grow up to lock themselves in their room and not speak to him, a man who would argue with his wife over little, little things. And, like all men, I sometimes did wonder if there was a point to anything at all…
In short, my brush with divinity did not turn me into a spiritual person (though I did, when I was still young, have a brief fixation with the number twelve which I eventually, and regretfully, got tattooed on my shoulder blade.) I was not reborn. But I did know, that somewhere, there was a God who liked camomile tea and video games- and for some reason, when I lay in bed in the early hours of morning, next to my soundly sleeping wife, that cheered me immensely.

I told you I never saw God again. A bit of a lie on my part, really. I did, maybe. I think I saw him again, just now, while I’m waiting in this stark white room for them to remove the cancer. No, not of the lung- I stopped smoking only a little way into my twenties- but cancer nevertheless.
I’ve just said a goodbye to my wife, who cried, and my kids, who are doing there own growing up now, finding out there own points and meanings, and I thought I would be alone now with the lights and the doctors. I wondered if I see anyone again as they put the mask over my face.
The gas smelt more pleasant than I had expected… a little like camomile.
And suddenly I knew. I knew that in the waiting room, reading a newspaper with his washy grey eyes, a bearded old man sat, taking a breather.

As I lose consciousness for what may or may not be the final time, I’m surprised to find I’m neither happy nor sad. Not even angry. Just curious, and, truth be told, even a little optimistic.

More story.

2004-12-30T13:32:00.000Z

Part 3 of that there God Story.
Not sure about the Euro '96 details 'cos I don't follow football. I'll bother to research that bit when I've finished the story.
I might actually finish this one! Tally-ho!

Waiting for God (To Fuck Off and Leave me Alone) Part 3.

The slapping that woke me up was gentle but persistent. I came around gradually, trying to remember what had just happened and whether or not it was time for school yet. I heard a voice calling, though it seemed far away, and I wondered if it was my mum, trying to get me out of bed. A fountain of familiar anger rose up inside of me.
“Fuck off and leave me alone!” I shouted. The effort bought me ‘round to full consciousness. Puzzled, I looked at the sea of pavement that surrounded me at eye level. Little things attracted my attention that I wouldn’t have noticed from a usual point of view-a five pence coin, a shard of broken glass, a half smoked cigarette. I looked at the little treasures with fuzzy interest until realisation burst into my head like a tidal wave. I remembered what had happened. I looked up into the face of God, once again the scruffy old man, worried concern wrinkling his already wrinkled features. I thought back to the face of the titan deity that had made me faint, and wondered, briefly, if I had simply gone mad.
“Are you alright, lad?” Said God.
“Jesus Christ!” I wailed. God looked over his shoulder, as if expecting someone there. He turned back, puzzled.
“That didn’t happen.” I groaned. “Couldn’t have happened.”
“Oh, it happened, alright.” Said God, apologetically. “I normally don’t do that sort of thing but you’re a difficult chap to convince.”
“You’re not God!” I shouted. “You’re… I dunno… You’re not God!”
The old man frowned deeply. It was as close to angry as I had seen him get. “What would you have me do?” He said. “Floods? Rains of Fire? What would it take to convince you?”
Again there was a conflict inside of me. That crotch led bundle of hormones that seemed to be doing most of my thinking these days wanted to ride it out, wanted the mad old bastard to bring on his floods and fire and prove it! But the grown up part, the part that was sitting back and learning and paying attention until it was his time to fly, took over briefly. All that was sensible in me, knew, deep down, that I was in the presence of great power, and that great power was not something you wanted to piss off.
“O.K,” I said, changing my tone to something less hostile. “You’re God. I believe you. I believe you.”
“Thanks.” Said God, and went back to looking at the sky. He began to whistle again.
At seeing God as he had been, the harmless old man rather than the glowing tower of divinity, my fear turned to curiosity. “Why are you here?” I said.
God looked down at me, again seeming as if he had forgotten where he was. “Well, strictly speaking, I’m everywhere.” He said.
“Yeah, obviously.” I muttered. “But why are you, you know, here here?”
“Oh, I’m just taking a breather.” He said.
“A breather?”
“Yes, you know. Like in that restaurant you work at? You take cigarette breaks, but not to smoke, just to get out of the building for a while, yes?”
I froze, shocked again. I was going to ask him how he knew about my part time job when it occurred to me: of course- omniscience.
“Do you do this often, then?” I asked.
“Oh, now and again. Sometimes I manifest myself, you know, just to keep the punters happy. Perform a few of the more personal miracles and such.”
“When was the last time you did that?” I asked.
“Euro ’96, I think it was.” Said God, narrowing his eyes in recollection.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Scotland getting into the second round?”
God beamed “Yes, that’s the one.”
It occurred to me that I was enjoying the conversation. It was a slow and alien realisation. I honestly couldn’t remember when I had actually really enjoyed a conversation. Doing so was impossible with my piss-taking mates (who weren’t really mates but just people I hung around with, fellow be-tracksuited youths who’s idea of humour, like me, involved being a complete prick) or with the family I was feeling increasingly hostile towards for reasons I couldn’t pin point.
I tried to think. The last conversation I had actually enjoyed had been when I was sniffing glue with a friend, but I couldn’t remember what that was, so I did something I never predicted I’d do to a strange old man, least ways one that turned out to be God. I invited him over for a cup of tea. And, to my further surprise, he accepted.

“This is my room.” I said, as I kicked away a pile of laundry to make floor space. My room was the second biggest bedroom in my mum’s semi-detached house on the main road, but there was very little space. Most of the bedroom’s capacity was taken up by laundry or magazines, uncased cd’s and computer games. The only area remotely clear was the desk on which my television and Playbox rested on. I was big into video games- I liked the way they kept me apart from the rest of the world for hours at a time.
“So,” I said. “Cup of tea then?”
God, who had been frowning amusedly at the state of my room, looked up. “Do you have camomile?” He said.
I lived in a low budget household who’s excess income went into lottery tickets and cheap cigarettes. We had no truck with fancy teas. “No.” I said.
“Let there be camomile.” He said, and two mugs appeared on the desk, their contents steaming quietly and filling my (rather pungent) room with a more appealing odour. I picked up the mug and tried some of the tea. It was alright.
“Can you do that with anything?” I said, jovially. “How about- let there be fifty quid?”
God smiled. “It’s not place to give people what they want.” He said. “If you want more money you should stop smoking- you’d soon have fifty pounds.”
“Christ,’ I said. “You sound just like my mum.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘Christ’?” Said God.
“Oh shit, yeah, sorry.” I said. “He’s your son isn’t he.”
“Yes.” Said God, smiling proudly, “My eldest.” He took a wallet out of his coat and flipped it open to reveal a picture of Jesus Christ.
I looked at the picture and tried to think of something polite to say. “You must be very proud?” I managed.
God nodded enthusiastically. “He’s a real chip off the old block.”
“Shame about the business with the cross.” I said, and then wished I hadn’t.
“Yes. A great pity.” Said God.
“Still,” I said, chirpily. “Dying for all our sins and stuff- pretty decent result all ‘round wouldn’t you say? Very noble, sacrificing your son like that…”
God looked uncomfortable. “Well, yes.” He muttered. “Only I didn’t actually sacrifice him, if you see what I mean.”
I didn’t.
“Well, you see, it was never intended for Jesus to die. He was supposed to become a great leader and usher the world into a thousand years of peace and posterity…” Said God.
“But, instead, he was killed?” I said.
“Yes. Bit of a balls up, really.”
I tapped my fingers on my knees for a while, thinking of a way to break the uncomfortable silence.
God coughed and spoke up, changing the subject. “So, where are your family today then?”
“My mum’s at work and my Dad left when I was small.” I said.
“A great shame,’ Said God, and looked like he really meant it. “Do you have any brothers of sisters?”
“I have a little brother.” I said. “He’s at school at the moment.”
“And why are you not a school?” Said God, sipping his camomile tea.
I resisted my snap reaction to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business and instead opted to tell the truth. After all, it was more than likely that God knew the truth anyway.
“I don’t go in on Thursdays.” I said. “It’s double maths. Double maths is shit.”
“Education is important, you know.” Said God. “I gave you a brain for a reason.”
“Yeah, I know.” I spat, hostility burning inside me automatically. “Its just Thursday’s I don’t go in, because of maths. And sometimes not on Tuesdays ‘cos of double Science.”
God shook his head again. It was beginning to annoy me when he did that.
“What?” I said. “It’s not like I’m the only guy who won’t be going in today.”
God tutted. “I have born, from processes your race may never understand, a universe of infinite diversity and wonder. Is it too much to ask that you at least try and understand it?”
“Yeah, well, we don’t learn that sort of thing in school. It’s just maths and social studies and stuff.”
“You know,” said God, reflectively. “I try not to give much away, you know, but there is a very good reason why your brain is developed so much more than, say, a monkey’s.”
“Well, yeah, I know that bit. It’s evolution, isn’t it?”
“And that explains everything, does it?”
“Well. ‘Sposed to. I don’t know. I didn’t turn up for that one.”
God smiled again. “And what,” he said, “Would you say, is the purpose of you? Do you think thousands of years of survival adaptation took place to produce something that sits in its room all day and doesn’t do anything?”
“Steady on!” I said. “Are you having a go? ‘Cos if you are, you can do one, now!”
God waved his hands. “I wasn’t being a nag.” He said. “I was merely pointing out that the your purpose and place in the universe has a lot more to it than evolution and biology. You are a being capable of intense speculation; both abstract and practical- doesn’t that make you wonder? Want to learn?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
God drummed his fingers on his knees. “I see.” He added.
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“You could give me a head start?” I said. “You could just tell me what the point of existence is and then I wouldn’t have to bother with maths and science.”
God sighed. “Well it isn’t that simple is it?”
“Why not?”
“Well,” Said God. “What if I was to tell you that the answer to a question was the number twelve- what would you assume the question was?”
“I dunno.” I said. “Six plus six?”
“Yes.” Said God, “But it could also be ten plus two or nine hundred and two subtracted by eight hundred and ninety. Do you see?”
“No.” I said.
“And that’s why you should go to school.” Mumbled God.

Christmassy

2004-12-29T15:02:00.000Z

Christmas- ate too much, now I feel i'll.
Did, however, get a new computer and lots of cool stuff. Though I haven't set my computer up yet because I'm too busy eating a load of crap and then waking up with these bizzare suger hangovers.

Oh well...

Not much to tell, really. We played a gig, which was o.k in some respects and not o.k in others. I think we went down quite well and warmed up the crowd nicely.

I have killed my phone by dropping it in a pint of lager when I was drunk.

O well. In light of not having the patience to elaborate, here is the second part of that short story:

Waiting for God (To fuck off and leave me alone) Part 2.

The old man shrugged distractedly. “It was nothing.” He muttered.
“No, really.” I said. “You some sort of magician or something? Sleight of hand, that sort of thing?”
The old man clucked his tongue for a while, frowning at nothing in particular while he seemed to mumble over some sort of internal debate. I was on the verge of walking away, concluding that the old fool really was as mad as he looked, when he suddenly looked up with those hazy grey eyes.
“Can you keep a secret?” He said.
I thought about it for a while. Having few friends and, lately, not willing or wanting to converse casually with my family, keeping a secret wasn’t a task that would prove excessively difficult for me. Who was I going to tell? My porn collection?
“Yeah, sure, I can keep a secret.”
The old man leaned in towards me. I leaned back a little in case he was trying to kiss me, or something, but he got close enough to reveal a set of perfectly white teeth and a rebel spark of blue in those stone grey irises. “I’m God,” he said, and tapped his nose conspiratorially.
I didn’t laugh. I hadn’t laughed at anything but poorly scripted sitcoms in a while. I didn’t laugh but I did, as I did in most situations these days, resort to bad sarcasm.
“Oh really?” I said. “Well that’s an astonishing coincidence because I’m Jesus Christ.” I put out my arms in lazy man’s crucifixion pose.
“No you’re not.” Scoffed God. “Stop being silly.”
Again, I was a little taken a back. When ridiculing the clearly insane, one does not expect to be called ‘silly’.
“Fuck off.” I said, as mature retort once again eluded me.
“Is that any way to talk to a deity?” Said God, shaking his head in patronising disappointment.
The unexplained need to hurt or humiliate the so far harmless old man once again bubbled up in my guts, making me clench my fists rhythmically. I turned around for support from the rest of the bus queue. Oddly, no one had seemed to notice that there was a crazy guy who thought he was the Almighty waiting in the same queue. I was on my own.
“If you’re God.” I sneered. “Then the least you could do is make the busses run on time.”
“Done.” Said God, and clicked his fingers. I whipped around as I heard the low whine of an engine and was just in time to see a double-decker bus turn the corner. It stopped with a hiss and the old ladies and young mum began boarding.
I turned to face the old man. He was grinning in an annoyingly cheerful way. “Coincidence.” I said.
“You said ‘on time’ didn’t you?” He said, tapping his wrist where a watch might have been. Confused, I checked my own watch. The time read 11:33. When I had last checked my watch it had been 11:43- ten minutes after the bus was due to arrive.
For a moment I felt sick with shock. Then I pulled myself together. There was no point in even being a teenager if you couldn’t appear dismally disinterested in the face of wonder.
“Yeah, alright,” I said. “I’ll admit- that was pretty good. You changed the time on my watch, yeah? The hand is quicker than the eye and all that?”
“Not just on your watch.” Grinned God.
“Oh, come on now, fuck right off!” I said. The old man winced at the bad language again. “You expect to believe that you’re God and you just reorganised time for my benefit?”
“Yes.” Said God.
“Well I think you’re taking the piss, mate, and I don’t appreciate it.” I looked around the now deserted street. “Come on then!” I shouted. “Where’s the hidden camera? Where’s the twat with the beard? Jokes on me, eh?”
“Who are you shouting at?” Said the old man, sounding genuinely worried. “If you don’t stop shouting like that people will think you’re crazy!”
I laughed, a high-pitched harsh giggle that scared me a little when it erupted from my throat. “I’m crazy? I’m crazy? You think you’re God and I’m the one who’s crazy? Look at you!” I was shouting now. “You look like some wino who’s been sleeping on the streets!”
I thought back to my primary school days, my half-hearted interest in bible stories that weren’t told to children anymore. I remembered seeing God as a massive robed bloke, all flowing curls and glowing light.
“Flowing curls and glowing light? Is that really what impresses people?” Said the old man, shaking his head.
I was confused, feeling more than a little sick now, like any minute I would be waking up. “How did you…?” I began, but I was cut off as the old man snapped his fingers again.
Suddenly, where before there had been the long coated, scruffy old gent, small in stature and slightly hunched, there now stood a figure the size of a house. His body, a brilliant glow, was as muscled as a TV wrestler, powerful arms outstretched from a long billowing robe. Piercing blue eyes burned from the space where a luxurious looking beard and a mane of golden hair met. The whole ensemble eminated a pure, white light. Somewhere, I thought I heard a choir singing ecstatic praise.
He appeared exactly as I had once imagined God- in the days before cynicism and disappointment had eroded my dreams to the mundane and the sexual.
Not knowing what to do, and the feeling of displacement bubbling over to a strong dishwashery fluid in my stomach and legs, I fell down, passing out cold.

Brain Dead

2004-12-24T11:45:00.000Z

I don't know why I'm bothering to blog. My mind is completely empty. I got up too early and I have far to many things taking up my attention to write anything interesting. I also have a mind numbing six hour bar shift starting in about ten minutes. Which isn't nice.

Oh well.

Here is another begininging of a short story, just because.

Waiting For God (To Fuck Off and Leave Me Alone)

I was fifteen when I first started believing in God. It was quite hard not to, really, seeing as he was standing next to me in the bus queue.
He looked like any other man who looks a bit like Father Christmas, really. The sort of grubby over-coated, bearded old gent who could be one step away from homelessness- the gentler cousin of the man who raves constantly through crowded shopping centres until he is moved on by firm but sympathetic authorities.
I waited in the queue, unaware I was in the presence of divinity, and thought about whether to have a fag or not.
Reaching the apex of my junior adolescence, I had taken to, amongst other things, smoking. I was in the hurly-burly process of self-defining and needed a habit more substantial than video games and chronic masturbation. Thus, smoking, camouflaged by commonness in the hackneyed industrial town of my birth, was a safe option for toeing the fringes of adult hood while still maintaining a delusional, pimply mystique of cool.
So I smoked, blatantly and inexpertantly, as all first-timers do, huffing Bolshevik clouds of cancer into iron-grey skies.
As an added bonus smoking gave me a convenient something to do until the buses turned up. Turned up late, more often than not, and sometimes not at all. So today, on a relatively clear February morning, I waited for the bus that would save me the ten-minute walk into town- that was already ten minutes late- and I thought about smoking. Fingering the greasy half-pack of Marlboro’s I kept close to my heart I rummaged unsuccessfully for a light. Devoid of lighter or matches, I scanned the silently seething bus queue for a likely candidate.
The queue consisted, as it normally did at this time of day, of bobbled old ladies, crocheted and woolied to snowman proportions, their faces uniformly smeared with vague disapproval. There was a young mum, her eyes glazed to the constant commands of the tyrannical toddler by her knees, who seemed she might collapse if yet another request was pressed upon her. The only suitable candidate seemed to be the scruffy old man dawdling aimlessly at the back of the line.
He seemed like the type who would have a match about him, and probably some ancient tomb of tobacco secreted in his oily coat- possibly with a union jack, or some other form of archaic imperialistic rubbish imprinted on its lid. He looked, to my journeyman eyes, like a smoker, though the nicotine stains were missing from his bushy white beard and his fingers seemed pink and plump rather than browning and coiled. He whistled to himself, tunelessly, staring in a daydreamish way into the bright sparseness of the winter morning sky.
“You got a light, mate?” I said, my voice treacherously polite despite my new found hormonal urges to appear rebellious.
The old man continued whistling, apparently not hearing me.
“Excuse me?” I said, privately wishing I’d said ‘Oi!’
The old man looked at me as if only just realising I was there. “I’m sorry?” He said, in a gentle befuddled voice that seemed synonymous with the greyness in his eyes.
“Have you got a light?” I said.
The old man nodded. “Let there be light.” He mumbled distractedly, and went back to looking at the sky.
To my surprise the cigarette perched in my mouth flared and lit, seemingly, all by its self. I stared dumbfoudedly at the smoke for a while, even taking a few puffs before the horrible sense of unease crept over me.
I felt a little like I’d walked into a dream, experiencing the fizzing terror and awe of stumbling over the unusual in what should have been the everyday mundane. I got over it, though. You get over most things quite quickly when you’re as apathetic as I am.
“Very clever.” I said, studied tonal nonchalance sifting my nervousness into a hackneyed veneer of cool.
The old man looked down at me once more, again seeming as if he’d forgotten where he was. “I’m sorry?” He said.
“The lighting trick.” I reminded him. “It was very impressive, I’m sure.”
The old man raised a bushy eyebrow. “You don’t sound impressed.”
I was a little taken a back by his response, to tell the truth. I was used to my tawdry sarcasm either being politely ignored or disdainfully dismissed. It was possible, I thought, that the mad old bastard had no conception of irony.
“Yeah, well I’m not.” I said drawing on some of that teenage rebellion I’d been hiding away for a rainy day.
“Then why did you say you were, then?” he asked.
I couldn’t think of an intelligent reply, so I just said “fuck off,” instead.
The man raised his eyebrows in slight shock, as though he’d never heard the word before. “There’s no need to be like that.” He murmured and then turned his attention back to the sky.
I was, to tell the truth, feeling a little confused. Back then I was always a little confused, if you want to be picky. The old man had shocked me and now I wanted to hurt him in some unidentified way. Some automated retaliation inside of me had put the old geezer on the wrong end of some sort of ‘us and them’ reflex action deep within my glands- even though I had no idea who ‘they’ were and only a fledgling understanding of what ‘us’ entailed. On the other hand, the dozy old duffer hadn’t really done anything wrong to me, and part of me was deeply ashamed for feeling so contemptuous towards him. All he had done was light my cigarette and here I was giving him shit.
A deep part of me wanted to apologise, the same part of me that made me unthinkingly polite to strangers. The other part of me, the part of me that made me a complete arse to the people I knew, wanted me to smack the old man in the mouth. The decision was settled by my innate cowardliness. I opted for diversion.
“So how did you do it then?” I said, trying my damndest to appear casual and not to concede any air of apology.
“Do what?” Said the old man
“The thing. The thing with the cigarette.” I said, briefly appalled at my own grunting inarticulacy. A deep consciousness within me, perhaps the part of me that was growing up the quickest, would wince at the monosyllabic resentful tone my freshly broken voice would take. But, as with most teenagers, instinct and hurricane hormones sat stolidly in the driving seat. So I stuck to the purposefully vague and uninterested pseudo-grunt I had come to adopt as my dialect of choice in polite company.
The old man seemed confused. “It was nothing.” He muttered dismissively.

New Years FARCE

2004-12-22T14:01:00.000Z

My girlfriend's ex-boyfriend is a big sodding arsehole.

He agreed to look after sprog on New Year's, meaning I could get hammered and leave the dismallness of Corby behind for an evening, and then he changed his mind.

Wouldn't be so bad but- the arse resents me living in the same flat as his kid and not being able to see the kid whenever he wants etc- but whenever he DOES get the oppertunity to see his kid he's like, 'nah am goin' owt'. What an absoloute jerk, using his kid as a guilt card like that. Schmuck.

Of course, the reason I'm mainly angry is- I can't do what I want to do because someone else is neglecting their kid! Meaning if I do want to go out and have a good time christmas/new year I'll probably have to leave my girlfriend behind, which is, of course, unacceptable.

Fuckholes, all of 'em. I ought to beat the crap out of Mr. Ex on principal alone.

So it's going to be an extremely dull Christmas and New Year for me, then.

Fuckers.

Swollen Gonad

2004-12-20T14:36:00.000Z

Sorry I'm late- the bus was late.

No, really.

Been a bit housebound recently 'cos I have a swollen testicle. No kidding. It's, like, two and half times the size of the original, which, thankfully, is quite small. So its more like I have one average sized nut, and one compact, party size nut.

Yeah, seems I've got some infection in the epididiymidpy tube which is giving me shit. Apparently this can be alot worse, with many an STD thrown in to boot. But, luckily (I say luckily, I don't mean it. With good luck I wouldn't have a giant testicle) I just have a standard infection and I'm not erupting puss everywhere with great vengeance. Yep, bog standard infection with bog standard antibiotics.

The result? No drinking and no shagging for three weeks...

Its lucky I've got a gamecube or I might have killed someone by now.

The worse part about this whole excursion is that I had to have some foriegn doctor guy playing with me bits... at least he said he was a doctor. And then, """as a precaution""" he has to check out my girlfriend's various holes as well. Yeah, that's a good one. I might try that one, one day.

The other worse part about this, apart from the obvious, is that I can't even get drunk on Christmas. And isn't that what Christmas is all about, deep down?

Fuck it. I might get blathered anyway. That foriegn bastard was a foriegn bastard and probably didn't like me much because he was forced to take a really close look at my balls.

Serves him right.

Anyway. I'm o.k. There was a few days of feeling like I was constantly being kicked in the nuts, but now that's gone. The swelling is going down and all is well.

Originally I wasn't going to write about this because I was certain people wouldn't be interested in my epidididymol infection. But then I thought "Fuck you guys. Fuck you guys in the ass."

Which is probably how this whole thing started anyway, now that I think about it...

Decorating...

2004-12-16T15:09:00.000Z

I haven't been blogging because I've been decorating. Apparently the two activities are inversly proportionate. Ah well.

Got a Christmas tree with the Puff. She's the sort that gets excited about things like that. Bless her cotton pants.

So here is a christmas song to lighten your spirits.

"Christmas song, Christmas song,
Fucking Christmas song.
Fucking, fucking Christmas song,
Fucking Christmas song."

-If you sing it to 'Jingle Bells' it's quite jovial.

What's the big deal about Jesus's birthday anyway? I never even knew the guy. If he wants to have a party he can go out and get ratted like everyone else...

Everytime we celebrate Christmas the bastard doesn't even show up. We had a place made up for him and everything last year. Even wore a tie...

*sniff*

shit.

2004-12-09T15:22:00.000Z

Pantera's old guitaist was shot dead on stage while playing with damage plan. I seen them live once and they were very good. Now he's been shot and that's pretty shit right there...

Its a severe kick in the nuts for decent metal when one of the best guitarists in the world is shot dead by a nutter with a grudge. Stupid Americans with their stupid guns! Why is it the English can't manage to kill a member of the So Solid Crew- who quite rightly deserve to die- while an American idiot can destroy one of the leading metal talents in a flash?

Its gutting, it really is. And you know what else is gutting?

Watch, with wonder, at the huge amount of fourteen year old attitude geeks who suddenly claim they've always been pantera fans begin to crop up everywhere. I think when the first jerk who has obviously never even listened to pantera before this incident tries to tell me about the band and how they've always been a dedicated fan, I will just punch him/her in the face and be done with it.

Not that I'm a hard core pantera/damage plan fan, though 'fucking hostile' and 'suicide note part2' are some of my favourite metal songs. And Pantera's singer is definatley my top rated metal singer with the guy out of killswitch coming a close second. I just hate it when people jump on 'alternative trend band wagons'- like when suddenly everyone decided they were into 'old school' metal. Balls. I bet the fuckers hadn't even heard of Styx.

Alternative trend? Surely that should be an oxymoron.

And in this case its just morbid. A guys tragic random death is sensationalised, and suddenly everyone wants to be a part of it. Ugh. Reminds me of all those fuckers who took the piss out of Princess Di and then cried at her funeral. Utter hypocrits and vultures.

Death to everyone.

Christmas is coming...

2004-12-08T14:21:00.000Z

And the goose is getting fat...

Stupid Goose. If it had any sense it would go on a diet. It's less likely to be eaten that way...

I will destroy geese. And then eat them.

Arseholes...

2004-12-06T13:53:00.000Z

Just heard a discussion on the radio backing up the increasingly popular 'not hitting children' theory- arguing that if a child is hit then it will think it's o.k o hit and thus hit others. Bullshit. As I have already stipulated- kids hit anyway, even when they have been taught from birth (in the case of Puff's sprog) not to.

So an interesting debate arises- if you're hit as a kid does it make you a violent person? Hmmm.

I don't think so, really. I think, if you know what it's like to be hit, you're less likely to get in a fight. That's why kids are so bastard cheeky these days- what with no violent sports on the playground anymore. I think taking a kick-in puts things into perspective.

That might also be why girls, who are, as a rule, punched in the face a lot less in their time, are always so eager to start trouble.

A sketchy theory, I know, but better than, and certainly more true than that 'kids who don't get hit don't hit.' bollox.

Violence is a natural reaction for people as a result of anger- if you can't control your temper, is that the fault of your upbringing? Probably- but It's not just getting hit that makes you angry, in fact, I think shouting or being made to feel stupid makes you more angry than phsyical violence.

Also, were ignoring the theory (my theory) that maybe some people are born arseholes and some people are born nice. Therefore, a nice person with a bad upbringing will persevere regardless (think of the book 'a boy called it' he turned out quite nice considering- he even wrote a book...) and arseholes will always find something in their upbringing to blame their shortcomings on.

That's my theory anyway. Its pleases me to believe that, with all the chav scum breeding out there, their kids are not doomed from the start. That scum doesn't beget scum. And also, that a nice middle class family can spawn a tracksuit wearing cunt-bag.A sort of fairness through randominity.

Which would work fine if the arsehole/nice person ratio was fairly balanced- instead of being 80/30 in favour of the former. (At least in my experinece.)

So maybe we should just stop shouting at kids as well as giving them the occasional slap, so when they eventually do step out into the real world, they can act how they please and wait for the world to hang them.

That London...

2004-12-01T08:50:00.000Z

Hey look at me! I'm at work by nine! in the morning!

Its o.k, I haven't gone CRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZYYYYYYY or anything, I just drew the early shift today for some reason.

I better get used to it, I have an appointment in Soho tommorow at 11.30, which means I'll have to leave Kettering before nineish I suppose.

Why do I have an appointment I didn't hear you ask because you don't care much? Well, I'm talking to some media chap aboot work experience at some big postproduction company called the farm. I got the appointment through one of my dad's many contacts and its quite a prestigious place to get work experience I suppose. They Edit 'A touch of Frost' there, so it can't be all bad.

So, a couple of weeks of ten hour days, two hour tube rides and no pay may be on the cards. Whoopwhoop. Should look good on the c.v, though, and, who knows, maybe the queen will pop in and give me a thousand pounds. Or even a brass farthing.

I hate London.

Arsed...

2004-11-29T14:05:00.000Z

I can't be arsed to wrie anything at the minute so here is an opening for a short story I'm working on. Enjoy.

He stood in what was left of the starlight as it crept in through the window like some desperate adulterer. He lit a cigarette, smirking briefly at the warning on the packet. Cancer had long ago ceased to be a problem for him.
His name was Johnny Problem. Not the name his mother gave him, but something close. Names were important, he knew, and didn’t like the idea of abandoning his birthright completely.
He thought about his mother. That blurred phantom from his past. More present in the pain in his father’s eyes than she had ever been physically.
Johnny ruffled his hair and yawned at the approaching dawn, clocking on for another day. Another dollar. Stripped to the waist, he shivered slightly in the cold morning air. The heating in the cramped shoebox flat hadn’t been paid for a long while and the radiators refrigerated rather than warmed. Not that he minded.
Jamie had minded, but she wouldn’t mind any more, he suspected. He turned to her body on the bed- smooth, slim, curvy and still goose bumped from the chill. A trestle of her long blonde hair hung like a rope ladder over the bed covers, bearing a slight hint of crimson that Johnny knew far too well.
She was his type, he knew. Everyone had a type, whether they were conscious of it or not, everyone had a preference. Jamie had fit Johnny’s inner requirements down to a tee, as had every girl he had chosen to know. Some people deviated from their types. Not Johnny. There was no compromise. Ever.
He wondered if she was breathing or not. He couldn’t hear her (he had excellent hearing,) and he couldn’t see her chest rising or falling.
He drew heavily on the dwindling cigarette and thought about jumping through the window. It was that, he knew, or something worse. But jumping through the window would have been cowardly, he thought. Like loneliness would have been cowardly. Like death should have been easy.
He tried not to think about it some more, avoiding the truth swimming under the surface of his mind like a child who might close his eyes in order to render himself invisible.
He could smell the crimson. Tasted it clogged in the back of his throat.
He stubbed the cigarette out on his arm, finding brief pleasure in both the warmth and the pain. He focused, steadied himself and walked toward his bed. Their bed, briefly.
Slowly, with purposeful deliberation, he drew back the duvet, causing a sound like the removing of old sticky-tape and the eruption of the smell he both cherished and detested.
There was no apprehension. Now that he allowed himself to think about it, he had known what he would see since he had awoken some hours earlier, since he had showered for an age in the cold rustiness of his bath, washing away more than just the stains. And so, he didn’t balk at what he saw beneath the duvet. But he did sigh and say her name, once.
Drawing back, he absentmindedly licked at the blood on his fingertips. He had liked Jamie. Loved her, a little. But she hadn’t been her. Not her, at all. And now Jamie was dead.
A brief flash of memory of the night before flickered before Johnny’s eyes. Jamie, alive and laughing, clutching at a glass of wine Johnny had ill been able to afford. Smiling the smile of someone who was comfortable, happy. She had liked him a lot. Enough to go to bed with him, anyway.
She had been the checkout girl where Johnny had stacked shelves for a time. He remembered a lame joke she had once cracked about ‘checking him out’. He had laughed- more at the cute absurdity of it all rather than the actual joke.
They had laughed a lot in a short time, he realised, and the regret stung him behind the eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He murmured and closed his eyes as the futility of the words hung accusingly in the frigid stillness of the apartment.
He remembered how they had become friends, slowly, inevitably. Though he was quiet by nature, she had been warm and talkative. And though he had done his best not to encourage her, she had taken a liking to him.
And now she was dead. Like the other girls before her.
Johnny sighed and made the preparations to move the body. He wished, for a moment, that just once, he could sleep with a girl without waking up with her entrails wrapped round his fingers and the taste of her blood on his lips.

Damn toddlers...

2004-11-26T20:12:00.000Z

Made an attempt to set up my new weight bench yesterday. Its been crying quietly under the bed for about two weeks now. I made a good start but my progress was massivley hindered by an inquisitive and highly annoying two year old. He kept on saying 'I fix it' repeatedly and knocking over things that I needed.

I fix it? Fuck off! You can't even control your own bowles! What makes you think you can tighten a bolt?
On the other hand INTERESTING OBSERVATION- A two year old knows how to lie, cheat, fight and steal before it knows how to not shit itself in public.

Ah, human nature! The other scary thing? No one teaches it how to lie, cheat and steal! (Obviously fighting is art of our great television culture, so that's o.k) People are just born cunts. Cosmic.

Anyway. I taught it a lesson...almost. I didn't learn anything but the poitn was valid. I said 'If you carry on playing with that screw driver you'll hurt yourself!" To which it ignored me and continued playing with my screw driver. 'Give it to me!" I said. To which he replied 'Its mine' (both lying and stealing and cheating as well I suppose.) I grab the screw driver off of him (its MINE after all) but the dumb ass just hangs on to it. Hence I pull him head first into a door.

A shame- unitintentional and he didn't even learn from it.

Later on, as I'm getting something out of a cupboard he gets in my face again. 'Get out of the cupboard or you might get trapped in it!' I say. He blatantly ignores me, so I physically move him away, then, with two year old stuborness the average twat would be proud of, he ran back into the cupboard just as I shut it, thus trapping his fingers.

Unintentional, and, again, he didn't learn anything from it.

What a dumb ass.

Ah well. Do any of us really learn anything, ever?

...Yes. So children shouldn't be allowed to get away with being idiots. I say, if they want to run into the road- let them. Its the only way they'll learn. Its how I learned.

Shit motherfucker nigger shit mother fucker!

2004-11-25T15:31:00.000Z

I could've been a rap star if I wanted to. I just didn't want to. Screw you.

Anyway...

Nothing has happened to day so here is a short story about a duck.

There was once a duck named Susan . Obviously she didn't name herself Susan because she was a duck. A kindly senile old lady had named her Susan once and it had just stuck, really. Although, of course, the other ducks didn't call her Susan because they were ducks as well and couldn't talk. They could only quack. So, really, the only person who had ever called this particular duck 'Susan' had been the senile old lady. And that was at least fourteen months ago.

For the sake of argument we'll call the duck Susan anyway.

So. Susan lived a very typical duck life. Somedays she'd swim around. Other days not so much. Somedays she quack irrelevantly. Other days she was oddly quiet and withdrawn.

One day she was killed by a china man and served at an expensive resteraunt to a middle aged couple on their aniversary. Susan was served with plum sauce and little flat things that tasted like savoury pancakes.

The moral of the story? I've just wasted precious minutes of your lives where you could have been doing something worthwhile.

Oh. And ducks are crap.

Meat...

2004-11-24T14:15:00.000Z

My teeth hurt for some obscure reason. Maybe it was because I accidentally ate two dinners last night. One dinner consisting entirely of biscuits...

Recorded some of a new track last night. Oh wonderful. Hopefully have it rough mixed before the next rehearsal with any luck hopefully.

I think I might go on a diet. I've been attracted to those, 'eat meat but not bread' diets. I like bread, don't get me wrong, but only as a device for picking up meat with. I will go on a 'nothing but meat god dammit diet' where I will live off frozen chicken, bacon, mixed grills and gravy to drink for two weeks. Unfortunatley I have a gig slap bang in the middle of my proposed diet plan which means I'll ruin it all by getting mashed on many pints of beerjuice.

Ah well.

Willpowers for pussies anyway.

I will destroy my colon.

And yours.

Top Ten Things I Would Destroy

2004-11-23T13:38:00.000Z

1: 'Top ten' programmes- including such affiliated programmes as the 'I love (fill in the blank)' programmes. Basically any programme where some celebrity unknown thinks he/she has the right to comment on the works of other people simply because he/she was alive at the time.
2: Reality TV- but only the ones that exploit the stupidity of humans and celebrities in order to make other stupid humans feel better about themselves. Shark documentaries etc are okay.
3: Animal Rights Activists- I like animals, I do. But I also like hamburgers. Anyone who thinks 'meat is murder' should redirect there energies into something more worthwhile. Like suicide. Meat isn't murder- me hitting you in the face with an axe- THAT'S murder. This category is also reserved for nearly all hippys, who's passive aggressive self righteousness is almost always ludicrously disproportionate to common sense. i.e- a squirrel is NOT just as important as a person. A squirrel does not give a fuck about you, where as a person might give two shits if they saw you dieing in a gutter. I wouldn't, mind you.
4: Religious Fanatics- I get angry when someone calls me an infidel. Notice how its always the righteous who call me a murderer and a generally bad person, yet they're quite happy to see you burn in hell and feel smug about it? That's dangerous, ignorant, super-hippycrip thinking on all parts. If God exists, chances is are he/she/it is highly amused by these cretins and holds a special place for them in his eternal toilet of horribleness.
5: Political People- No I don't mean politics as in the chatting about the price of a pint etc. I mean people who study political theory etc and actually want to go into poltics or devout themselves to a particular party- the people who can't understand why you don't vote and read large newwws papers right in your face and make loud tutting noises to show they have an opinion. You know, the people who laugh along with the snide remarks fom the backbenchers. Anyone who's passionate about politics is missing a massive fundemental- it doesn't matter. Everyone's a shit and people will always complain, regardless of how good their lifestyle is. Therefore, politics don't matter and we may as well be ruled by a tyrant. Frankly, I don't think it would make a damn bit of difference anyway. If politicians are really out for the benefit of the common man, why do they spend so much time unhelpfully hindering each other?
6: People who Write in Net speak or Text speak- These people are jerks. I don't have to justify it. The only people worse than these fools are people who SPEAK in net speak or text speak...lol. (Why write 'lol'? what the fuck is wrong with writing 'haha?')
7:Chavs. Obviously. I think if I killed everyone in a tracksuit there is a good chance I would make the world a much better place. Granted a lot of innocent joggers etc would die, but, on the whole I think it may balance out.
8: Virtually everyone on the entire internet. I'm sick of people on the net spouting opinions they wouldn't dare speak in real life because they'd be beaten like the sad geeks they are. So the internet is the ultimate forum for freedom of expression? big deal. All that means is that my opinion that the world is full of nasty little shit heads with no respect for their fellow man is continually reinforced.
9: Girl Power. I'm sorry but girlpower has done more to retard realistic feminism than a billion blonde jokes. If you don't get what I mean, watch Bridget Jones. 'Oh looky me, I'm in a highly paid job, but I still spend all my time crying in the toilets because of my relationship dramas!" Bleh.
10: You. Especially you.

Destroy all tracksuits...

2004-11-22T13:56:00.001Z

Not an entirely interesting weekend. Introduced my parents to Puff's sprog. They seemed to like it. I suggested leaving it there. Puff hit me.

I don't know if anyone caught the documentary about Corby on BBC2 on Thursday but, my God, was it ever depressing. It basically summed up the trouble with tracksuits in general. I can't even put it into words- you'd have to have A) seen the documentary, or b) lived in Corby. (and thats L I V E D in Corby- not visited it, I'm tired of idiot visitors who keep on saying to me 'oh I went there once and it wasn't THAT bad. Yeah right- driving though Corby on your way to somewhere else DOESN'T COUNT!)

There was a fire inspection at the Raven on Friday and a load of coppers turned up. Oh, I've got an idea- lets have an abundant police presence in a room full of elderly Corby jerks! Insert the 'O! wot da fuk you po-lis doin' here? Av' bin comin here fer years and now yer here? Where were youz on da estates, huh? Do you know who a am?' And the coppers didn't help much by saying 'leave now' with trite bravado while our door staff were already correctly dealing with the mouthy punter.

Idiots. All of them. Police and punter.

On a lighter note...

Hang on... no... scratch that.. there is no lighter note. Its been a fairly standard set of days really.

Fuck you. Find your own damn lighter note. if I find one I'm keeping it.

Quick, hoover up- the Americans are coming over!

2004-11-18T14:40:00.000Z

As we've had an American guest on the site I thought I might check out American world news last night. I was pleasantly surprised. The news readers all seem quite optimistic and friendly, not like English ones, who sound like they're taking the piss out of you.

And the voxpops bits were weird as well. The American public seems to love being on the news, giving answers to questions like they were on a gameshow or a dogfood commercial. English public always look vaugely suspicious when answering questions for the news. Like they're hiding something.

Finally, American news was wonderfully simplified- telling me what each speficic story meant to ME as a person. I was touched.

It still didn't match up to daily politics, though. I don't like politics, but the chap who presents it is lovely and I wish he was my grandad.

Anyway.

Turns out England comes thirtieth on the Happy Places To Live chart- judged on things like working hours, general income, family life, climate etc. I think everything below us is war torn or extrememly poor.

Turns out spain was tenth and Southern Ireland was 1st. USA didn't do very well, oddly.

I always new this country was shit. I mean, if we all really thought about it, we'd go open a moped hire place on a beach somewhere, get juiced up at night and sleep in the afternoons.

I'm sure we only stay in England for sentimental reasons. Especially Londoners. And Especially the Londoners who still think London is any good for aything other than all night kebabs.

P.S- Speaking of Americans, I found a rather amusing blog rave the other day abou the revocation of independance. I can't remeber where I left it though... oh wait, here it is. http://papataz.blogspot.com

Custard.

2004-11-17T10:52:00.000Z

The debate about custard was long and hard but was eventually resolved in the studio of G-man. It was agreed by all parties present that custard is a sauce, used to soften food. Therefore, like all sauces, when not combined with food, custard is nothing more than a big fat drink.

I'm glad that's over. We were, literally, up all night.

While we were talking about custard we also managed to record a new tune (that's 'tune' not 'choon' you hip speaking bastards,) and it should be on www.nineteen85.com any day now. Keep an ear pinned to your speaker. Or not.

I was pleased with the amount of feedback I got from my Bridget Jones slaggings. Even if they were from a burberry obsessed american, a gay named twat and a famous historical figure who thinks animals can type. I'll have to make great big unfounded comments about more popular icons in the near future.

I dunno...

Ricky Martin? Remember him? As I was shop lifting from poundland today I saw his autobiography cd discarded on the floor. Nice one Ricky. After all your hard work you managed to make it to the floor of poundland. Sweet, sweet justice.

Saw Rambo last night. This has inspired me to buy a machine gun. That'd teach the chavving bastards. That'd teach 'em all.

Internet jerk feminists

2004-11-16T17:25:00.000Z

Check this out. Normally I just ignore internet jerks, but seeing as this is my blog I'll do what I damn well please.

Some of you may or may not remember my Bridget Jones bashing. I made a sarcastic comment about her being the epitomy (thats spelt wrong by the way) of modern english women. It was sarcastic because basically Bridget Jones is a stupid fucking idiot, a pathetic self obsessed loser with no more right to exist than a third generation psuedo punk boyband, and I like to think the people of England can aspire to more than that, men or women.

Of course, as with most self righteous internet jerks itching to be offended I got a nasty message from somebody with a really gay log-on name.( my additions are made in brackets, so you don't get confused) Observe:

- Comment
Vitriola (utterly gay log on name) said...

"She really is the epitomy of the modern woman. Confused, incompetant, melodramatic, shallow, dizzy, fat and an absoloute twat."- (quoting me, as all should do- steve.)

Nice. Are you deliberately trying to piss people off? It's a sweeping generalisation. You clearly don't know many women. Oh, and it's spelt 'epitome' by the way. (at this point utterly gay got so high on his/her intellectual superiority that he/she had to masterbate with great fury, hence the message was never completed.)

- End of Comment

She's right. I did spell epotmoy wrong. And that burns me up inside, it really does.

And sweeping generalisation? You want a sweeping generalisation? How about this- all brooms are cunts!

Ha!

Now fuck off you gay named twat.

Smoking ban...

2004-11-16T13:49:00.000Z

Yeah, yeah. I hate to go on about this. But I'm going to anyway, so shut it.

It wont be long before England has its very own smoking ban. Shit, I think, seeing as people have been smoking for thousands of years and its not illegal, but there you go.

On the plus isde, they're only banning smoking in pubs that serve a lot of food- which is fine. I don't like to smoke when other people are eating as a rule and most pubs that do a lot of food usually have a seperate resteraunt area so this is all hunky dorey.

The survey said that only 20% of England's drinking establishments are non-food. But seeing as they're only banning smoking in pubs that serve 'a lot' of food then I'm sure that percentage increases dramatically.

This is o.k, I suppose, but I'm still massively fucked off. I just don't like where it's going, really. Imagine how society would benefit if they banned drinking? Less violence, less injuries less chance of drink driving and alcohol related death. Does that mean its right to ban it?

You can argue second hand smoke harms people, but if you argue that then you can't deny that you can be harmed by other people's drinking either. Or driving. Or hygiene. Or work practices. Or religious beliefs. Or countenance and manners.

Fuck it. Lets ban everything from public places.
Especially you.
Cunt.

RAWK? NOBHEAD, MORE LIKE...

2004-11-15T14:57:00.000Z

I hate people who write RAWK instead of ROCK. These people should all be blended into a fine paste and drank by mormons. I mean, why? Really? No one actually pronounces it RAWK and RAWK isn't any easier to type than ROCK. So the logical and only conclusion is- people are dicks.

There. Sorted.

On an entirely different note, its about time I started eating less pudding orientated meals. I am getting far too pudgy.

I'm drinking less these days. Less alcohol, anyway. On the other hand I'm drinking a lot more custard... So the gut remains.

Do you actually eat or drink custard? I mean, you don't actually chew it do you? But you do use a spoon...

...I'm going to be up all night with that one.

Bloggers are all losers.

2004-11-14T13:19:00.000Z

Yep, myself included. Some jerk has decided to publish his blog proffesionally. 'What a novel idea!' I thought, and I had a look...

My word. Who on earth would by the blog of some nowhere bound nerdboy who hasn't even got the decency to make fun of himself?

Then again- why are you reading this?

Cosmic...

On an entirely different note I have finaly got my weights, so the process to becoming all powerful can begin. As soon as I find a slothead screwdriver and an adjustable spanner...

Scotland..

2004-11-11T14:06:00.000Z

....Have banned smoking in resteraunts and pubs. What a bunch of fucks.

"Ach! Look at me! Maybe if we do something trendy and contraversial people will think we're a real country instead of a bunch of freeloading squatters on the British Isles!"

Well fuck them. Fuck them all.

You know how much the pub industry has been hit in Ireland since they banned smoking? 25% and rising. Meaning more people are sitting in doors with a fag and cheap supermarket booze rather than going out.

And think about it- why shouldn't they? You can pick up booze for half the price in supermarkets these days- why should you go to a pub where you pay too much and you're not even allowed to smoke? With the rise in casual use of drugs, the fall in supermarket booze prices and a ban on smoking, everyone's just going to end up staying at home with their mates, watching a DVD and smoking as much as they damn well please. And who can blame them?

Personally I blame uppermiddle class types, who can afford nice pub prices at all times and probably don't think smoking is cool. Well fuck them. Fuck everyone. They're all fucking fuck faces.

So the government succeeds in getting us to all stay in our houses, like the ugly step brothers we are, while all the pubs that are still able to open are frequented by Tony Blair types who like drinking 'real' ale.

Fuck a cocking doo daa.

When they ban every ballbag owning a car- THEN they can tell me about the dangers of second hand smoke.

Did you know that, in the whole world, there are more cars than people? And then think about the fact that a lot of very big countries don't have that many cars. And then think about the fact that this statistic is about ten years old, and therefore its probably much worse now.

So, when you think about, somebody somewhere is forcing a pack of cigs down your throat everday-

And you deserve it. So there.

P.S- oh yeah, and check this out. There will soon be a wonder pill that can help you stop smoking, drinking and help you lose weight. You know how it works? By dulling the pleasure centres in your brain. So you can be a nice healthy American, at the cost of becoming a brain dead plastic zombie with no more right to exist on this planet than a religious extremist. In fact, that's pretty American right there too. They should call it the American Pill.

deja vu

2004-11-10T15:10:00.000Z

Had another zombie dream again last night. I had to cut open its throat with a pair of scissors and the remove the top of its head with my fingers before it would die.

Oh well.

Now I'm eating another mans lasagne. Life is good.

Been a long time since I rock and rolled.

2004-11-09T13:32:00.000Z

Last nights gig went far better than expected. We kicked ass considering we haven't gigged in a hundred years and our bassist was only one day old. It was a kick ass energetic gig, the audience were great and StoneCold put on a sterling premier performance. Pats on backs all round.

The best thing about the gig was that it really gave the band a positive finger up the arse- so we're all feeling a bit more up for it now. Yes indeedy. Revitalized to the max, mo fo'. Check out ma website in a couple o' days for photos.

that's www.nineteen85.com , in case you're a damn fool who hasn't been paying attention.

Overall I'm pleased with StoneCold's joining the band- though I'm not sure how long he can stay because of his secret service work for the government that I'm not allowed to tell anyone about.

And yes, there were a load of underage pootang at the gig, floating around like so many wonderful fluffy clouds. Nice.

So, in summary. Good gig. Young pootang. StoneCold.

Sandwich

2004-11-08T10:32:00.000Z

I just ate a sandwich. It was good. Lol. Look at me I'm a blogger :-) Lololololol laugh out loud lol. I woke up this morning. :-( But it was okay because I wasn't on fire :-) but then I had to work *cries like a girl* but it was okay because I had a sandwich *hugs self and masterbates furiously* lol . Now I'll talk to you about something boring I did with people you don't know or care about.

; - )

That was impression of everyone elses blog on the planet, except that, even when attempting parody, my blog is STILL more interesting than everyone elses. Everyone is a fuckface. End of story.

On a lighter note I will be playing a gig tonight. First one in a long while. With any luck I'll be swamped by cock-hungry shortskirted 15 year old groupies. But, oddly, this has yet to happen, so I'm not getting my hopes up.

Auditions for cockhungry groupies will be held on december the 2nd at my place at 2.00pm. Please be prompt. No time wasters.

P.S: I see that a sequel to Bridget Jone's Diary is coming out. She really is the epitomy of the modern woman. Confused, incompetant, melodramatic, shallow, dizzy, fat and an absoloute twat. Rock on England, there's hope for us yet.

P.P.S: C O M P E T I T I O N T I M E- Is a pea a bean? If not then why do runner beans look like peas? Answers on a postcard. With some money attached.

Happy birthday.

2004-11-04T15:41:00.000Z

It was my birthday yesterday. It wasn't too bad. My mum and dad opted to take me shopping, which would have been fine, except they took me to some gay-assed desinger clothing outlet village. I spent the entire trip being looked at as if I were a shop lifter and didn't find any clothes I liked. My so called fashion concious girlfrined was no help either, informing me (after the shopping had ceased) that she could have picked out loads of clothes that would have suited me. Damn. Next time I'll just give all my money to her and let her shop for me. I hate shopping. Its gay.

Eventually I conceded on some trousers a top and a hat, but, frankly, they didn't make me want to dance a merry jig of contentment.

Then again, what does in this cynical cesspool of a world we live in?

The evening was balanced out nicely by a trip to a TGI Fridays where I ate my body weight in deep fried goodness. Mmm. Deep fried body weight....

Then I had to work. Which sucked. Although I did find a tenner on the floor, which brightened my evening considerably.

Then a fell asleep...

Then I woke up...

Then I wrote this blog...

Well, the true shinnydig for my birthday should be happening on saturday, where we all go down to London and get ratted. Hopefully I wont be as dissapointed as I was in Lincoln. Unfortunatley the Puff might not be able to go because her ex is being an arse and working when he's supposed to be sprog-sitting. What a grade A cunt bag.

Oh well. I'll just have to find someone else to jerk me off.

Stonecold?

Rockschool tonight, Lifting kit. Taking money. Oggling breasts. You know the drill.

Alcohol...

2004-11-01T13:29:00.000Z

...is a wonderful substitute for happiness.

Went out for my Halloween weekend in Lincoln and, despite persistant organisation and cajouling in the uprunning months, the 'old skool' night out with my friends of yor I had planned was not to be. Most annoyingly, I was let down and ditched by one of my so called fiends of many years who opted to hang around with his wanna-b-gansta pot smoking Corby mates rather than come out with me. This wouldn't have been a problem, but I'd gone al the way to Lincoln to get the fuck away from Corby. Also I was sleeping at his house.

I still managed to have a good time with the people who counted though, going to a kick ass halloween party at my old rock club local. We dressed up (my 'old skool' friends, predictably, didn't.) and had a jolly old time getting smashed, dancing like a fool and eating lit cigarettes.

I still have a blister on my tounge.

I'm annoyed about many things. One of these is the amount of guff I have been given by certain members of the old skool crew who claimed they were still interested short film work. Balls. I took up a folder worth of production paper work and not one fucker seemed interested in it.

Fuck 'em. I'll make my own damn movies.

The best part of the weekend was on the way home when we stopped at the OK diner and had some kick ass milkshakes. The breakfast wasn't as good as the burgers looked- so I suppose I'll no better for next time.

If there ever is a next time. Which I doubt.

Also, in other news, my band is officially down a bassist for the time being. Not good seeingas we have a gig in a week or so. It looks like Stone Cold Iain will be coming to the rescue as a temporary substitute. Which is nice.

All in all I'm not in a great mood at present, really. Hopefully next weekend will turn out better.

Not that I didn't have a good time on Halloween. I just feel very let down by people. I don't think it helped that I'd been building up the night for so long, either. Ah well. Fuck 'em.

(not) Saturday night Fever!

2004-10-28T14:35:00.000+01:00

Came down with some sort of weird assed fever last night. It was quite horrible, my whole body felt like an old computer that had been left on too long. Oddly, today I feel fine.

This mornign I awoke once again to the delightful whine of the Puff's sprog. What a horrid little shit. It fakes crying when it doesn't get immediate attention. I invented a song which goes roughly along the lines of 'lil' fakey cry baby pants' but apparently I'm not allowed to sing it because its more annoying than the actual crying.

Duh. That's the point.

I submitted a Halloween article to I-mockery which they haven't published. This is fair enough I suppose. They get a lot of submissions and I left mine a bit late. Plus, its not the greatest article I've ever written.

Still. Just so it doesn't dissapear into the void, here is the article in all its badly punctuated glory.

A Very British Halloween

There are many things the British are good at, such as drinking tea, writing letters to the editor, misplacing empires- but one thing the British are abysmally bad at is Americanism.

We just can’t seem to get it right. Hence we are nation filled with Slow Fast Food, Service with a Jaded Frown, and sallow, skinny white boys wearing plastic jewellery who try to speak like Puff Daddy.

I can live with these quirks, but one Americanism that should have been done proper justice is the good ‘ol Trick or Treat fest we used to call All Hallows Eve.

Now, I don’t know much about a lot of things- and one of those things is the history of Halloween. I’m far too lazy to even do a lacklustre internet search, but that doesn’t matter because, for me, Halloween will always be epitomized by that magical scene in E.T, where the little poo monster is being dragged around that All American Halloween Extravaganza, where the kids are happy and well dressed and everyone seems like they’re going to have a great time. This is how Halloween should be.

The sad truth of the British Halloween was like a kick in the nuts to the young, idealistic child I was back in the mid-eighties.

Lets talk costumes. American movie Halloweens always seem to have everyone dressed up in cool looking costumes where you can actually tell what they’re supposed to be. That doesn’t happen in England, where, especially in the 80’s, costumes where limited to lame plastic masks of random interpretations of unpopular creature feature stars… and maybe a pack of unconvincing fake nails if you were lucky.

So with a crappy mask and the fake nails that you’ve already managed to lose half of, you’re mother asks you what you want to dress up as this year. I was a fairly imaginative child and wanted to dress up as something no-one else would think of, so naturally I chose to dress as CondorMan from the obscure 80’s film of the same name. My mum, after seeing what we have to work with says:

Mum: We only have a black bin bag to dress you up in. Couldn’t you be a homeless person?
Me:…Whu?
Mum: Or a vampire? We could put on some makeup and use the bin bag for a cloak?
Me: A vampire in a fucking bin bag? Get serious Mum- if I wasn’t only five years old I’d slap you around, you cheapskate!

So instead of whizzing around all evening singing the CondorMan theme tune, I scuffled around in a plastic bin bag. The depressing part is that all the other kids my age where dressed in plastic bin bags- as either homeless people or derelict vampires. It was sad to behold and I’m surprised our neighbours actually gave us any sweets and didn’t just set their dogs on us.

And homeless people? How insulting is that? What’s the scariest thing you can think of to dress up as on Halloween? Some poor bastard who’s down on his luck, that's what.

Still, Halloween must have been a good time for down and outs, I can imagine they got in to pretty much any Halloween party in our village anyway.

Party Host: Wow- what a convincing costume!
Homeless guy: Uh…yeah…where’s the beer?

Things did not improve with age. By the time I had the presence of mind to make my own costumes I was already too old for Trick or Treating. Oh yeah, you Americans might be able to dress up until you’re fifty seven, but here in England, if you’re anything over eight years old, all you can expect is a dirty look and phone call to the police if you go around knocking on doors and demanding candy.

Behold my sad testament: when I was twelve, my cousin and I and a couple of friends made a last ditch effort at Trick or Treating. We made our own costumes, my cousin putting together a pretty convincing Freddy Krueger costume, using the tried and tested method of taping bread knives to his hands. I was broke and lazy, however, so I went as the invisible man- which involved hiding behind a bush while we chanted our little Halloween rhymes. Cheap, I know, but give me points for trying, why don’t you?

Anyway…

We go to our first house, knock on the door, say our gay little rhyme and wait expectantly for our just reward. Some forty-year-old dude just stands there and stares at us, I mean really stares, like he wants to end our lives. We try the rhyme again, but the man just begins to advance on us until we are forced to flee.

What a dismal, miserable bastard…

And Tricking him? You can forget that- all the houses in our village were so close knit that if you egged someone they were likely to come around your house the next day and make you clean it up.

It was this pre-adolescent milestone that signalled the downward spiral of Halloween in my life. My cousin pulled out a flick-knife and suggested slashing the guy’s tires. This suggestion gains a lot of approval until someone says- “Why don’t we just slash everybody’s tires?” And that’s where things start to go wrong.

I had a choice then; I could continue to pursue the allusive magic of Halloween, albeit in the form of tire slashing, or I could not be a delinquent and stay indoors on Halloween instead. Tragically, for the next five or six years, I stayed indoors every Halloween and played Doom.

Around this time I got to see what it was like on the other end of the Trick or Treat process. I grew more and more disappointed as little brats in cheap bin bag costumes came to my door and said stupid little rhymes with all the enthusiasm of a homophobic in a fisting club- and then demanded treats for it!

One time, in my university years, where I took up smoking as a means to avoid classes, a troupe of Trick or Treaters came to my door. “Sorry, guys” I said, puffing on my cigarette, “We’re students- we ain’t got nothing.”
“You could give us a cigarette.” Said one of the thuggish little bastards.
I didn’t. I got my front door egged. I grew to detest Halloween even more.

It was around this time that I realised there was another, just as seedy, face to British Halloween. If you were a grown up Halloween gave you the opportunity to get stupidly drunk and try to have sex with people. Admittedly, this is what we did pretty much all the time anyway- but this time you could do it in a costume!

Hence, the sole purpose of Halloween for the over eighteen year old in England is to try and have sex with someone in an interesting costume. Not a formidable ambition, really. It would be more interesting if all the girls didn’t dress up in the typical slut costumes (she-devil, naughty nurse, cat woman etc) that they’d probably dress up in if you asked nicely anyway. I’d like to see some girls dressed up as Goblins. I think it would be an interesting Halloween experience to fuck a Goblin.

But I digress…

So I gets invited to my first university Halloween party. I decide to make an effort this year and dress as Akuma from Street Fighter. I rip off the sleeves of an old kung-fu suit, paint a Japanese symbol on the back, spike my hair and the look is complete. Admittedly I didn’t spend about twenty years in the gym, or perfect my Ki until I can launch energy balls, but I was pressed for time.

I go to the party with a girl who dresses as a cat and before I know it I’m stuck in the kitchen with about ten Darth Mauls. No one has made an effort to dress up, and those who have are dressed as either Darth Maul or the guy from Scream.

This sucks and I feel quite wounded. Once again the American dream is fleeting.

There are no decorations; no interesting food stuffs- no one even plays the goddamned Monster Mash for crying out loud!

Needless to say my Halloween party devolves into getting hopelessly drunk, groping a she-devil, and fence hopping all the way home when someone threatens to call the police.

I wake up the next morning with my face grazed from jumping over fences and landing on it and my head spinning from the mother of all hangovers, when the catgirl comes over and demands I explain myself. Apparently the police were called because I had stolen something. I smile a little to myself, thinking that maybe the Halloween mischievous spirit is still alive after all. Unfortunately, my illusions are shattered when it is revealed what I had made off with- a £2.99 imitation Darth Maul light saber that was broken anyway.

Darth Maul sucks. Halloween sucks.

So spare a thought, you crazy Americans, with your flamboyant festivities and your non-bin bag costumes. Spare a thought for us poor saps here in England that have nothing to look forward to except maybe fucking a Goblin and getting slightly drunker than usual.

Halloweiner

2004-10-27T13:24:00.000+01:00

What up my ethnic friends? Howbadabeedoobee?

Not up to much at the moment. I ate about three tonnes of trifle, which was good, but other than that lif has been pretty straight forward. And by straight forward i mean, of course, mundane.

I have video work to be getting on with and production paperwork for me short film to be done by friday, so I wont keep you long.

Going out in Lincoln for Halloween this Saturday. Should be good- I get to see the old skool crew and, in all likelyhood, get mightily drunk.

I'm intending to dress up as Hellboy, but, having left it late again, I'll most likely be dressing up as the invisible man... which involves hiding around corners, really. And that's it.

Ah well, I have a feeling my lame friends aren't going to dress up anyway, making me look more foolish than I usually do. I wanna dress up. I never get to dress up. Fuck all you guys.

Dear diary...

2004-10-25T16:15:00.000+01:00

...Today I started my period.

Nah. Just kidding. That was ages ago.

Anyway...

What have I been up to? Not much. Got in a scuffle with a customer whilst working the Raven Door till. I was discreetly interjecting myself between him ( a drunken tosser) and some girl (a drunken tosser) when they were 'messing around.' You know, the kind of messing around that usually ends up with someone kicking someone in the nuts. Needless to say this actually happened and the drunken tosser has the nerve to threaten to kick the fuck out of me! I asked him, politely I might add, to move along and then he started asking the standard tosser rhetoric (i.e "What do you mean 'move along?") and pushing me about. So I grabbed him by the throat until the doorstaff got there.

This worries me. The throat grab is an amatuerish and panicky self-defense reaction, reserved only for opponents who are notably weaker than you. Luckily the guy was. Had he not been I probably would have got punched a lot. Luckily I got away with no marks at all. But I did rip a shirt I spent two bucks on in a charity shop. That's two bucks I wont see again in a hurry.

Oh well. More motivation to get fit I suppose.

The only worrying thing about this incident is that it left me with a distinct and worrying impression of mortality. I realised, as I did with the kids with the bag incident, just how fragile my ability to stand up for myself is. You can't stand up for yourself in this place without it coming down to aggressive confrontation. So the options are, either take all the crap they give you (and that's a lot of crap, believe me) or risk a kicking.

Something tells me I need to get out of the whole 'serving people face to face' thing. At least over a phone I can call them a bunch of cunts without fear of reprisal.

On a completely different note I introduced The Puff to my parents and my crazy great granny the other day. It went better than expected. I should be moving in with her soonly.

Now I must go and fight aliens on a distant nebular...

...O.k. I'm going to jerk off. Happy?

P.S- Saw the dawn of the dead remake the other day. It was good as an action film but lacked the charm of the original. Hence, with these new slick zombies, the film hardly seemed like a horror at all. More a sci-fi action blockbuster.

When will these fools learn that horror was meant to be gritty, not polished?

Oh well. It started a spate of Zombie survival dreams again. You'll be pleased to know I'm still holding up well. In this dream I was teaching a group of people 'bout the benefits of hairspray flame throwers for defensive undead combat.

I also had to mash a zombie baby's skull in with a pistol. It was quite weird. The baby had been bitten and we were waiting for it to die and then turn into a zombie. So I was listening to its breathing. Imagine my surprise when I woke up to the sound of baby breathing? Puff's sprog had crawled next to my face. After dreaming about zombie babies, waking up next to a toddler was less than appealing, I can tell you.

My. This was a long P.S wasn't it?

shhh...

2004-10-21T16:14:00.000+01:00

I am a Goblin...
...Lurking in the shadows...

Elvis.

2004-10-20T11:33:00.000+01:00

Elvis at the London Palladieum (what spelling?) wasn't as bad as I expected, but it was still very bad. Why would you pay thousands to hire one of London's most famous venues and then not advertise it? The hall was less than a quarter full. It was crap.

On the plus side I got paid more than usual and obtained some useful stock footage.

Didn't go into work yesterday because I still got this stoopid cold, which I have given back to the Puff. Ha! Sweet justice.

Speaking of Puff, should be moving in with her soon. Over all I think this is a good thing- marred only by the presence of her screaming sprog. Glen's going to be selling his house soon, or renting it, so living with Puff will serve until the next exciting chapter of my existence begins.

People keep on saying- 'oh, you should move to London and do something with your media degree.' These people seem to lack understanding of two basic fundamentals.

a) I hate the absolute shit out of London.
b) The only thing I can get with my media degree is the oppertunity to make tea for new people on less money.

If I want to write and direct my own short films, paying abillion pounds rent and a trillion pounds in order to eat in London isn't going to help. I'd have to work my arse of to even maintain posistion of whipping boy in the media circles. Only idiots think London is paved with Gold. It's actually paved with paving slabs. And not very good ones either.

Yeah, there's lots of cool stuff in London. But there's also just as much crap as everywhere else.

Yeah, Corby sucks. But think about it- would life be any better being a loser in London?

My mind wanders to Lincoln a lot these days. I liked it there, I think.

Ugh.

2004-10-18T09:16:00.000+01:00

Had a cold all weekend. Sucks mightily. Today I lift kit for suedo-Elvis. I thought I'd write a blog to celebrate the novelty of being up and about at nine in the morning.

How sweet.

Fuck you, nanny!

2004-10-14T14:12:00.000+01:00

All these chuffing health warnings are starting to really piss me off.

O.K, I can deal with the smoking adverts and stuff, and in all fairness I have cut back on my smoking considerably. But now the fuck heads are picking on fat people- not obese people- but FAT people. Apparently not only is my 'spare tire' unsightly but its also pumping dealy toxins into my body. Yeah, right. BULLSHIT! Everything around us pumps deadly toxins into us everyday. Imagine what the synthetic material of your shoe sole pumps through your feet everyday? And the billions of chemicals we deal with everyday- none of them natural, none of them good for us, all of them integral parts of everyday existance.

I got news for you kids:

E V E R Y T H I N G C A U S E S C A N C E R!

No microwaves, no mobile phones, no lino kitchen floors no nothing. And don't think being a vegan hermit in a cave will help your life expectancy either because, even though we live in an age surrounded by hideous chemicals, we still outlive our primitive ancestors. And even if we didn't, veganism and hermit hood is dull as fuck.

Basically, our govenment wants us all to be middle class squash playing fuck holes, who don't smoke or drink too much and all have frail wine sipping bodies. And then, get this, they've the nerve to complain abou their being too many pensioners!! THAT'S BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE LIVING LONGER, YOU SCHMUCK!!

Maybe if all these pensioners had lived a full and dangerous life they wouldn't be such a massive burden on the system now and us younger chaps wouldn't be getting analy shafted by the tax man so much.

So there's your choice. Live the nazi-istic lifestlye that nanny wants and live to sit in your own piss while the governent struggles to keep you housed, or die younger. Hmmm. Choices choices.

I hate how you're made to feel guilty as well. Its like- oh, dieing younger- how irrisponsable of you. Why? What's it to you? I have ceased to be a burden on anyone, yeah its a shame to people I leave behind, but no more of a shame than them having to watch me lose my marbles and become as a toddler again- do you really want to see you're dad/mum shit themselves? Really? Would you want your kids to see you like that? And, maybe oneday you'll have the guts to say, at the ripe old age of seventy, I enjoyed myself right up to the point where the tumor turned maligment. (which can happen to ANYONE by the way, regardless of lifestyle choices.) And I didn't live to be a hundred, but I also didn't live to the point where I forget to put my trousers on the right way around.

I wonder what the governemnt will say next- not having blonde hair and blue eyes causes herpies?

If you are a smoker, do yourself a favour, go up to your local MP and stab a fag out in his eye.
If you're fat... I dunno... Slap him with a cheese burger or something.
And if you're a binge drinker smash a glass in his face. Chances are you'll be doing it this weekend anyway.

I don't think the problems of the country lie with the fat, smoking, drinkers of the world. I think it lies with jerks. How about a new governent health warning:

BEING A JERK MAY LEAD TO YOU BEING SHOT IN THE FACE, YOU JERK.

I started a joke...

2004-10-13T14:30:00.000+01:00

...Which started the whole world... DIEING!!!

Anyway...

I have a feeling of restlessnessness about me. I have nearly finished a comissioned video project, I have a kit-liftng date with Suedo-Elvis at the London Palladieumueummm on Monday, I am nearly in a posistion to put a lot more energy into my personal projects.

M I S S I O N S T A T E M E N T

Camera Equipment purchased or constructed- End of October.
Storyboarding draft of short film- Mid November at latest.
Shooting Schedule for Short Film- Early next Year
Writing projects- Finished four months latest.
Assasination of target A- ten minutes.

There. I feel better for having written that down. Now all I have to think about is sorting out band stuff and my ever decreasing social life. If I sort everything out on the list above I can get a proper job with some proper money and stop worrying about having to sell my blood for beer money. I am sick of not having beer money. Or beer, obviously.

I am also sick of not having enough money to see my ever fleeing friends and so having to talk to this blog all day.
I WILL DESTROY LACK OF CONVENIENT LIFESTYLE DUE TO PERSONAL AMBITION!!

...and relax.

Wait a second...

2004-10-12T13:01:00.000+01:00

...is anyone even reading this damned blog?

Look, you either read the blog or I come around your house and talk at you. The choice is yours.

In further news, today followed yesterday and will most likely be followed by tomorrow.

Though I'm not promising anything...

Dark Times

2004-10-11T19:18:00.000+01:00

Superman dead? Michael Fish retired? I sense dark days ahead, my friends. Dark days indeed.

I'm going to bed.

Hey baby.

2004-10-10T15:12:00.000+01:00

Well well Welly welly willmot what an interesting weekend it has been. The nightclub has been SOLD to the council for a very fair sum, so that horrible drain on my existance is gone forever. Just the bar and the hotel to worry about now. I'm pleased for my parents, who are at an age now where they don't need the hassle of nightclubs and ballbags.

Also- my cousin Corrie has just had a baby girl called Georgia- so I have a new little cousing to play with. Hooray!

As one era ends so another begins.

Its the circle...
The circle of life....

So we all went out and got hammered in Kettering. Me, G-man, Jody Tamla and Ross and a load of Ross's mates. It was a good night with much whitty and urbane conversation... Probably.

Ran into a few people I hadn't seen in a long while including one of Stonecold's old birds, which was nice.

We all went back to Ross's place and discovered a hippy party in the flat below. With real genuine hippies. Cosmic.

Needless to say I got the fuck out of there in a hurry.

It was a good night, but today I suffer. Such is the way of things.

Its the circle...
The circle of...

You get the point.

R.I.P Rodney.

2004-10-06T17:22:00.000+01:00

I worked the Harbo' rockschool again last night. It was dull and some twat was talking to me about back loaded speakers for about a million years. Why the hell would I want to talk about speakers for any lenght of time? Let alone back loaded ones. He was quite smug that I didn't know what a back loaded bass speaker was (it turns out, as I predicted, that it wasn't worth knowing) until I told him that I didn't actually care what a back loaded speaker was. Then he told me what one was anyway.

People. Are. Jerks.

Saw guitarist Stu again and he made avery good point that the band hasn't rehearsed in a good few millenia. This must be sorted. Rock and Roll must prevail.

I am trying to work a lot these days because I have less money than a cat... who notoriously don't carry money. So it looks like all those shitty shit bar shifts I tried to avoid will be coming to kick me in the nuts once more. Ah well. With any luck I'll be dead soon anyway.

Speaking of dead- Rodney Dangerfield is dead.

Makes you think really. We will all live to see our heroes die.

Unless we die tragically early.

Either way that's pretty grim right there, man.

Politics...

2004-10-04T19:36:00.000+01:00

...are extremely dull. Too much politics on television- not enough japanese cartoons. This is why our nation has such a cynical morale.

Anyway. Spent a constructive weekend with The Puff, sitting on the couch and watching zombie flicks. We had fun. Zombies are fun.

I really am thinking about short film stuff a lot recently. Today I am even staying on at the Raven after hours to work on personal projects... Such as this blog... But I suppose that doesn't count.

In the near future, instead of spending a million pounds, I am going to attempt to construct a camera jib out of hand-weights and mic stands.

...What have you done for science lately?

...well?

Stuff to do.

2004-10-01T13:38:00.002+01:00

Today I will be mostly recording a song with Ash the Bum. Then I have to film some crowd shots at the Raven Hotel. Then I need to get up at 8.00am tomorrow for band practice.

All in all this isn't a fantastic way to spend one's weekend. There's much sleeping to be done and I am missing out.

So I'll listen to David Bowie for a moment. He understands...

Oh look... A blog... How droll.

2004-09-30T15:34:00.000+01:00

Whadup blackfolk?
Did I say that? I meant niggaz...
Either way.. I'm just not street enough, am I?

Anyway. Decided I'm going to buy some new weights for lifting purposes. I'm tired of slogging away at the old tens for meager gain- so I'm upgrading to twenties. Yep- lower reps but higher weights- FEEL THE BURN! F E E L THE B U RRRRNN!

The reason for this is quite obvious... I have become flabby and weak. I haven't been this flabby and weak since I was thirteen, so its time to bring back some thug power yessirree bob. Then I can not worry about being beaten up so much... Stoopid Puff Sprog.

Well, I've started working on things for my short horror film, I really want to get it made, just to get into the old 'lets make a film' mood again. If the horror goes well- then it's definatley time for a zombie martial arts short. I don't care what anyone says- ZOMBIE MARTIAL ARTS WILL PREVAIL!

I've nearly storyboarded what I am calling 'room 113' (spooky name, isn't it?) and I have put together some plans to build some home made camera accessories. All I need to do now is finish my current standing projects and spend about a million pounds on camera equipment too advanced for me to construct.

Well, until the next time, keep living the dream my worthy, most worthy readers... all five of you.

Fuck you guys.

Incidentally- if one of you is a relativley hot girl who doesn't mind having pig guts smeared on her lower abdomen, please get in touch.

Damn straight, bitch!

2004-09-27T15:47:00.000+01:00

On a lighter note- my 'Shaun of the Dead' review is now the 'Featured Review' on www.i-mockery.com .

Yeah. Stick that up yer ass and smoke it. Told you I could be a movie review guy.

Comedy- I mean, what's with that?

2004-09-27T15:22:00.000+01:00

Tamla's birthday was very good. We went to see some comedians and they were very funny. Just as well, really. If they weren't then I would have been sorely dissapointed. If I wanted to watch people who weren't funny I wouldn't go to a comedy club, would I? I'd just go to a... I dunno... a club.

We did actually go to a club afterwards. A 'R O C K' club... Though seeing as I can't rememebr what anyone looked like (drunken selective perception- where you only pay attention to what you want to.) then it could have actually been a christian aid ball for all I know.

Had a good time anyhoo, every one was merry. Puff was there, and Stone Cold and Chris and me Famly and the other Chris and some other guys. I even saw Olly and spent a large portion of my night doing monkey impressions... yeah.

I didn't end up buying Tamla a knife- but I did get her a zippo with 'badass' engraved on it, which is also pretty cool.

We had a stinky kebab followed by some nice chicken... and... and

Now that I actually come to write this I realise that a large portion of what happened to me on saturday is missing. Oh well. I expect I was whitty, charming and a generally fun guy to be around. Other people may have distorted versions of events but I'm sticking with mine...

Hate Crime... On channel4

2004-09-24T11:02:00.000+01:00

Wrote some amusing songs with Stone Cold in the studio yesterday... We're working under the band name 'GoreCore4' or possibly THE GoreCore4". I like this name- but I think Badass Rebel Smokers is better. But Iain doesn't smoke so that one is pretty much fannyflapped right there...

So much for doing work. Ah well.

I expect The Cold will put the songs on his blog one day. I won't because I don't know how and have no inclination to learn. Computers are for losers...

...Wait a minute...

Anyway. Tomorrow I get drunk. Which is nice.

I think I'm going to buy my sister a knife for her birthday, because, lets face it, everybody likes a good knife now and again.

MmmMmmmMMmmmMMMMMMM!!

2004-09-23T10:16:00.000+01:00

.. I don't even know what that's supposed to mean...

Still...

Nuthin' of note has happened to me. 'Cept me ol' pall Oil of Olly asked us to do some music for a DIEt Coke tester commercial. Which is nice... But, really- Diet? Asking the wrong dude, dude.

I haven't had much of a look in on the composistion to tell you the truth because I have been given a surprise deadline for a video project. Which means I shouldn't be wasting any more time with this stupid blog.

Go away and stop bothering me.

P.S: look out for my review of Shaun Of The Dead at www.i-mockery.com (in the film reviews section.)
I think tha tone day I could be a video review guy, maybe...

GREAT HOLY BASTARDS!!

2004-09-19T20:27:00.000+01:00

Guess what I did over the weekend!!?? GO ON GUESS!!??? G U E S S!!!

...i can wait all day...

I STAYED IN AND WATCHED STUFF!!! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
I even turned down a perfectly good rock night in order to do so. What a sad old horsefuck I am becoming. Ah well. In truth I need money and smoking allowances for next weekend for my big sister Tamla's birthday- where I plan to get unhealthily blathered. And then some.

In other news, I am continuing my vendetta against spawn of Puff. The lil' bugger was faking again the other day. It accidentally headbutted my arm and then ran of to tell its mum. But then, after Puff rightly didn't listen to the lieing shit, it came through and started purposefully bumping into me, and then running to tell its mum. Then later on, it starts throwing an action figure at me saying "Catch!" (the sprog said that... Not the action figure.) I figured I'd give 'im a chance so I caught it a few times. Then, my confidence restored, I decided to throw it his way... Not at him, just to the left so it wouldn't hit him. "Catch I say."

Needless to say the action figure bounces harmlessly on the sofa, to which the child responds by telling its mum I'm throwing stuff at it.

Later on it manages to headbutt its mum giving her one of the biggest black eyes I have ever seen. Of course, I will be blamed for this. "It was the toddler!" I will say. "Liar!" they will reply, before administering a swift but poignant beating.
(NOTE: poignant is a word I know. It is a good word. Fifty pee to the person who is the first to look it up, draw a picture of it, draw a picture of a piggy, stick it on their fridge and then kill their granmother with an axe.)

The kid needs a damn good scare. People are too soft on their spawn these days. A damn good scaring would sort the shit out of that cry baby and no mistake. Failing that, a damn good scarring might give it a clue. But talk like that will most likely get me arrested.

People often use the excuse "He can't help it- he's only little." 'Bollox', I say 'Big Sweating Bollox!'. In my new experiences-true deviance begins in the toddler years. The only thing we gain is subtlety. And some of us don't even gain that.

Scaring children...

2004-09-17T17:46:00.000+01:00

Stayed at Puff's again last night. If it wasn't for that troublesome sprog I probably just would have moved in by now and got it over with. Then again, if it wasn't for that troublesome sprog Puff probably wouldn't be seeing me right now. Hmm, the troubles of the infinite 'what if's'...

What was I saying?

Yeah, she had to babysit for her sister's sprog which, for reasons as yet unknown, is petrified of me. The first time it met me it walked into the appartement all happy and toddler like and shit- then it saw me and said. "I wanna go home now." Fucking Wuss.

But then last night, as it was going up the stairs towards Puff's place, it stopped and said 'Is Steven in there?"...and then promptly burst into tears.
...almost as if it could sense evil...

Amyway. It settled down eventually- but I was sorely tempted to sneak up on it and scream in it's ear. That'd teach 'im. Give the little bugger something to be scared of.

Got some work done today. Not a lot. I'm falling into a slump again. Must strive to do stuff.
I think I hear my Megaman calling.
Goodbye.

...

2004-09-16T16:42:00.000+01:00

I'm not writing anything today. So fuck you.

"Six good reasons to walk away..."- badly dubbed wolverine

2004-09-15T16:42:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was pretty dull, all in all. I managed to get back to my parents house and hide the large stack of eighties stuff under my bed, but then, with no money, I was stuck there. So I kicked back and took advantage of the sky system.

Ahhh- sweet sweet cartoon channels. The only reason to own a sky system.

Unfortunatley my hangover got the better of me and I fell asleep on the couch. Only to wake up to Stonecold and my sister who quickly realised that they too were stranded. There are worse places to be stranded I suppose.

Did I mention that I had to break into my parents house again? Everytime I go there, the sodding door is locked and my last method of breaking in has been foiled. This means that I have to think of an entirely new way of breaking in everytime. This time it was through the bathroom window.

Pretty soon I'll be a master thief.

Anywhat. Me and the Cold eventually got back to Corby and played the x-men beat 'em up game. We had much fun watching Wolverine stab people in the crotch.

I had to leave him to it, however, in order to keep a previous engagement with the Puff. She made me eat sweets because, apparently, I keep on buying junk food which she ends up eating and then gets fat as a result. Oviously her lack of will power is my fault.

She made me eat the sweets so we can at least get fat together. Or in my case- fatter.

I'm gonna give the Puff a big, fat ass and then make her shake it. Jiggle, Puff! Jiggle!

Megawhat?

2004-09-14T13:55:00.000+01:00

What was supposed to be a few beers and a night full of Mega Man last night turned into me an Stonecold getting arsed at my parents house with my little sister and her mates. Me and Cold got hammered and hung out in the kitchen listening to old school grunge and stabbing beer cans with knives.

At the end of the night we went into the attic to look at the accumulated stuff. It was like an 80's wonderland- and I very nearly brained Stonecold with a commodore64 computer system, which, while being roughly the same size and weight as a phonebox, has as much power as half a gameboy.

What sucks about this is I had to get up this morning and sit in this godam office with a hangover.

And I need to go back to the house and clean it, hide the 80's stuff and the knives, before my parents get back.

Oh, Mega Man- why did we forsake thee?

I'm a weekend crazy party machine...ite

2004-09-13T13:47:00.000+01:00

No i'm not. I stayed in with the Puff and rented videos all weekend. Which was nice. I ate a lot of food and watched a lot of high and low quality entertainment.

Shaun of the dead? Brilliant!
Wisconsin Death Trip? SHIT! UTTER SHIT! ITS A FUCKING DOCUMENTARY FOR CHRISSAKES! They should have wrote that on the box but they didn't. I was led to believe it was a horror. When I see whoever did that stupid film I'm going to beat the hell out of them and get my three quid back.

Anyway. Pretty laid back weekend really. Had to put up with a lot more of Puff's sprog than I would have liked. Stupid annoying kid. Cries constantly, the whinging bastard.

Also, I turned down what was suppposedly a wicked night out in London (see Stone Cold's blog). But I didn't have any money and was hungover to buggery anyway. Oh well.

Right then. I'm sitting in a crap office doing crap stuff for crap pay. Later I will play Megaman with Mr. Stonecold.

It all happening here, folks.

Wheee!

2004-09-10T14:54:00.000+01:00

Went out clubbing with-a-the-puff last night. But not before seeing Hellboy, which was O.K. I give it a six out of eleven. I'm knocking of points because the salsa in my nachos was too soggy. So we got drunk, went to a club in Kettering (so it wasn't entirely filled with scum) and had a good old time getting sloshed.

You don't even want to know what happened after the club so I wont tell you. Needless to say, when I woke up, the couch was covered in chocolate.

Anyway. The Puff's nut-job ex-boyfriend, the father of Puff's sprog, was round giving shit today. He didn't come in the apartment (place of Puff) but he kept threatening to. When Puff wouldn't let him in (get this) he went and picked up Puff's sprog from nursery so she would HAVE to let him in.

The guys a class A prick, and if it had anything to do with me I would drop an anvil on his head. It's doesn't, though, really. And I doubt violence would solve anything in this case. Reason has failed and Mr. Ex seems like the type who would love to get beat up so he has something more to whine about.

Ah well.

It seems my ambition to lead a hastle free existance is continually foiled by other people.

Solution? I WILL DESTROY OTHER PEOPLE!

Phew...

2004-09-08T17:47:00.000+01:00

...That was close. I nearly spent 800 quid on camera stuff. Luckily the american company I intended to buy from was being menaced by a hurricane...

Anyway. I'm off to take a pee now.

burger! B U R G E R !

2004-09-07T23:53:00.000+01:00

I don't want to sound like one of those TWATS who thinks he's a coinasewerere (Yeah I can't spell? So? At least I dont use the spell checker and PRETEND i can spell! Leave me alone you bastards!) about everything, (you know the types- "Ohh. I know stuff. Look at MY blog. I have OPINIONS!") but I've just had the most satisfying burger in the universe. Hands down. The market harborough SUPERSPECIALFLAMESBURGER! Don't fuck with it, man, it'll come after your family.

Anyway.

Yeah, I took money for Harbo Rockschool again and spent my time constructively drawing pictures of Guitarist Stu ass-banging some fifteen year old girl from one of the bands. I like to think my GSCE A-star in graphics didn't go entirely to waste...

But then I like to think a lot of things...

Just realised there's a self financed film maker opperating in Weldon currently shooting a martial arts horror film. People should really consult me about these things. In fact, anyone in a million mile radius, when considering producing a martial arts horror film, should automatically think - "Where's steve? We need Steve! WE NE E D S T E V E!!!!'

But they don't. So I sent him my CV. If he doesn't reply to me I'm going to kidnap his mum and slap her with ice cream.

I was considering going to a VIP opening of a new Corby club on Thursday. I thought- "Ohhhh SWANKY! shirt and shoes? Bring the missus and introduce her to me dad? No ballbags? Lovely!!" We got snt a VIP pass and everything!

Then I realised that every fuck face on the planet has one of these so called VIP tickets.

No one in this town is a VIP. Unless VIP stands for Fucking Fuck Fuck. And that doesn't even contain the letter V for chrissakes.

On another note it seems me old chum Stone Cold is doing very well in London. I intend to spoil this some how.
Possibly in a way involving me, a pidgeon, his close friends and about 16 cans of carling.

I'm still working on this...

Zombies! AIEEE!

2004-09-06T13:45:00.000+01:00

Had a constructive weekend staying with the Puff. We stayed in, got drunk and watched a plethera of bad movies. Also got introduced to Puff's brother Graham- he is a comic book art drawing, film liking, guitar playing, nunchuck expert mo fo'. So that's pretty cool right htere.

He sugested I do a ninja zombie film and I'm like- Dude, I've been thinking about ninja zombies for some time now... LIKE TEN YEARS!!! But now I have access to a nunchuck expert with a zombie mask- things are looking up.

Speaking of zombies, I had another zombie dream last night. It's been a while, I'll admit, but it was zombies again for me last night. As per usual, my role in the dream was to be the only guy who seems fully concerned that we are surounded by the walking dead. Everyone else is like- 'Oh, zombies, how novel!' So I have to show 'em what needs to be done while trying not to panic horribly.

I was pretty cool in the dream last night, level-headed and everything. It was like 'Ah, another zombie apocolypse, ay? Well, we all know what to do in one of them' then I got a hammer and started smashing zombie skull in. It was alright, except for one zombie that refused to die, so I had to keep on smashing him with a hammer, all the while explaining to my colleagues that 'you have to disengage the brain' and that the best way to do that was 'to hit them in the head until they stop moving.'

Only trouble was, because I only had a crappy little hammer, as opposed to, say, a big hammer, they kept on getting back up. It was quite freaky- an odd violin noise would sound when they got back up, like a cheap horror movie-based computer game. So I had to keep on hitting them and hitting them- like whack-a-mole but with blood thirsty zombies.

Anyway I woke up and everything was o.k.

But one day there will be a zombie apocolypse- THEN people will listen to me, god dammit!

Hey, kid...

2004-09-03T20:09:00.000+01:00

Did the money taking at the Corby rock school last night. It was a weird one, with punch ups and accidents and cheeky underage drinkers all around. Still- it was busy and full to the brim with underage skirt.

I felt the old testosterade flowing again and actually caught myself flirting/being flirted with- a practice I try to avoid even when I'm single. I just don't like it- it's all a bit seedy, isn't it? I mean, if people want to sleep with other people they should just come right out and say it- that's how I got my last couple o' girlfriends.

Hastle free and I don't have to use my brain much. Not a lot to ask is it?

Anyway, I think both I and the flirtee both gave ourselves a sharp slap on the wrist because we are both attached. In my case I'm attached to an easily enraged ball of Puff who most likely set fire to my pubes in my sleep if I even so much as tasted another girl...

Proabaly just as well. Same postcode phillandery never works out.

Speaking of a-the-Puff, Puff's sprog walked in on us the other day whilst we were...hmmm....shagging. We were being discreet, like, so it didn't see anything, but I was just thinking-

"Hey. Hey, kid. Guess what I'm doing to your mum?"

Yeah, that's pretty cool right there, man.

Lifestyles of a guy who does stuff... sometimes...

2004-09-02T12:34:00.000+01:00

Well my hangover is more or less gone. Which is great. Obviously they'll be some long term things which will only serve me right. You should see the Puff, though... Man is she bruised. All her friends think I'm some sort of violent monster. Hopefully, after that crazy weekend, at least my fiends know the truth. Did I say 'fiends'? I meant fiends.

I'm quite pleased, all year now I haven't really been thinking past Reading and then when it ended I'm like... Oh... Now what?

But then today I got some feed back from a producer for this script I wrote for my dad. He wa quite positive but said that if you wanted to pitch it you'd need six more episodes at least. Well, this means that my dad might be paying me for six more episodes. Which gives me something constructive to do.

Also, some guy from some band phoned me up asking for a camera dude on his music video. It appears my mundane office life is over...

For now...

The Puff is pleased for me, and when Puff is pleased she beats me less, so we're all having a great time. And hopefully, with a bit of money behind me, this means I can go and see my friends once in a while, instead of talking to this fucking computer all day.

Fucking computer.

FESTIVAL MUNGOUS!!

2004-08-31T20:05:00.000+01:00

...is a word I said once!
Just came back from the god-damned reading festival and god damn did I have a god damn good time. Basically, I didn't see even one of the shit shit shitty bands on their so called line up... me? I just stayed in the camping field and got really drunk. Getting my friends to sing songs at some strangers fifty times more for a mere two bucks, drinking beyond capacity simply due to principle, getting The Puff to either a) lap dance, b) poo or c) get me some god damned cigarettes. It was a good festival, with an unusual mix of veterans and amatuers. Needless to say the amatuers we're kind of lame. But I believe they've learned a valuable lesson.

I got to see a lot of my friends I haven't seen in a good old while and then I forced them to join 'the way of the samuri', which largely involved smearing shit in their faces and getting them to wave sharp impliments about. Its not much of a way, but it's mine. And it's better than my original way. Which consisted of threatening to stab away all my problems.

On the last morning some guy caught these people rumaging through his tent and our crew went bezerk, threatening them with DIY impliments so they couldn't leave before security got there. It was good. And I made friends with a hammer called Dave. Dave and I are good friends now. I haven't felt such satisfying rage since my teenage years.

Also on the last night I think we managed to burn every camp chair in the entire god damned festival. My lungs feel like liquid action man. Props to Max and Olly, who are worryingly good at burning stuff, and all those other guys from the neighbouring campsite who helped out. I think they realised it was a case of 'burn or be burnt.'

Yep, festivals are good, even if the weather, people, music and hangover did suck mightily.

Speaking of hangover, I'm off to expel this rancid amount of poisonous shit that has accumalated in my intestines.

Redding festival- not READing festival...

2004-08-25T18:21:00.000+01:00

...because that would just be shit- paying one hundred pounds to sit in a field and read all day. Yeah,yeah- shit joke, but it has to be said every year or the sky will collapse.

Anyway. Yeah. Going to Reading Festival tomorrow- the line up is pants and the weather set to be less than tropical (unless you count tropical rainstorm) but I'm enjoying the prospect of siting in a field and getting absoloutely arseholed.

Reading is good for the soul. God knows I need a recharge after existing in this excrement ridden louse of a town...

Also we have a gig on Friday in a venue where Iron Maiden used to play. Sigh. A little bit of rock history....
Iron Maiden suck, mind you, so lets not get especially sentimental.

DIEing my hair a funny colour. Going for blonde but, frankly, I'll be lucky if I get a vaugely Irn-Bru tinge.

Yep, Reading should be good. All me chums are going. All two of 'em. Wicked. Every year Reading has more ballbags at it, so this year I'm debating whether or not to charge my air pistol and dish out some stinging justice. Chances are this will probably get me into a lot of trouble, so I doubt I will...

...Still...I might.

NO!

2004-08-21T13:29:00.000+01:00

No- I'm not going to write anything today either- so you can fuck right off! Go on!

In the mean time- why not take photos of yourself jerking off and post them to random addressessess? Apparently this is illegal, but I don't see no-one taking ME into custody... Its not like they couldn't identify me or nuthin'.

Yeah?

2004-08-20T21:11:00.000+01:00

Yeah, I havent written in a while... So? I mean, what's it to you? What are you gonna do about it? Call the blog police? Fuck you, man, I don't need this shit- If anyone wants me I'll be in my dressing room...

Club a dub dub

2004-08-14T15:12:00.000+01:00

What was supposed to be a quiet excursion to the pub with The Puff last night turned into drinking a small but healthy bottle of vodka and then going to the club. The club was shit. There was no-one in there, but we were wasted so it didn't matter. I spent too much money but I had a good time. Until the end of the night, when the new bouncers pissed me off. If I was being paid bouncer money to stand in an empty club I'd be in a lot better mood... Instead of a miserable egosentric jerk with ideas above both his height and station.

Anyway.

Today I lift kit for a wedding in nottingham. If my life was anymore dynamic they'd have to feature me in a weekly adventure comic of some sort...

Oh dear.

2004-08-13T10:33:00.000+01:00

I should probably point out that I didn't actually beat the shit out of the Puff. She just bruises to easily and we got carried away with... stuff.

However. Evrybody who has seen the bruises now thinks I'm some stella drinking woman beating bastard. Best lay low for a while. Staying in with a sixpack of Stella tonight, methinks.

On the other hand, I did spend a constructive half hour watching Puff's kid beat the shit out of her this morning. Two year olds are ace. In ten minute bursts. Then they're just annoying.

That's what you get, right there.

2004-08-12T17:58:00.001+01:00

Yep. Nothing interesting happened today either.
Went to see the Puff last night- she is covered in bruises from when i beat the SHIT out of her on Sunday! Its great! She looks like a poster child for domestic abuse. We spent all night counting her bruises, prodding them and then laughing. She was good humoured about it, even though she has to wear long sleeves and a zip up collar to a workplace with no air conditioning in a very humid week... Hehehehe.

That's what she gets for calling me 'Puff 'n' fresh' anyway.

I dish out the nicknames here, love, NOT YOU!

B R U I S E D !

My original aims...

2004-08-11T17:40:00.000+01:00

Just realized I haven't threatened to destroy anything for quite some time...

I will destory...

...I dunno...

....Dr. Pepper.

There.

Going round to see the Puff tonight. Hope I don't get beaten up by kids with bags.

Cock and balls

2004-08-11T12:59:00.000+01:00

Played a gig in London last night. Shit. Utter shit. There was no-one there. A lovely venue with a kick ass PA- but there was no-one there.

Whats the point, I ask you?

With this in mind the band has discussed getting a manager. Seeing as we can't manage ourselves this seems like a good idea.

Went out and got drunk with my sister and some other girls all around that London. It was O.K.

bleh.

Sweet ballbag irony...

2004-08-09T14:13:00.000+01:00

Played a gig in Corby last night. Shit. Utter shit. No audience except suedo-jaded alternative dweebs who have spent so much time being ironic they've forgotten what their personality looks like, and the sound engineer was, to be frank, shit.

Afterwards I got completely hammered with The Puff. We got very drunk and started discussing things. I gave my usual 'bleak future' speal and was quite suprised when she gave me an even bleaker future speal- the problems and restrictions of being a single parent, her parents divorce, giving up on her personal ambitions etc. It was quite sad.

Still. Breathe in breathe out.

We went home and screwed around 'till about five in the morning and I think we're both in a better mood now.

We did have one discussion, about how fundamentally terrible Corby is, and whether or not we should acknowledge and defend against it. Her argument is that people will always be shits and you should just rise above it. My argument was, if you don't take it personally, no-one will stand up for themselves and the shits will roam free and easy.

This morning 'Rons car was stolen from outside his house.

I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Down down down...

2004-08-07T22:27:00.000+01:00

Olly came up from London yesterday in order to help me shoot a live video of a seventies band. It was good to see him again. We had a drink and talked about movies, martial arts, bruce campbell, fox hunting, why England is shit.... all kinds of things really. I don't really get to talk film with anyone around Corby so I had a good time of it. We hit the club (literally- it's a shit club) and had a few beers and a hellavulot of smokes and managed to have a good time in the face of adversity. A seventeen year old girl gave me her phone number. Still got it, baby, still got it.

My phone that is...

Olly said he noticed I was looking a bit down and I realised he had a point- I was feeling abit down. I think its just this horrible town. It's horrible- but in order to pursue the things I love and want to succeed in (Writing, band suff, proffesional lover, criminal mastermind....) then I'm afraid Corby really is the only place I can be for the time being. Anywhere else and I wouldn't have the support of my family and the oppertunities they can provide. It would be nice to go out to a decent town/city and get a proper job with some real money- but then I'd have shit all time for writing, wouldn't have easy access to my band, and would likely not have time for video projects.

Maybe, when I learn to drive, moving and working might be a proper option... for now, as lazy and cowardly as it may seem, I just wanna do the things I love before the real world comes and punches me hard in the groin. The downside of this is, of course, no money, no life structure and the ever sucking presence of the small town nightmare of Corby.

Anyway. Went shopping with the Puff today- we were supposed to go to Leicester and shop properly, but I refused to get out of bed, so we just went to neighbouring town, Kettering. We had an alright time, I bought some books, she bought a top, we had food, and we saw Spider man 2. A very good film wih some great Raimi moments as well as a cameo by the almighty Bruce Campbell. As much as I enjoyed the film it made me feel a little sad- I am slowly coming to the realisation that I may never be a super hero. Not even a shit one like Robin- who is arguabley just a hero, and not a great one at that.

Oh well. Time and lack of super powers makes fools of us all.

There may or may not still be time to be an action hero. Haven't decided yet. I do have a vest mind you...

See the pattern yet?

2004-08-06T00:16:00.000+01:00

Blah blah blah Rockschool. Blah blah blah Lifted stuff. Blah blah blah shit office work. Blah blah blah crappy fast food. Blah blah blah busy day tomorrow. Blah blah blah a-the-Puff. Blah blah blah lazer guns are nice. Blah blah blah but then there was blood all over the place so I just left it...

The children are our future...

2004-08-05T11:43:00.000+01:00

This town never ceases to repel me. I was going out to visit the Puff last night at her new place, I leave the house and automatically I know I'm going to get shit. Usually, because I normally just stick to Corby's more commercial areas, I wear pretty much what I feel like, but I'm fully aware that if you visit a suburban area by yourself you try and look as non-descript as possible. This is hard enough with an inch and a quarter goatee, but I've just realised I'm wearing combat shorts, a leather jacket and a strongbad t-shirt. Non of these things are a football top or a shellsuit- so, rather predictabley I get some abuse off the local smegheads.

What I didn't anticipate was the nature of the abuse. I pass a group of fourteen to sixteen year olds, probably about eight of them, chucking a bag into a tree in the nature of the bored and mindless twats that they are, and as I walk past, one of them says "Oh- A fiver to knock 'im out!" to which a friend replies "Yeah, hit 'im in the head!"

Are they really this bored? And what am I, fifteen again? Am I really only worth a fiver to knock out? I'm twenty fucking two years old- I assumed I'd put these kind of confrontations behind me. I am shocked and appalled as the bag they are throwing narrowly misses me. So I pick it up and hurl over some garages and carry on walking. Naturally I get the "Oh, thinks he's hard! Think you're hard or somit?" routine, which is the reward for anyone who stands up for themselves in even the smallest way. I carry on walking and one of them follows me, mutering idle threats, I get to the door to the block of flats The Puff stays in and ring the buzzer. The chap is still asking me if I think I'm hard. The answer is, no, but I could twist you into some interesting shapes- I'm not going to say this, however, because the days are behind me when I would quite willingly take on multiple opponents, and this is unfamiliar territory for me. Chances are, these days, that a group of eight fourteen to sixteen year olds could prbably cause me some regretable problems. As I enter the building the shithead kicks his bag at me, fortunatley, it misses, scutters into the apartment block hallway and is locked behind me.

What a twat. He's just lost his bag for good. Oh well.

But's what's wrong with these freaks? Have they got nothing better to do? What really annoys me is, had I been wearing a tracksuit and a baseball cap, they wouldn't have give me a second look.

I always think that being an adult (physically) means I only have to worry about other adults. But I am reminded of the newspaper story where, quite recently, a twenty two year old lad was killed by a blow to the head after repremanding a group of youths. He was out wih his girlfriend at the time. They biked up and hit him on the head from behind.

These people are a different species. Thwy think differently and speak a different language. They have little or no concept of greater community. They are not a tribe. They are a collection of packs. This is why Corby, and lower England in general, will eat itself. With any luck.

On a lighter note, I was forced to confront the Puff's sprog last night. He was farty, noisy, obnoxious and spent most of his time trying to get his own way by lieing, exagerating or begging for attention. In many ways, two years olds are much the same as adults.

I'd sell my soul for a biscuit... literally

2004-08-03T23:49:00.000+01:00

I was just thinking about that encounter with Susie at that wedding. We were both talking about how shit our memories were (her's due to an accident, mine due to reasons I can't quite currently remember) and I'm thinking 'Wow, such remarkable coincidinks.' Then it occured to me- the reasons our destiny's are so entwined is because I sold my soul to her for a chocolate biscuit about eight years ago. I wrote it down and everything and the trade was made.

So maybe she still has my soul. More than likely, though, it has been lost in the gutter- which is both probable and fitting.

... I wish I still had that biscuit...

Anyway. Had a suprise rock school in Harborough today for which Glen and I were both very disorganised. I wanted to invite Stone Cold to cure my boredom blues, but both Glen and I forgot our phones. So that one went right down the shitter. If you're reading this Cold-I'm just sorry alright?

He was proabably too busy being bored shitless anyway.

Because of my lack of phone, I also couldn't tell the Puff why I'm not at her house like I'm supposed to be three hours ago. Oh well. Tee hee hee.

What does that mean anyway? 'Teeheehee'? I mean, who the fuck actually makes that noise?
Now I'm angry and I'm going to bed with a big multi-meat burger.

Wedding Schmedding

2004-08-02T17:32:00.000+01:00

Went to that there wedding last night. It was, as nearly all weddings are, typically wedding like. Not to say I didn't enjoy myself a bit. Got to see my family, eat free food, wear a snappy suit and get as ratted as the cirumstances would allow.

Its odd seeing someone you grew up with get married, you're like...whoa....dude...you're married. I don't think I'll ever get married, and if I do, it probably wont be to a woman. Maybe a dog or something. Less backchat more slipper fetching.

Anyhoo.

It was a wedding of unusual coincidences. I went up to the chaps who were being paid to film the do and I was like 'Hey, that's the same camera as my mine!" C O I N C I D E N C E!! 'Whats that? You've just finished a media degree?' C O I N C I D E N C E!! 'At Lincoln University?' C O FUCKING I N C I D E N C E!!!!!

Yep, that's right, I've finally found someone who's got steady, well-paid and enjoyable work from their media degree. They were nice guys and they restored my faith in the future somewhat whilst we reminised about the good old days at Lincoln.

I also ran into an old school chum- the delectible Susie Richards from my secondary school A-class. She was there with her boyfriend (who looked totally gay, I might add) but I decided to make some small talk anyway. Yeah, I was charming, yeah, we laughed. Turned out she's a down and out as well, who tried to succeed in Sheffield, failed, and is now working a crappy job in Corby.

C O I N C I D E N C E !!!

Anyway. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll have sex with her face. That would be cool, because everyone in school used to fancy her and it might placate some of my highschool loser rage!! HIGHSCHOOLLOSERRAGE ATTACK!!!

Ahem. Further proof that it's a funny old world.
But not that funny.
More 'Birds of a Feather' than 'Only Fools and Horses.'

SCHMACK SCHMACK SCHMACK!!

2004-08-01T09:44:00.000+01:00

Well I did say I'd write again when I wasn't wasted, didn't I? Since the last time I updated this blog I've either been pist as a fart or comotose by a pool. Not including yesterday- which I spent relaxing with-a-the-Puff.

What a holiday. What a cracking, A-Class holiday it was. What a myriad of drunken misadventure and hyjinx. Sigh. Sweet sweet memories...

There's no way I can write about everything that happened succinctly because, quite frankly, I'm too lazy and I'd be here for ages, but I'll run down a few of the more easily remembered moments for you.

Firstly, the crew consisted of myself, brother G-man, guitarist Chris 'pico' Livingstone, Bassist and cousin Jody 'Monstrosity' Mckinnon, childhood chum Arron 'Wilmot' Wildman, Ross 'Hirossima' Strachan, and Tom 'Where's my cock?' Warner. We've all known each other a long time, so it was a merry crew indeed.

Most of our time was spent dancing like rabid fools, which was fun, and oggling spanish women, which was also fun. We only got into trouble once, (which was suprising considering the track records of some of the team) when some pugnacious ginger troll gave Ross some attitude, to which he replied 'You're ginger,' and promptly saught confirmation of this fact by surounding bods. Needless to say the tenacious youth and his friends were not impressed and tried to give us gyp. I say tried, mind, but I think they were slightly confused by some of the responses we gave, which included Tom doing press-ups and shouting 'T E S T O S T E R O N E!!" Repeatedly, Glen attempting to shag them in the ass and Jody's rather sensible approach- "If you kick off, you're going to lose.'

They were quite nice to us the next time they saw us.

One classic night involved coming home from the clubs at about five in the morning and seeking further entertainment. Myself and Tom, not positive about our chances, began wandering the streets of the deserted Spanish town by ourselves when, lo and behold, we came across a fully blown street carnival! With eighties cover band and everything!! Then, to top it all, when I asked for some beers and tried to pay- they refused to take my money! Sweet! We legged it back to the appartments yelling 'come quick! free beer!' and raised the troops and spent the rest of the night dancing away in a kick ass carnival atmosphere.

I figured out later that the reason they were giving me free beer was because they thought I was with the band, when I corrected them, they stopped giving me free beer. In reflection, I should have kept my damn mouth shut.

After the carnival, Ross and Chris were dragged aside by some local lassies who gave them some gear. Tom, well oiled by this point, began a conversation with a suspicious man holding a blanket. I, after being deprived of cigarettes for quite some time, began threatening the families of passer-bys, but they couldn't understand me so it was alright. After the lassies we're stolen away by their concerned relatives we all went down to the beach to finish some beer and enjoy the morning sun. I don't remember much about this point, cos I was arseholed, but I do remember, while Chris was paddling in the sea, warning him about two crabs trying to attack him and sugesting he punch them to death. Turns out I was shouting at two slices of bread. Oh well.

It was a cracking night. We all got wrecked and Arron managed to pick up a lady friend...which meant I had to sleep on the couch. Not that I was in any condition to care.

The last night was also a corker, we ended up going back to that gay guy's lady friends apartment and everyone got naked. I was hammered so I passed out in a bed suggested by said Lady friend. I was promptly taken advantage of in my drunken state though I can't remember enough to press charges. Oh well.

You should see the photos of THAT night out. My word. Shocking.

I wish I could write more about this holiday, I really do, but a lot of the time, you would have had to have been there to really appreciate the magic. Ah well. I've a few interesting anecdotes to be getting on with anyway. I had a smashing time with some smashing chaps- and I'm certainly looking forward to the next one. Though, for now, I'm of to hook myself up to a dialysis machine.

Three sentences to sum up the holiday?
"Schmack! Schmack! Schmack!"
"Where's my cock!?"
"Chris, stick the bar-b-q on..."

It sucks being back in England. And now I have to go to a sodding wedding. The adventure of my life continues...

Random shit in a pot- H O L I D A Y !

2004-07-24T05:06:00.000+01:00

Alright losers?

On holiday In I?
Yes. Yes I am.
Drinking started at approx 10am. Got to the airport and the areoplane pissed fuel all over the pavement. Not reassuring I can assure you. Oh well, fear of ultimate death aside, it was a fairly pleasant flight.

Got to S PA I N and then we drank some more. The apartments were very satisfactory, but not as satisfactory as the amount of boobage in the local British Inhabited Night Club.

Met a nice girl with a gay friend.We all danced like fools. Chris is throwing up and now we are eating Glen’s speciality- random shit boiled in a pot. Rock. Rock on.

Bit arsed now so I’ll write more when I’m not. Which may be some time.

I will D E S T R O Y spain.

P.S: There may or may not be homosexual molestations tonight. We’ll see how the luck holds out, shall we?

Mornin'

2004-07-22T08:54:00.000+01:00

Check this shit out mo fo's- I'm up before 12! Bow down and fear my fierce determination!
Got a lot o' stuff to do today, and this time I mean it. No crappy role playing games for me today, I've got to get stuff sorted for me holiday- like deoderant, haircut and some intensive moustache growing equipment.

Watched a film called 'The Butterfly Effect' with The Puff last night. It was good- all about a chap who could change the past by looking through his journals. Maybe that works with weblogs... If so I can go back and do that work I was supposed to be doing. Or stop eating Gingsters.

Or write a more interesting web log...

Work Shmerk

2004-07-21T12:54:00.000+01:00

Put off the work again yesterday- in favour of yet another free dinner at the bequest of my parents. Bar-B-Q this time. Look, I have to eat, alright? And free stuff is the best kind of stuff.

Watche a film called 'Ghost Dog' last night. My advice to you is, if you ever come across this film, kick it in the nuts and walk away.

Blue Warrior needs job badly!

2004-07-19T20:00:00.000+01:00

Me old chum Stone Cold got offered a job today- on Regent St. no less- That's monopoly country right there, man! Beware of independantly sentient shoes- they are ruthless!

Speaking of the terrible, terrible future, I gets a letter today from me old uni (not demanding money, as is usually the case) offering me the opportunity to do a Masters in factual film and documentary. This would be a good thing because-
a) I wouldn't mind avoiding the real world for a bit longer, and
b) a masters would give me a leg up in the notoriously difficult-to-crack-in-to world of media.

On the other hand...
a) I'm in so much debt already its not even funny.
b) My BAhons was a waste of time, effort and patience- where's the garauntee that the Masters wont be the same?
c) Factual films are boring. Where are the lazers at? AND THE MONSTERS!? AND THE S P A C E S H I P S!!!

I think I'll just sit back and wait to become rich for... I dunno... Web logging...
Or maybe I'll train to be a henchman. The money's good and I get to call people 'Guv' or 'Boss.' I'd also get to D E S T R O Y people's thumbs when they don't pay up.

All I need now is about eight stone of muscle and a snazzy suit. And a hammer, maybe. Or do they supply you with one?

I'm 'sposed to be getting on with work right now but instead I'm playing naff role playing games and waiting on the Puff to come 'round and give me snacks. That's right, I said snacks. I'm a man of distinct priorities...

Shhh...

2004-07-18T18:12:00.000+01:00

Today is a quiet day. Was up late last night with the Puff, watching movies, drinking stella and looking at said Puff's ass. Spent a constuctive morning with Stone Cold (who is fine) playing F-Zero X.

But now is quiet time...

Shhhh...

YEAH?

2004-07-18T01:43:00.000+01:00

YEAH AM DRUNK- WHAT OF IT? IT JUST MEANS I CAN TYPE IN CAPS IS ALL! WENT TO A SHIT BAR B Q. PICKED UP STONE COLD. STONE COLD GOT PUNCHED BUT TOOK IT LIKE A TROOPER. WORK WAS POO. COULD HAVE HAD SOME LESBIANS BUT THE PUFF SPOILED MY PLANS. NEXT TIME, GADGET! NNNNNNEEEEEEXXXXXTTTT TTTTIIIIIMMEEEE!!!!!! C I G A R E T T E S !

Pisspot

2004-07-17T15:26:00.000+01:00

Ha! Had a massive panick attack today because I became convinced I had lost my passport. I turned my entire room upside down, searched the whole house many times, travelled all across Corby and searched my inner most feelings. Turns out the passport was in the folder I keep my passport in all along. Funny that...

A fairytale life...

2004-07-16T20:09:00.000+01:00

Its weird- Corby is like something straight out of a fairytale. Its filled with goblins, trolls, hags, witches, leprechauns, and ogres. And they all drink in my bar.Hans Christian Anderson would piss himself if he ever came to Corby. Its like Lord of the Rings, except all of the elves have fucked off and the only thing up for a shag is Smeegul.

I was tempted to pick some of the leprechauns up and rub their heads until they showed me where the damn pot of gold was, but this, i think, constitutes as poor customer relations. One of them did by me a drink though.

Anyway. After barwork, I settles down with a copy of 2000AD and gorged myself on CO-OP 'reduced to clear' meat products. These are my favourite kind of meat products. I then fell asleep. I've just woken up to 'Ron coming in and demanding to use my internet for porn downloading purposes...

There are better ways to wake up.

Bar Stud

2004-07-16T02:43:00.000+01:00

Oh bar work, you came and you gave with out asking... Gave me SHIT that is.

Oh save me from idiots! Is it really that hard to be a good customer? I manage it and I'm incompatent to the level of retarded! Check this out for a typical bar conversation in corby (which happened about eight times tonight.)
Me- Alright, mate? What can I get you?
Ballbag- Oh... Oh.... could ya'...pint...
Me- Sorry?
(ballbag leans in closer, headbutting me in the process)
Ballbag- Could I get a pint of Stella?
(we dont even sell stella by the pint, but more importantly...)
Me- Sorry, mate, the cellars down tonight, we've nothing on draft.
Ballbag-...wha?
Me- Nothing on draft mate, nothing at all, we've only got bottles.
Ballbag- Can I get a pint?
Me- No, mate, we haven't got any draft- only bottles.
Ballbag- Can I just get a pint of stella, then?

After a long old struggle I finally got the bastard a drink, and then the fecker short changed me. What a nob.
This is why I hate barwork in Corby. If I wanted to endlessly repeat myself to people unable or willing to understand, then I'd teach art appreciation to dead hamsters.

On a lighter note, I'm working in the bar all day and night tomorrow. Wait a minute... That's not a lighter note. THAT'S SHIT!

Oh Joy...

2004-07-15T21:37:00.000+01:00

Much as I despise work in all its guises, I've agreed to do bar work for the rest of the week. I usually try to avoid the place because its filled with brain dead scumbags who, frankly, make me want to commit suicide. I'm not being a snob- I'm serious- they truly are depressing, dull, viscious little scrote-wits.

And I get the dubious pleasure of serving them alcohol... Wicked. Joy. Zippedy-Thuggin'-Doodaa.

Ah, four and a half hours of bliss. On the plus side, mind you, the more hours I do before Sunday the more my holiday pay is when I go to Spain next week. The equation makes sense- the more money I have, the drunker I get. The Drunker I get, the more a chance for misadventure arises. The more chances for misadventure, the higher the sum total of excitment. The higher the sum total of excitement, the greater the levels of enjoyment.

It all works out in the end, see?

And- happyhappy- my brother's new phone gadget means I get to update this blog when I'm on holiday! Hooray for technology! We live in an age where, when I should be having fun abroad, I can just type away like the fucking loser that I am!

T O T A L S C R O T E !!!!

P.S: Didn't turn the Puff aside last night- I was too weak. Oh, well. I suppose I shall have to carry on being abused. Its a hard life.

Reading this is more a waste of time than writing it...

2004-07-14T20:00:00.000+01:00

Not much happened today. I'll fill you in on the important parts.
1) I finally got started on that work I was meant to do.
2) I had cold pizza for breakfast and toast with biscuits for lunch.

The Puff is coming over at 10.30. This tells me she is only coming round for a quick nudging, the tart...
I feel a bit used actually- I might just turn her advances aside and demand she showers me with non-sexual affection all night. Yeah, and then maybe I'll get a job. Hah!

Although...

2004-07-13T22:45:00.000+01:00

Sorry, had to add this. Big Brother just actually made me laugh. Some transvestite was crying about its pain and saying 'it's not funny! you think this is funny? it's not funny!" And me and Glen were like "Hah! Stoopid he/she! Of course you're funny! Your pain makes me smile!"

But this one incident of joy doesn't make up for the million minutes of agony and soul destroying mundanity those satanic producers have put the nation through already. I get enough soul destroying mundanity in real life, thanks very much. And, working in a bar in Corby for six years, I've seen enough retards shouting incoherently at each other over nothing to last a life time...

I will destroy big brother...

Oh yes.

I bloody hate big brother...

2004-07-13T22:10:00.000+01:00

Not Glen, I mean the PROGRAMME Big Brother.

Been a shitting boring day. I wont mention the envelopes again- you get the picture. I was supposed to do proper work today, but my folks took me out for an Italian. An Italian meal... not just an Italian. I don't turn down free meals... It's not in my nature.... So looks like the work gets pushed back again.

I'm such a lazy bastard it's not even funny.

Anyway- Big Brother.

Why would you tune in to watch jerks being jerks? Just look out your smegging window- the world's full of 'em. My low standard little sister is watching the decrepid losers right now. They are having an argument- and when I say argument, I mean they are repeating the same hackneyed statement at increasing volumes, and then crying to the camera. Thuggin' suckers. The only way Big Brother could be interesting is if they killed everyone who got voted out. Killed them horribly. That'd teach 'em. And then kill the winner, in the most horrible way, obviously.

I have a sneaky suspicion that reality TV will kill us all. I've yet to collerate the relevant evidence...

However, I do like the dog off the Chruchill advert. He doesn't mean any harm. He just wants to save me money...

Thank heaven for small animated dogs. They make television worth watching.