I know about Speakeasy's but what about regular law abiding folk?

Just some thoughts about something that's been bothering me - during prohibition, did fruit cocktail prices suddenly go through the roof to keep these bars afloat? Did people go to a bar and drink between 4 and 12 fruit cocktails in a night? Who would want so many fruit cocktails? Wouldn't all the sugar give them ulcers? Did they still puke up from drinking too much shit? Was that puke almost beautifully multi-coloured? Did people get sugar based hangovers? Were the hangovers like feeling sick after eating too many Maoam bars? Did people go to bars and just have water? Did they have to pay for the water? Did people order water and then cheekily add some Ribena under the table? Did anyone drink some Vimto for dutch courage? Was cordial counted as a spirit? Did people drink concentrated OJ out of shot glasses? Did people still pull at bars? Did people try and only pull people who had drunk the right fruity drink so they tasted like a nice fruit? Did ugly people have to dress up even more, as they knew that no-one would be drunk enough to pull them? Did bars even stay open? Did they stay open as late? Did people still stay until closing, or did they just go home when they were tired? Did people say "oi, everyone back to mine for some more smoothies"? Was there a mid-morning rush for people just wanting an apple juice with breakfast? Were the floors even stickier than usual? Were the toilets kept in suprisingly good conditions? Did they still smoke as much as ever while drinking non-alcholic crap? Did people realise that most barsnacks weren't actually that great? Did anyone bother to buy halves? Did everyone drive to the pub? Were there a shitload less fights? Or did everyones sugar rushes keep the nervous energy high enough for violence?

Were people not just bored out of their minds?

Fuck them pictures, we've taken enough shit from you already

It struck me the other day, like a turd in the face, a simple truth which was sickeningly obvious and yet necessarily avoided. We have been pushed to the edge. To the brink. Non-smokers have forced us out, cramming us into smaller and smaller spaces, but keeping us distracted by making that small space the conceptually gigantic "outside". From the once privileged position of being able to smoke where we pleased, blowing hazy "fuck yous" in whoever's face challenged us we are now no better than rats. To enjoy our dirty little habit we have to leave the safety and warmth of the group to huddle around a stinking bin in the stinking cold. Yes we might get 10 minutes off when others must stay at their desks, yes we get to have a conspiratorial chat away from our woes, and yes we might look cool, but huddling around a bin? In the cold? And the motherfucking rain? It's an abuse that we will never live down and never recover from. I know that's the point, but still, I hope that every smoker out there is still thinking "fuck you" deep down in their blackened heart, whenever a non-smoker tuts or coughs like a self righteous prick. I say thinking, because god knows we don't have the breath to say it every time.

Renegades of this atomic age

So it's happened twice now. I broke the law with a stranger and I was too into the moment to even look into their face. No it was't some sort of illicit sexual encounter (I can hear your derisive sniggering from here) it was a simple tresspassing fraud kinda deal. I was waiting patiently to go through the barriers at a train station, and the person in front of me didn't swipe their Oyster card properly and took a step forward. Assuming that swiping one piece of plastic on another is a relatively simple and trouble free procedure, I swiped mine too early. In some ways of course it was too late, as now I had swiped mine and the stranger was between me and the barrier what was I to do? Inform the nearest train guy that we had been embroiled in some sort of two for one scam? No, I pushed forward and cried "Shit, QUICKLY" and we both barged through the barriers together. It was a crime of passion you might say, considering the amount of adrenaline that very briefly pumped through my body.

What still gets me though is that I didn't look up at my co-conspirator either time. We broke the law together, we were criminals, outlaws, bonnie and fucking clyde, and yet I don't know their names, or even what they looked like. I smiled inside and was shocked by our actions, and I hope that they did the same but who knows. For a moment there we were in the thick of it, together, us against the motherfucking world, and then we separated, never to work the system together again. It was strangely humanising and touching (although as I said before there was no actual touching, you filthy minded freak).

If it had still been Kenny Ken Ken in charge, maybe I would have felt bad, but with fucking Boris "I'm a rich prick who says things that are funny if you don't keep in mind I'm a rich prick" Johnson earning my Oyster bucks, I was pleased by my crimes. Viva la resistance.

The Amazing Captain Splee

I want to tell you about my first son, I owe him that much. His name was Chinny and he was a goldfish. He started life on another world, in another place, probably filled to the brim with fish. But he began life as my son on my mum's dining room table sitting in a little fish jail with his cellmate, swimming round and round. Unfortunately for Chinny he was the prison bitch of his cellmate Fishy, who was driven insane by the cramped living conditions. Every morning I would watch them while eating my breakfast and promise to save them from this tiny hellhole.

Fish love eating shit. That's their pastime; it's what they live for. Fishy became a bit too institutionalised though and would eat Chinny's shit straight from the source. Chinny was a passive little soul though and would barely swim away when he was pestered in this way. Fishy eventually lost it and, after several attempts, finally killed himself by escaping the bowl.

I kept my promise to Chinny though and when I moved out I took the little guy with me, and bought him a roomy tank with the space for 6 fish. We also got him a friend, Mr Bospangles, whom he loved deeply and they played together all day every day. Mr Bospangles was lost to us too, one tragic morning, and Chinny mourned more than I knew a fish could.

Eventually we got him two more friends, but despite Chinny's wonderful demeanour, they only ever got to achieving a friendly nonchalance. He would rub up against them, or chase them and they would be more freaked out than amused. He never stopped playing with them though, and they miss him too.

Last Sunday see, my first born died after a struggle with his buoyancy gland. He will be missed more than anyone will ever believe.

I loved that fish, and I hope more than anything that the 18 months in which I freed him from his little cell on my mum's table were the happiest he had. I sang to him, I played games with him, and I sometimes hugged his tank. He would get excited when I was near, and I even taught him a trick once, although he forgot it quickly. He was beautiful and wonderful and I will always be deeply saddened by the thought that I may have contributed to his death somehow.

I'll see you around little swimmer. I'll blow some bubbles for you.

My name is Katie Perry and I am a worthless whorebag

My name is Katie Perry and I couldn’t succeed as a singer despite being amazingly lucky enough to be chosen to sing a song for a film about pants. And because I am such a fucking moron, I believed my agent when he said that writing a song myself would be the ticket, so I was surprised when my txt-spk-homophobic-slash-idiot-cough-hit-cough “Ur So Gay” EP got panned. 

So I begged my record company to give me another shot, telling them I would do anything at all to be famous, as I am in fact a massively insecure and crazy bitch who is insanely desperate for attention. After sucking a lot of executive cock, a giant douchbag stuck his dick in my ear and told me that he wanted to make some money out of my worthless ass. He told me that my only chance was to say that I am a lesbian, so that stupid men would listen to my songs and think about lesbians, and even stupider women would listen to them so that they could try and ingratiate themselves to these stupid men. So I sang a song about making out with a chick, but got sick of it so said I was sick of it, and before I knew it, I had an executive wang in my face telling me that I best shut up or I’d be taken to the dump and shot. He also said I had to make out with a chick in public so that the idiots of the world would be confused enough to semi-believe in the possibility that I was a lesbian. 

I think I sold a lot of records as I keep hearing me on the radio, but the executives keep me pretty much in the dark (for my own good apparently), so I’ve got too much jizz in my brain to tell. They did tell me that no-one gives a crap about me anymore though so if I want to keep people looking at me, I would have to appeal to kids who like stabbing this time, as they are also idiots. So I let them take some pictures of me with a blade, and I’ve got my fingers crossed that for some reason, it will make people like me. 

My momma, and poppa, and grandma, and all my relatives in fact are pretty angry with me for being such a completely worthless whorebag, but at least that means they keep calling me, which gives me just a little bit more of the attention I so desperately crave but don’t deserve. 

The thing is, which I don’t understand about this whole “I kissed a girl” hoo ha (and let’s be honest, I don’t understand most things) is that I’ve seen myself naked, and I know that I am rough as fuck, so how was it a good idea to try and make me all sexual and that? No time to think about it now though, an executive needs his balls brassed. Toodlepip

Hungry Hungry Heroes

So yesterday I had a magically mega lazy day of doing nothing but watching Heroes season 2. As it was cut to just 11 episodes due to the previously-supported-coz-I-hate-Hollywood-Producer-bastards-who-seem-to-ruin-every-movie-but-now-resented-as-I-feel-the-effects-a-tiny-bit-like-with-pushing-daisies writers strike we thought we might as well watch every episode in a row. It was somewhere around hour 8 when we took a dinner break  to eat the kindly and thoughtfully prepared steaks cooked by my delightful girlfriend. I was a bit worse for wear from the crazy things I had seen when I realised how warped my brain was, as upon the steaks arriving in front of me, I narrowly avoided almost committing the most nuclear powered smack down of pre-dinner-faux-pas- fuck-ups by not completely uttering the sentence “Do you think the cheerleader could mass produce s...

Raven

I’ve always had an affinity for homeless people, or at least they’ve always had an affinity for me. From the time a homeless guy came and told me it was beer o’clock, to every time a crazy hobo chooses me to sit next to on the bus, I know that there is something which makes me closer to being on the streets than most people. It’s probably the furry face, or the shabby appearance, or most likely the forlorn look in my eye. Whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

The other night I was drunk on the streets, and puking on the streets, when a man from the streets came over to me to try his luck. “You got any spare change?” he asked. I had no idea if I did or not, and as my hands had been used to wipe the puke from my beard, I was loathe to jam them in my pockets and root around my unpukey stuff for some bucks. I generally give all my coins to any tramp who asks, but as I say, I was past drunk. “Come on man, not even a pound?” he begged again. “Nah man I ain’t got nothing” I said still wiping the smell from my face “You want a fag?”. He said “Yeah man safe....hey, you alright blood? .... You gonna be alright getting home?”. I mumbled something about there being a main road and wandered off, to eventually fall on my ass with my friends.

So a homeless guy asked me if I would be alright to get home. A Home-less guy asked me if I could get Home. To quote the late great Clay Davis

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

That was a low.

A montage of the gibberish you missed while I was away...

Three minutes into eating the cheeseburger, I didn’t like it. How did I know it was three minutes in? Because the cheeseburger had a stopwatch in it, and I bit that fucker right on time. 

Elsewhere two peacocks argue over the rights to an ice cream truck, which both claim they have bought at an auction. “Fancy you buying an Ice-cream truck at auction on the same day as me and not telling me about it. What a coincidence!” Chernobyl the peacock says. “Fuck you Kaleido-dope, we’ll see who owns that thing, we’ll both call it and see who it comes to” replies the ugly one.

Before I thought of circles, I thought of triangles. So did everyone. But what was the question? It was simple: where do you go from squares? 

Somedays I think about finding a pot of gold, and what I would do with all those bucks. Mostly I consider the magical mystery foods I would eat, or the insanely cute and numerous pets I could buy. But then I realise that I could have these things now, if I really tried, so why do I need to look for more pot?

Sarah Palin is to the Whitehouse, what a glass of white wine is to drinking. It’s like you’re walking down the street with your buddy, who’s dressed in a nice suit and is kind of a city boy and a bit of a prick, but who’s kinda charming so you like him anyway. So you’re walking down the street with him, having a conversation you’re slightly uncomfortable with, but you go along with coz of the nature of your  friendship, when suddenly he starts hitting you in the face with his italian leather briefcase for no reason at all. It’s a nice suitcase so it’s a flat and padded, so just kinda gives you a headache rather than hurting you, and for some reason due to this, you keep walking and talking with your “buddy”.

Round in circles

I’m sitting. I’m waiting. I’m quiet. I’m talking. I’m drinking. I’m nervous.

“Two minutes” a voice cries out and I’m nervous. The staff are all around, cleaning quietly, quickly. Acting as if nothings going on. We prepare ourselves. We make outlandish statements supporting one action or another, depending on what is about to come.

And then we hear it. A rumbling. A contained roar. An excitable drumming. And voices, way too many voices. It arrives and the doors open, but instead of people spilling out of the carriages, bottles fly out. A cacophony of broken glass drowned out by the sudden mob screaming at us to join them. Champagne and sick covering the floors. Guy Fawkes masks covering the troublesome ones and the out of place.

We step on, into the sweat and the sound. Into the cheering and jeering and steamed up windows. Cameras are everywhere, but everything is a blur. A kid stands in front of me and hears about drink and drugs and swearing and the police. We feel bad for those just going home. We feel bad for those still at work, in this….mess.

Suddenly we stop. The line is dead due to trouble ahead. The crowd goes one way, after making a stand against nothing but a disembodied voice, and we go the other. Phew.

For the last time, phew.

Dear Frank

02/04/08

Dear Frank,

Let me begin by saying that I am a fan of the style of your advertising campaigns as they seem to cut straight to the heart of the matter, and will perhaps get through to your target audience.

However, I was just wondering why you think it's ok to pick on cannabis users with your current advertising campaign? Coke-heads are the worst people out there, but I don't think I have ever seen any anti-coke ads run by you. Is that because you are afraid of the backlash that would occur from the media if you did take a stand, as most of the media are coke fans?

Coke ruins lives and peoples health, costs loads of money and the effects are to make you an arrogant asshole and then after prolonged use, paranoid. Cannabis makes you lose some of your ambition, and perhaps become paranoid (to a much lesser extent than coke) and that's about it. The reports of it causing schizophrenia are unsubstantiated to say the least (read Bad Science).

I think it is appalling that a service that is supposed to be helping young people away from drugs is simply following the political fad to continuously reclassify cannabis (so as to make a show that the Government is doing something about drugs) rather than taking a stand against a drug that is equally, if not more prevalent than cannabis, and yet seemingly considered acceptable by most adults.

Your organization is in a particularly strong position to make a difference to peoples opinion of coke, but instead you appear to be taking the easier route of attacking a less dangerous, yet more visible drug.

Yours disappointed,
Swan

03/04/08

Hi Swan.

Thank you for your e-mail.

FRANK is a new drugs campaign, which aims to give information and help
to anyone who is affected by or wants to know about drugs. This is not a
debating arena. Your comments have been noted.

You may wish to search for free local help via the following link :
http://www.talktofrank.com/multimap.aspx?id=278

If you want to know any more, or would like to talk to one of our
advisors about this, call 0800 77 66 00 and tell them you've been asked
to ring for more information. Alternatively, you can get more
information at www.talktofrank.com

Hope to talk to you again soon.

FRANK

20/05/08

Cocaine at centre of government's Frank anti-drugs drive

LONDON - The government is to focus on showing 15- to 18-year-olds the ugly consequences behind the glamour of cocaine, the price of which is at an all-time low, in the next phase of its Frank drugs awareness campaign.

The £1m cross-media campaign will be announced today by drugs minister Vernon Coaker as part of a new crackdown on cocaine, which the government claims is the only drug that has risen in use since 1998.

The price of cocaine in the UK has fallen to an all time low and can be bought for as little as £30 a gram, making it easily available to young people and students.

The campaign will use a range of media including online advertising, as well as leaflets aimed at young people and drugs workers.

Today's announcement will be made at a summit being attended by the Columbian vice-president Francisco Santos Calderon, in an attempt to highlight cocaine's impact on the people of his country.

The UK government has joined the Columbian government's "Shared responsibility" campaign, which focuses on the global consequences of cocaine use.

Tomorrow, Coaker, Calderon and former Blur bassist Alex James, will attend a Trafalgar Square exhibition illustrating the environmental and social destruction caused by the drug.

The Frank campaign began five year ago this Friday. The digital account is currently with Profero and the advertising account is with Mother.

Fuck you London.

Fuck you Evening Standard. Fuck you free papers. Fuck you David Cameron. Fuck you tories. Fuck you electioneering. Fuck you Have I Got News For You. Fuck you short attention span. Fuck you Boris

and good luck

A vote for Boris is a vote for America

So on Friday night I took a drunken straw poll of vague strangers and I was surprised to learn that Boris Johnson is much more popular than I would have thought. Now, as much as anyone else, I thought he was a comic legend on Have I Got News For You, but when I watched it, I always had the niggling thought in the back of my head – “Who voted for him? How is he an MP? What trickery did he pull to make him seem like a viable candidate?” I always assumed there was some convoluted, yet amusing tale of his rise to power out there just waiting to be discovered, but alas, I guess not.

If people in London are willing to vote for him because he’s funny to look at, then I guess that must have been what happened before. So it seems that for all our mighty snooty British superiority over the intellect of the Americans – “They voted in Arnold Schwarzenegger, those guys are so easily led by TV”, “They voted in Bush, those guys are so easily fooled by rich people politicking” – we are in fact much worse. Because at least Arnie had a successful career as an actor, and at least Bush has an MBA from Harvard. Boris? He’s got messy blonde hair and is easily made fun of by comedians when appearing on TV. It’s like they’re being tricked by Vogue magazine and we’re being tricked by OK!

So if you vote for Boris Johnson, please keep in mind that you are actually in fact also voting for the idea that Americans are smarter than the British. And I know you hate that.

Not 19 Forever

Old is, as old does
So I sit around
And rub my face fuzz

Bitter Victory

The first guy who put vinegar on food… he was a brave guy right? I mean maybe he had a bottle of wine kicking about for too long and he was going to cook with it, but left it too late and thought fuck it and put it on anyway. Maybe if he was lucky it was chips he ate that first night. Maybe a salad even. But what if it was cake? What if he was planning on making some sorta old school trifle and he messed up?

Even if it wasn’t, with no prior knowledge of the stuff, you can assume things turned out bad. I wonder how he carried on after that first attempt. Did he try to hide his shame and his breath, and all the vomiting he did from the world and never mention it again? Or did he try again with a different food? And again. And again. Until he finally moved to the seaside to recover from his worsening health and struck upon something special.

I can only assume it was the latter, so I just want to say thank you for your perseverance Vinegar Man, whoever you were, and thanks to your little sidekick too, Balsamic Boy. You two sure did make a random little difference to this world.

I always was a fool

“I always was a fool” said the old man into his drink, “it made no difference to me whether I was drunk or not whether I would get things right. I ran as many reds when I was bleary as when I was sane, I ate as many apples that were ripe as were wrong and there’s not much I can do about it now”. He sighed and swayed and sat still and everyone ignored him except the bartender.

“Another one for the road?” the man in the apron quietly enquired.

“People like you are exactly my problem. You know I want another one. You know I shouldn’t have one for the road, yet you offer me the devils cup and you don’t think twice about me drinking from it”.

“Jesus buddy, I’m just doing my job, don’t blame your life on me” the bartender replied as he wiped his way down to the other end of the bar to serve the new entrants.

The old man was alone now, but he kept talking “I always was a fool” he muttered “I remember when I fell down those stairs chasing my wife. I got hurt real bad, and what did I do? I went to a bar instead of a hospital. I went to a bar instead of going after her. And now look at us, she’s happy and I’m drunk. Same as it ever was”.

The beer nuts looked at him. They didn’t look impressed with his self loathing, but they thought nothing of it, nothing at all.

“I think maybe it’s time I get going.” He said as he put his tab on the bar. He got his shit together, fell off the bar stool and out onto the street. It was windy, and it was raining and he was only wearing a t-shirt. “Shit” fell out of his mouth as he stumbled into the road. “Shit” fell out of his brain as he stumbled onto the pavement. “Thank fuck” fell out of his smile as he entered the hall. AA was still on. His salvation was here at last, and for once, he was here too.

“Not for you buddy, you can’t come in here drunk” a well dressed but obviously haggered young man said politely but firmly.

“I always was a fool” said the old man, as he went back out into the rain. “I always was.”

I love the dutch

Receptionist: I’m sorry, you have booked a non-smoking room

Us: But we want to smoke

Receptionist: Well then I give you permission to smoke *hands over ashtray*. I’m sorry for saying you could not smoke.

True story.

Home School

“I don’t think so” cried the old lumberjack to the little bear and wolf “Enough’s enough”. They had been stealin his fixin’s see and the lumberjack needed fixings to have the energy to cut down the “green menace” as he called it. Especially at his age. And a hungry lumberjack was mean lumberjack.

So when these two young rustlers started taking kindly to his dinner he got mad. He shouted at them and he chased them round the table and he told them that they oughta be strung up, regardless of their animal and youthful nature.

The little bear and the wolf ran and ran as fast as they could, but they never ran away. They just kept going in circles around the table, until the old lumber jack passed out from exhaustion. And then they went wild. They jumped up and down on his fat belly like a trampoline. They played lumberjack with his axe and braces. They restacked the wood so it spelt out rude creatures names. They even staked down his long white moustache and beard, so when he finally struggled free he’d be real mad and chase them again.

To the little bear and wolf this was the best schooling they ever had. Their respective parents had gotten tired of getting bad results from them at bear and wolf school (respectively) so had sent their kids on this extra tuition class. And boy did these kids love it. They became great at running and chasing and stealing food. And juggling axes, which if you know anything about bears and wolves, is a firm favourite.

The lumberjack got madder and madder, of course, with all these young animals coming into his house and pestering him, but he never did catch any. Years later, when being interviewed after being rescued from a well, the lumberjack said he had got bored down there without anything to get mad at and chase.

Interview with a fool

I don’t wanna do this,
I don’t wanna go,
I don’t have to go,
I don’t think I should go,
I don’t wanna do this,
I don’t wanna go,
I don’t have to go,
I don’t think I should go,
I really don’t think I should go,
Fuck
I’ve got to go
What am I? A coward?

Possibly, but it still makes no sense not to go. An interview’s an interview whether you think you can handle it or not. Just treat it like one of those days at uni where you had to attend and hand something in, or else you were kicked out. Just hand something in. Anything is better than nothing.

So I went, and it went alright. And then they said “So how would you keep in touch with youth culture?” and I said “Don’t worry, I’m down with the kids.”

With their hippity hoppity music. And their skinny latte jeans. And their jve trky txt spk. And all that bizzle and shizzle. And their hoods up on their i-pod nano musical box players. Nice one Justin. That beats that time you responded to the polite end-of-interview-question (that you had in the bag) “Did it take you long to get here?” with “Nah it only took fucking 20 minutes”.

You is the man at freestyling interviews!

The Toughest Cowboy in the World

Three cowboys are sitting around a fire in the desert, looking manly and not saying much, when one suddenly looks up and says "Goddamn, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world. Last week I was minding my own business when I was set upon by 20 injuns. I only had six bullets left so I skillfully shot 10 of them, but my gunfire started a stampede right into my camp. Without hesitating I beat the rest of them injuns to death while facing down more than 1000 head of angry buffalo. Goddamn I must be the toughest cowboy in the world".

The second cowboy looks at him and then spits and says "That ain’t nothin, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world dagnammit. Last night I was making nice with 20 or so pretty ladies when I realised I didn't have any money on me, so while they were all laying there exhausted, I jumped out the window and ran down the street to the bank. I forgot my shooters so I had to fight the 5 guards unarmed. I beat their asses, but when I tore off the vault door to get my loot, the roof collapsed in on me. I crawled through the only gap into the only room I could, but for some darn fool reason it was filled right to the brim with nails. I ate my way through them, and got out the back way with my loot, only to find the sheriff and his men waiting. I dispatched all 50 of his posse using nothing but my cunning and fists before returning to the whorehouse and going another round with the ladies. Hot diggity, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world."

The third cowboy looks up at the other two, chuckles to himself and then looks back down without speaking, and continues to stoke the fire with his penis.

Aquamaniac

A lifetime of grievances came to an end this morning with the spilling of a coffee cup. Joe had always thought that a cup was a pointless form of prison for liquids, and his intense sense of injustice meant that he always wanted them to run free. So he tipped cups and bowls and water machines whenever he could. People could say that he was just into flooding things, but he wasn’t. He didn’t want to damage or destroy anything, he just wanted the liquids he saw to live as free as the sea. Although the sea still wasn’t as free as he would like.

This particular cup he had spilt hadn’t been his however, and usually Joe was so careful with his tipping urges. However, today he had seen his boss abandon this cup and leave for a meeting, and Joe just couldn’t resist. He performed what he liked to think of the most balletic of his tippings, by shaking the desk under the cup until the sloshing back and forth created enough momentum for the thing to spill. The liquid had it’s fun too-ing and fro-ing before it got to run as gravity always intended to the floor and all around, Joe thought, so he loved this way best. He didn’t really notice the cup roll to the floor, or the laptop that followed it, or even the muffin basket that landed right in the middle of the puddle. He was too busy looking at the coffee grinds which had splattered the desk. The coffee grinds which had inexplicably formed the word “Thanks”.

It didn’t matter to Joe that he got fired the next day as he didn’t even turn up to work. He had left that room, that office and gone straight to the beach. He bought an ex-soviet ice breaker from Crazy Henry who had always lived by the sea and started tearing up the land making waterways wherever he could. He was eventually beaten to death by a gang of beavers who were tired of cleaning up after him.

The story wasn’t about him though, so don’t feel bad. It was about the coffee, who had never felt more alive than when they splashed those floor muffins. Coffee is sick in the head see, but at least it said thanks.

Water, water all around

On an island no-one believes in, a thought occurs that no-one will heed. “What if the sea is getting lower? What if we live on a mountain in the middle of a lake, and it’s just been wet out there as of late?”

Well my friends it matters not who hears or thinks such things as the sea is rising not falling, so the thinker and the thought will soon be drowned and not lonely. Unless…

A frog on a walrus came rushing by one day. They sat and talked to the islanders about this concern that no-one in particular had apparently thought, and came up with a solution. Why not build boats? Then if a lake does appear they can cross it and be a holiday resort, rather than the backward and cutoff society that they feared they were.

So the islanders built more boats than you can imagine, and the longshoremen finally had a purpose to life, rather than just being beach bums. The island was delighted and soon enough had discovered the whole world and had forgotten about this thought that no-one would own up to having anyway.

The frog and the walrus on the other hand decided that this one good deed was enough for any partnership so disbanded and got very drunk in very different places. They missed each other so much however, that they both drunkenly cried 1000 gallons a day, until the sea did rise and the island was no more. Thank god for the boats. Thank god for the frog and the walrus, who coincidentally, had lived in the lake the islanders had all feared, before the wet season had moved in. Both distraught by their lost friend they each went home to find the island gone, and in it’s place, the strangest and most magically underwater mound they had ever imagined.

You know how much gold fish love a little castle in their tank? Well just imagine how much they would love a whole town, complete with superfast internet and a bakery. The frog became mayor and only heard of the walrus’s return when he found out he was running against him. Much confusion and joy was had over this merry coincidence, but that is another story.

The end.

Build it up, tear it down

I always think about that Fat Boy Slim song “Build it up, tear it down” whenever I read the free sheets and hear them talking up someone who they have previously been slagging off. Take Amy Winehouse for example. They report on her being a fucked up weirdo as much as they can, implying awful shit about her time and time again (whether it’s true or not is irrelevant), and yet when she does something that an audience claps at, they jump up and say “look how great she looks” or something as if they have always been secretly backing her. What cunts. They make you care about something by pumping your head full of shit about it, and then as soon as you do they tell you as many bad things as they can about it to keep you interested (as people respond to negative emotions more than positive ones – or so believes the press). Then, when you are sick of hearing the bad shit, they say nice things again to build them back up.

Anyway I say this now as I have been sick for a few days, and as these things go I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself. Who am I, what am I doing, what can I do, what is the point – you know, that sorta sorry for myself.

So it’s nice to say that at least for this moment I am out of that funk. On Friday I received a Magnus entry of some poetry which I thought was beautiful, but also frighteningly like something I would write. It was melancholy shit, but to me it was amazingly smiley as it gave me one of those intense feelings of not being alone.

Didn’t really change anything in my life though, so I’ve still been grumbling to myself (and others) for the past few days. But then today, I got a call about an interview for a job I really want. Really really want. I mean I probably won’t get it, but it’s nice to know that it’s not so far out of my league that I still get an interview. Boom. I’m back baby. I’m still sick as fuck and I’m sure I’ll be grumbling again shortly, but for right now, everything seems allllllllriiiiiiiight.

Tear it down, build it up.

Church Fakes Dinosaur Bones

If you wanted to discredit the existence of dinosaurs, and were a basically immortal institution, what would you do? Perhaps start faking giant ridiculous creature after giant ridiculous creature? Well then, what do you think has been going on all these years

Giant Frog:
http://news.uk.msn.com/beelzebufo-devil-frog.aspx

Giant Guinea Pig:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/3120950.stm

Giant Penguin:
http://uktv.co.uk/history/news/aid/590131

Giant Rat:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/jan/15/giant.rodent

Giant Shark:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/jan/15/giant.rodent

Giant Kangaroo:
http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2006/12/26/healthscience/AS_SCI_Australia_Megafauna.php

Giant Camel:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/prehistoric-syrian-giant-evolved-into-modernday-camel-419311.html

Giant Geese:
http://www.pureinsight.org/pi/index.php?news=1229

Giant Wombat:
http://www.simplydumb.com/2007/08/05/giant-prehistoric-wombat-discovered/

and for those of you who want a cheap gag

Giant Beaver:
http://palaeoblog.blogspot.com/2006/02/giant-prehistoric-beaver.html

But I Gotta Get Up

There’s a stillness inside me. Its cold and it’s hard and it’s quiet, and I don’t know what to do with it. It hurts sometimes and it’s sad often, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’d like to fight it. I’d like to see how strong it is, how strong I am, but I don’t know where to start. And I’m afraid. I’m really fucking afraid.

I don’t know how or why I went still. I don’t know how I wore myself down to a nub. I don’t know why I stopped, but I did, and everyday it’s harder to start again. Everyday I don’t know what I was doing in the first place, why I wanted to be like I was. Like I am.

I dress in a certain way because it makes me laugh. My hair is shit because I don’t give a fuck. But now I’ve been like this so long the joke is over, and I look like a dick, so I am a dick. My opinions get worse, my sense of humour gets worse, my life gets worse.

And yet I’ve never had it so good.

All the things I wanted to be when I was young. All the things I didn’t want to be. I fucked them both up. And I’ve never being doing so good.

I don’t care what people think. I don’t care what the general population has to say about me or anything else. I think most people are stupid and easily led. I think most people have their eyes closed and just listen to their masters voice, because, well why wouldn’t they?

But now I’ve closed my eyes. Now I want a master to listen to. Now I’m stupid.

I gotta get out. I gotta get up. I gotta get going. I’m running out of time. We all are, but the only way to play it is to keep your eyes closed and keep listening, or else who knows what will happen. The unknown is scary, but fuck that, maybe I should want to be scared. Again. Maybe I should want the unknown. Maybe I should fuck it all, everything I’ve built and be the fuckwit I always wanted to be. Always was. Always am. Always am though of as. Because at least that was fun.

Fucking Bill Hicks. Why did I take you so seriously? You’re dead and yet I can’t help but listen to your impersonator. I can’t help but make him my masters voice and he said we should do something, so I’m gonna do something. Something good.

It’s been a long fucking time since I wrote anything and it’s already cathartic. I love that clicking sound a keyboard makes. I love the shape of letters. I love the form of words. I love watching my hands type and being amazed that they go for the right keys. I love how print feels on paper. I love new thoughts, new expressions, new ideas. I love the uniqueness of just pouring your brain out.

I gotta get out. Fuck the Tories.

The Moment

I decided to be good

Mark decided to be evil

Hangover TV

Dear Channel 4,

The new T4 presenter Rick Edwards is awful. Really awful. He looks like an unpleasant man, he dresses like chav and he isn't funny in the slightest. Only slightly menacing and very unfunny. Please get rid of him. Please please please. I really don't think i can cope with my weekend viewing being presented by someone so entirely unlikeable and unpleasant. Why are you not continuing with hiring likeable, cheeky presenters? You have so many great people on there, why put on such a goblin-like idiot?

Yours,


Dear Justin,

Thank you for contacting Channel 4 Viewer Enquiries regarding T4.

We are sorry to read that Rick Edwards is not to your liking. However, it is a fact that very few presenters on any programme meet with the unqualified approval of everyone in our audience. Nevertheless, your comments are welcome and have been logged for the attention of the team involved.

Thank you again for taking the time to contact us. We appreciate all feedback from our viewers; complimentary or otherwise.

Regards,

Triple Distilled

Do you ever wonder how marketers would advertise alcohol if it were a brand new product now? How you could tell someone who had never heard of or experienced any form of inebriation why it was great to be drunk? Imagine it right now (if you’re sober). Imagine being absolutely shit faced. Imagine singing a small part of Fairytale of New York and telling whoever you are nearest to that it is the spirit of Christmas. Imagine dropping part of the most disgusting meal you have ever eaten and then picking it up and eating it. Imagine climbing over a fence or railing at 3am.

Now think of all the actual changes that have taken effect. You’re kinda really happy and really angry at the same time. You have the capability for great violence but not the strength or coordination to open your front door. You love everyone completely yet will insult and fight with your best friend over nothing. You are completely stupid yet able to expound the most complex of theories with absolute assurance of them being correct. You are a myriad of contradictory and unnatural states.

Now think about alcohol advertisements. Don’t they make a bit more sense if you realize the surrealist happy nightmare that they are trying to sell to you?

This ain't nothing but the E.N.D. follow me into the sun and let your Saul be free

I once knew a man named Saul,
And together, we must have done it all
When an opportunity arose,
And I thought I knew what to do,
He’d do something different, and I’d do it too!

From sitting and staring to laughing and shouting,
From smoking and drinking to eating and chatting
From smiling and remembering to arguing and swearing
From bragging and lying to honesty and caring

From living and breathing to saying goodbye and leaving.

We did it all man, so never forget,
Never deny, never regret.
We’ll do it all again one day I’m sure,
So take it easy man, and for me, have one more pure.

Jitters

I’m going to an award ceremony tonight and I’m nervous. I’m nominated for Production New Comer of the Year. If I win, I’ll get a trophy, and I’ve always wanted a trophy. Well, I’ve always wanted to win a trophy – I was once going to buy Whitney Houston’s Smash Hit Award for some song or another which I saw in a dodgy shop in central London, but I decided against it. I wish I hadn’t now as that would have been fucking novelty, but still I wouldn’t have won it.

And I might win this.

I mean I won’t. The odds against are massive, and I should probably just be happy to be nominated, but I can’t help but think this will either be one of the best days of my life, or one of the biggest disappointments I’ve had in a while.

So if you happen to be reading this today, cross your fingers for me yeah?

Stupid Fucking Wednesday

I was in a good mood this morning. I woke up and thought “Fuck it, I may be still feeling a bit sick, but I’m gonna go to work, and work my butt off, that’ll be satisfying”. So I did. It wasn’t exactly satisfying, but its always better than sitting around wishing I wasn’t there. Still it was kinda ruined by my discover that a) I’m pretty much broke for the month and b) I’m probably not gonna get the pittance I thought my father had accidentally left me. So I’m a bit fucked off, but I thought “Can’t stumble at the first hurdle Justin”. So I carried on.

So then I thought, “I’ll rush home, do some shopping, do some cleaning, do some cooking, do some work on Magnus, then have an early night as any wholesome young man should”. Except the fucking bus didn’t come for an hour and a half. So I got home angry and deranged from hunger, and of course I have no money to buy food (or medicine for my lingering cold) and it turns out no food. Well no food that i can be bothered to use to make up a meal. And that was it. No more good mood.

It's funny how little things can fuck you up. Especially when you're a bit sick.

And then Nick let me have some of his dinner. Grated cheese on curry is alllllllllllllright. Nice one bruva!

Hello

So it’s been a while and I thought that maybe I should write something. Something free-style. So I’m just gonna write and see what comes out.

Once upon a time I was a frog and when I was a frog I was happy. Because I like jumping and eating flies and being put in jars, looked at and subsequently released. I was in the woods one day eating something crunchy, when this really ugly fatso came along and picked me up.

“Hello Fattie” I thought “I wonder if I’m going to have to kill you”. Because sometimes fatsos tried to eat me see. But she didn’t. Instead she kissed me and I became a prince. She thought that meant that I had to marry her as she had released me, but hell no. I gave her a good talking to about her excessive weight, tried eating a spider and then sat down to ponder my new non froggy life. After a while I got eaten by an army of flies, who were sick of my shit.

The end.

I think my subconscious is getting smarter.

When I’m working, the way I gauge whether or not I’m good at a task, is if I can do it while daydreaming. I’ll sit down, stare at the screen, start daydreaming about metal spiders or something, and expect my body to get busy doing my job. Sometimes part of my mind will have to join in too. And my voice. But my thoughts keep whiling away the time, pondering over an unrelated set of ideas in my head.

Because of this, my subconscious must be learning things. Like how to use Excel. The other night I had a dream in which I worked out how to do something for work which I had promised I would do, but had given no waking thought as to how yet. And when I woke I realised how genius an idea it was.

Now that’s not right is it. I mean it’s pretty fucking messed up really isn’t it? How can my mind work out how to better use a spreadsheet when it’s asleep? It just doesn’t make any fucking sense!

And how about this: the other night I had a dream which James Earl Jones narrated, and he used the phrase, “And although others might not have understood, for these four, things were quite as they should” which may not quite make sense, but as a poetic turn in a dream, I think it’s quite impressive. It’s like a dream I had long ago in which I was robbing someone’s flat and then planning on blowing it up, and the whole thing had Miss Dynamite-tee-hee (the song by the lady of the same name) as the soundtrack but with comedy words my subconscious brain had made up.

And for the clincher, something my subconscious did while I was awake; the other day I was in a shop and after having spent too long choosing my products, then spending too long deciding how to pay, and then too long packing, I decided for some reason to buy a scratch card. The second scratch card I have ever bought (I got my first on my 16th birthday), and the second and last scratch card I ever intend to buy (as I don’t like gambling much, but I like to try everything twice). And it won! £6. When I bought it, I was all like “I been intending on doing that for ages”, but in reality, it was something that just occurred to me. And as it was at such an awkward stage in my shopping experience (after all my time wasting, the guy behind the counter entirely ignored me for a good few minutes before acknowledging my desire to buy something else) that it seems strange that I would bother to go through the minor social embarrassment to get this thing that I didn’t even really want.

But it won. And I only bought it coz the part of my brain which I don’t control is a friggin’ genius.

Sophie

I didn't know her that well, but I would have once called her friend. She died last night, after battling with cancer from before I ever met her. I remember her as being pretty, enthusiastic, a bit crazy and completely cool. The world is worse off without her. Rest in Peace Sophie.

Fuck Yeah

I, like most people, am not that comfortable with praise. I don’t know what to say or how to act when it comes, and too much is embarrassing for me. Which is lucky, I suppose, as I’ve never really had that much praise. I haven’t really ever earned it see. I used to work hard when I was young, but never my hardest, and even that mostly faded out when I got to about 16.

And whether in my home, with my friends, at uni or at work, I have always been treated as an entry level fool. You know, just not quite on the same level as everyone else. Which is sad, but then as I said, I don’t exactly generally do anything to elicit respect. Often I’ll make myself the butt of a joke, just to make others laugh, so I have learnt to forgive easily people who look at me and think that they can treat me as they wish, because I really don’t matter that much.

It’s been a bit of a depressing life at times, trying to justify in my mind why some of the people I respect most don’t respect me, but overall I think it’s made me who I am. Which I am glad to say, for once, is a good thing. A fucking good thing. See, because for the first time ever, I have been promoted. For the first time ever, someone has looked at me and seen that I am better that some people. That I perhaps could be someone. That perhaps I am someone. And that is just the best fucking feeling of all. Even if it is uncomfortably like praise.

So here’s to me. Here’s to all the sleeping and swearing and rebelling I did to try and stop myself from having an office job. Here’s to not trying hard at pretty much everything. Here’s to not respecting myself, my image, my life, my health or my career. Here’s to finding something I finally like doing. And here’s to doing it motherfucking well.

Thank god, I finally made something of myself. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start.

Silence is easy

I guess that’s why they call it morning. Because you wake up and you see the death of night. The death of all that potential fun. In the darkest dark you can see yourself, all fucked up in a mirror, swaying and not puking in the sink you hold onto. In the blackest black you can drink til you pee down an alley, you can swear as loud as you want, you can scream and cry and laugh and everyone knows how you’re feeling. But in the day you quiet yourself down. You try not to laugh too loud or swear too much. You die a little just by being alive. You speak properly and get things done. You live a life more ordinary so that when it gets dark, or at least when you can’t hold out no more, you have the bucks to go have fun. You know that you can blow all the money in your pocket coz there is more coming next month. So you blow it. And it blows back.

But is it worth it? The little death you feel every day when someone asks you what you got up to last night, and you know you can’t tell them? When someone says “How’s it going?” everyday, and everyday you say “yeah yeah alright” because neither of you actually gives a fuck about your present state and you know if you thought about how you actually were, you might have more than 3 words to say, and that would be a fucking repetitive waste of time. Is it worth being so quiet so that you can afford to be so goddamn motherfucking loud?

I think it might be. I been broke all my life and now I’m not. But I do have a fucking stupid hair cut so who knows.

Fishy died. He just wanted to live life to the max and he died. He lived life in a little glass bowl and he died. He had absolutely nothing to do every single day and he died. He killed himself trying to escape. I think there is a lesson in that, but I don’t know what it is, and I’m pretty certain that he didn’t either. I’ll miss him, even though he was a bastard.

I'll be gone

for a week. When I get back, be nice to me please.

I can’t be bothered to explain why I like Big Brother right now, I just do

Last week did you watch the Big Brother n-word incident? I did, and let me tell you, I thought it was the most offensive piece of television I have ever seen.

Not offensive due to the word. I do find that offensive, but the way she used it, it was obviously not intended for offence but instead as a stupid white posh girls attempt at bonding with her new black friends. What I did find offensive was the Big Brother contestants talking about the issue. Offensive to my ears and brain.

They are all so fucking annoying that when Emily, Charlie and Shabnam all went into the garden to discuss it, and all three talked continuously for 5 minutes, I literally felt a little sick. It was the most annoying conversation I have ever heard. And then at the end Emily kept saying “Now we’ve discussed it, it’s fine, it’s over”. They didn’t discuss anything. They didn’t get near to discussing anything. Unless you count getting some old newspapers, shredding them and throwing them in the air so that it rains news the same as being up to date on current events.

I have never felt that one moment of TV has damaged both my brain and society a little bit all at once before, but this did. The ad break immediately after she said it was probably the most the n-word has been used in casual conversation throughout Britain all at once for 50 years. If you’ve seen the South Park episode “It Hits the Fan” you may see that there are other hidden consequences of such an event too.

Anyway, even if the nation did join together for such an awful uttering during that ad break, I hope that they also joined me after the ad break in giving Emily the finger when she appeared in the diary room. I think she deserved it. Not for being a racist, but for being a moron, and a posh one at that.

Stupid bitch, fuck off our TV screens. Oh you have already? Nice one bruv, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.

Flying Bastard

“Get away from me. I don’t want to cut you” I say to my love as I manically wave my 6 inch blade around. I’m panicking, and sweating, and almost naked, but I know that worse times are soon to come. A beast has invaded my home. It has terrified my woman. It has left me with a life or death decision. I open the door and face my enemy.

I can’t see it
But I can feel it
I can hear it
I can fear it

It flies at me and I scream with all the horror and rage I can muster. I sound like a little girl. The girl cowering behind me strengthens my resolve to not be defeated. To not let this mythical enemy get the upper hand. So I re-enter the room and search so I can destroy. It is not there. Not gone but hidden.

I hear the buzz
I feel the fear
It must be here
It must be near

In the light it stands. It burns. It dies. So drawn to the holy bright that it fears not for its own safety until it is too late. It gets trapped by the light and melts away its fear and flesh until it moves no more. All that is left for me to do it stab it and claim its death as my own. So I do and scream and laugh and shake until we have disposed of its body and are safe once more.

Just before midnight, when you’re a bit mashed, sleepy and relaxed, the last thing you want is for a Maybug to fly into your room and freak out you and your girlfriend.

Party Animals

So I’ve had a lot of fun recently. And this week I’ve been seeing lots of people I haven’t seen in a while. I unfortunately didn’t take any pictures of them. Instead, here are some animals. The fake antelope head is my favourite.

Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever... he's paid to do

I just saw Spiderman 3 and it has made me ask the question: why can’t Hollywood make third films? I don’t wanna go historical or nothing (what with Godfather 3 and probably lots of others sucking), but last year both X-Men 3 and Mission Impossible 3 sucked ass to an incredible level after the first 2 of both had been alright or quite good. And the thing is, this year is gonna be filled with number 3s so I’m pretty fucking worried that they will all suck too.

I know this is gonna look like geek rage (I am not a Spiderman geek by the way – yes I watched the cartoon when I was little and yes I own a Spiderman plastic cup – but my brother gave it to me ok!), but I have made a list of questions you should ask yourself after having seen Spiderman 3. They don’t probe many of the main problems with this film, but they are what confused the fuck out of me as I left the cinema. And please don’t answer these questions with comic book answers, because this is not the comic book Spiderman. All I am asking for is some consistency within this multi-million pound Hollywood film. All I am asking for is it not to suck. But it did.

Anyway, don’t read this if you haven’t seen the movie, as it will ruin it:

- Why wasn’t Mary Jane wearing her waitressing outfit at the end of the movie?
- Why did she stop her job when her boyfriend came in (who she must see every fucking day)?
- Why did the Goblin guy only fire two rockets at the fucking huge Sandman, when he happily fired loads at tiny little Spiderman?
- Why didn’t the Green Goblin lay a trap for Spiderman when he clearly knew he was coming (coz he had the suit on under his clothes)?
- Why did Spiderman try to take his black suit off at that church? Why not at home?
- Why couldn’t he get that suit off when he had been taking it off and on previously with ease?
- Why did Spiderman keep taking his mask off at random in the street? Does he not understand the concept of a secret identity?
- Why were there little kids up at the end of the film, when it was just before dawn?
- Why didn’t the explosion next to the Green Goblins head blow his head clean off?
- What happened to all the falling debris in the film?
- Why did those metal poles make so much noise at the end of the film?
- Why did he not try to capture the Sandman at the end, just because he had apologised?
- Why didn’t Spiderman try use a hose on the Sandman as water had worked before?
- Why did Spiderman not question at all where the black suit came from?
- Why did the black suit hang out in his flat for a few weeks before enveloping him?
- Why didn’t the black suit go on Mary Jane when it was on the back of the moped?
- Why were there so many single tears in the film? Seriously, there were more single tears than hand severings in Star Wars 3 (which was the exception to the rule about the third film sucking)
- Why did Spiderman forget he could make webbing for a few seconds when he was strung up at the end by Venom?
- Why did the Green Goblin jump in the way of his snowboard thingy instead of wacking Venom with any of the building materials lying around like Spiderman eventually did?
- Why did Venom mention he had spidey sense but then not have it seconds later when Mary Jane blapped him with that cinder block (which by the way was a fucking wicked shot)
- Why did all the child actors in that movie suck?

It’s late and I can’t be bothered to continue. This list of questions probably only scratches the surface, but I’ll let the millions of other disgruntled spidey fans pose the others to each other.

In conclusion this film sucked. I am upset I gave it my opening weekend bucks. At least Bruce Campbell was in it anyway hey.

Gotta keep moving

So with everyone perpetually talking about house prices being on the up and up, I thought it was finally time to move. I have been stuck in this little cell in my momma’s house for way to long, and much as I love the home cooking, I think it is finally time for me to spread my wings and feed myself.

We started looking in Clapham two weeks ago on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Having been out all night, and having dressed appropriately for the cold of night time, I was wearing my duvet sized parka and my not-so-tough hoodie. Which meant that I was sweating. A lot. And of course being out all night doesn’t stop you from getting a hangover, no matter what your friends say. In fact quite the opposite. It’s like when you start drinking early in the day and you get hungover before dinner time without ever having gone to sleep.

So anyway, there we were, the 5 of us, wondering up Clapham High Street (I assume that’s what that road is called anyway – I never pay attention to where I am in London thanks to the wonders of the tube being able to get me home no matter how lost I am). It was hot, I felt sick and we had estate agents to see. When we had met up in the McDonalds (for a bit of childish dutch courage) we all tried to conjure up places where we thought estate agents were. We could only think of one between us, so that is what we headed for.

More fool us. There were dozens. Hundreds. Thousands even. Every few yards was another glass window filled with pictures of other peoples homes, and just behind them were the best paid salespeople around. Estate Agents. Now I’m not one to judge (well I am, but I try not to be), but it is the general consensus that these people are scum. They make you rent somewhere just a bit worse that you want, so they can get the commission, and so that they can rent a place that you would have liked to someone who is slightly more snobby than you (so that its just a bit worse than they would have wanted too). And how do they do this? By making you feel like your house hunt is hopeless. Yes, despite the fact that the property market is booming, there is in fact nowhere to live. Nowhere reasonable priced anyway. So after going in a million or so Estate Agents, and being told a million or so times that there was just nowhere suitable at the moment, we gave in and decided to go to Foxtons.

Now personally I don’t have anything against Foxtons. I think their use of Mini’s is good idea, but that probably only stems from the fact that the number 256 (yes they all have a number if you look) works the Richmond area, and for one reason or another, that is my lucky number. But anyway, all my future live-in-friends hate Foxtons. HATE THEM. They all have stories about being supposedly ripped off by this firm, although I suspect that they actually just don’t like the new Mini’s (“It’s just not the same”) and take it out on these home sellers.

We went in anyway, because the least hungover of our group proclaimed “Well at least we’ll get free beer”. And free beer is, of course, always awesome. I had seen those little fridges stacked with them time after time, and I had always wanted a piece of the action. Oh yeah baby. So we went in, we filled in our details, we looked at the boards, we told them what we wanted… and they told us they had nothing for us. We dejectedly sat around in their air conditioning for a minute wondering where to go from here. The least hungover of us finally (and boldly) went to the reception and talked in general about properties in the area until at last… drinks were offered! Hallelujah!

Except that they only gave us two bottles. Of coke. Between five of us. Estate agents really are scum.

New Millenium Man

So I've been thinking about this on and off recently, and I've come up with a brief criteria for what makes a new millenium man (or woman). So far I have come up with the following ten:

- You have bought something on ebay and then sold it again without ever having used/wanted it
- You have lied on wikipedia while drunk
- You have emailed someone who is in the same room as you (not including while at work of course)
- You have given something a bad rating online in the hope that it will teach the author a much needed lesson despite the fact that you quite liked whatever it was you were rating
- You have used an internet phone to demonstrate to someone something that you both already knew, just to prove it works
- You have many more friends on Facebook than you do in real life
- While watching TV you wikipedia anything you don't believe and tell everyone you are with the truth behind the show
- You have gone to a website that you know will infuriate you just so that you can swear at all its users in the forum
- You have found random pictures of yourself on a strangers websites
- You have been turned down for a job because your potential employer found out so much awful shit about you online

I only qualify for less than half which makes me still a bit old school. Fuck yeah.

Oh and look - I'm moving:

What goes up, must come down

So it's been like a month since I last posted, and a fuck load more than a months worth of living has gone on since then. Woo-motherfucking-hoo! There has been a whole shit load of smiles being passed around recently...

Although there was also a Friday the 13th and a whole incident with the Police so things have been a bit fucked too...
But whatever else may have happened, at least I took the best ever picture of Nick. He apparently felt much worse than he looked at this time. Ha ha.

And I got a real job! Fuck yeah!

Allergic to work

I have a job starting tomorrow. Woo! Back in the rat race it is for me. Which makes me think – how come I don’t get sick when I’m not working? I don’t mean pulling a sickie sick, I mean actually ill? Because it seems to me that after about 2 weeks in every job I get I get sick for a few days. And I mean sick sick. I think it may be to do with the Underground and how dirty the air is in the trains, but I somehow doubt that’s actually true. Well we’ll see how that works out this time anyway.

Oh and here’s a picture of some jelly babies enjoying a Jacuzzi in a chocolate pie.

Signs

There are signs everywhere. Most of them are informative, but others meanings are a bit veiled.
Like these. Why are they there? What are they a reflection of? Not windows that's for damn sure. Their meaning is a mystery that I have pondered all my life, every time I go into my back garden on a sunny day for a ... cigarette...

This sign at Richmond Station is a bit easier to miss but a little more clear in its meaning. No parking at any time in bus lanes - unless you are Batman.

This sign was virtually unmissable though. It clearly indicates that Dave is Jewish. He was forced to wear it for three months by these Nazi's who convinced him they were in charge. I thought it was over the top, but he apparently quite liked it.

Oh what a night

So it was the much beloved Emma Chandlers birthday on Friday and despite having a great time, I can barely remember it. Funnily the photos that I appear to have taken of it barely seem to remember it either...so I'm going to 'improvise' the story they tell"Hello and welcome to the Chancellors birthday bash. I am your host Boggly Eyed Man, and this is my sidekick VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl. We hope you have very nice time this evening" Said Boggly Eyed Man
"Yes I hope you do. Now bugger off, me and Boggly Eyed Man have to get it on, and I can't do that whilst standing on a chair now can I?" said VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl
"But wait, what do they call you when you're not standing on a chair VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl?" I naively asked
"Lisa" She replied
So I gave Lisa a hug and all was well. I soon convinced her that Boggly Eyed Man wasn't the guy for her and she repented her previous love and wandered off in look of booze and the Chancellor.
Meanwhile someone had glued Joe's tongue to his chin, and after trying to pull it off I had accidentally stuck my hand to my chin also. We were in dire straights but eventually we convinced the DJ to let us use his decks as a kind of make-shift saw and cut my hand free, and Joe's tongue ... off
Which he clearly wasn't too pleased about. Still it meant that I could spend a couple quiet minutes talking about myself in an animated fashion. Which was nice. Joe left after a while to find a deaf lady who would complete him now he was mute, so I continued my tirade of self approval to Scott.
Who it turns out wasn't that interested. I let him sleep though as it was just nice to have someone to talk to who hadn't been paying attention to the whole turntable blood bath that I had convinced Joe to take part in. Saul on the other hand had seen the whole thing and couldn't stop smiling about it.
"Dude, that was awesome. I never knew you could spin a record so fast. And when Joe's tongue just went flying into the crowd that was the grossest thing ever. Dave said he saw it fly into someones drink. That is fucked up man, just imagine eating a tongue by accident!"
"Actually" Lydia chirped up "Human tongue is quite delicious. Scott cooked me some while we were in South Africa. Didn't you darling? Scott? Scott? Wake up!" But alas, I had bored the poor man into a coma. At least now I could steal his beer.
"Hey fella" said Glenn at the crucial moment of my booze theft "You'll never believe what just happened".
"A tongue landed in your drink" Saul said and laughed heartily
"How the fuck did you know that?" He asked Saul but he was laughing so much by now that he was hiccuping and no good to anyone.
"Can I...err see it" I asked quietly thinking that perhaps it would be best if I gave Joe his tongue back. For his birthday or Christmas or something.
"Nah mate sorry, it's always been a Devine family tradition that we eat all tongues we find. It's for good luck with the....
"Was it nice?" Lydia swiftly interrupted, looking to prove a point that she hadn't really made
"No" said Glenn. "It was fucking disgusting". Lydia was sad as not only was she wrong, but also as Scott's hand seemed to be dissolving slightly in his sleep.
"And a bit halluuuuciiiiinaaaaageeeeniiiic.... I thiiiiiiink...." Said Glenn as he started massaging the table. "I feel alllllllllllllll blluuuuuuurrrrrryyyyyy"
"HALLUCINGENS" Scott said as he snapped awake. "What the fuck happened to my hand?", he said as he quickly hid it under the table. Lydia looked pleased as a plum that her man was finally awake again. And that we were leaving. Little did she know that I had glued his other hand to his ear while he was sleeping. For safe keeping and that.
And that was the end of our wonderful evening. I went home and was apparently very drunk and happy, as is demonstrated by this photo taken by Kathy.
Of course in the morning I wasn't so drunk or happy. In fact I was so hungover that I needed to wear sunglasses. Indoors.
But at least the nice bacon people had decided that today was indeed the day to screw all the rules and fill my belly with pork goodness with a ridiculous offer.

The end.
PS Happy Birthday Emma!

Happy Happy Sad

If you could read tea leafs you would see that this means I'm happy. And perhaps slightly evil...

If you look very carefully, you can see a smiley face randomly made from hair on my bathroom floor

This building reminds me of Freddy's tattoo

Something old, something new, something fucked...

This is me after my first ever actual (illegal in a warehouse) rave.

This is me just before my first ever ("Fuck it, I need a..") pint on my own