Ask any scientist and they’ll tell you that it’s a fact that the most restful night’s sleep you can have is a dribble sleep. Some scientists are so enthusiastic you won’t even have to ask, they’ll come and tell you. There really is no better feeling than waking up with a gooey cheek and a pool of cold mucus on your pillow. Nobody has ever been able to fully explain why it’s so satisfying to regain consciousness bathing in your own spit but it is.
I have much more time to enjoy a good bit of dribble these days. With my friends back at university and the boredom of unemployment setting in I have started to appreciate the smaller things, dribble is just one of them. Another is my new Blackberry. It has taken four years for me to get a phone that allows me to look down on people and now that I have one I couldn’t be happier. When I see fellow blackberry owners I feel the need to high-five them and boisterously shout “Blackberries!” Then I suggest we exchange bbm pins, that way, we can instant message one another all the way around the world. FOR FREE.
At first I really wanted an i-phone, but then I found out that I couldn’t afford one and swiftly realised that I’d wanted a blackberry all along. “I-phones are for wankers and posers anyway,” I reassured myself, much in the same way middle-aged men have to convince themselves Vauxhall’s are better than Jaguars.
I recently visited my friend in Bournmouth. We ate pizza, drove recklessly, smoked and drank vodka, pretty much the usual non-stop parent’s nightmare that is a twenty-something’s weekend. One thing that will stand out from the trip was our visit to ‘V’. Now V was once a church, but for some reason, it is now a club. To me, building a club in a church is like setting up a chocolate fountain in a gym. The two ideas are oppositional. I’m not at all religious, but there’s something a bit depressing about seeing a bouncers toss smashed chavs from a church, or semi naked ladies sprawling themselves over sofas that were once pews.
Who am I kidding?! It was great fun and to be honest, there isn’t that much difference between churches and clubs anyway. Look at bouncers and priests for example. I mean they’re almost identical. Both wear black, both are grumpy, boring and often bald. I hope that doesn’t mean that I’m going to hell. Gulp
Monday, 27 September 2010
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Pampers
So I strutted over to the office yesterday morning with a grin on my face and an NHS badge swinging around in my pocket like a giant health care cock. I reached into my trousers, grabbed the badge and raised it to the little plastic panel by the entrance. There was a professionally discreet ‘bleep’, the little light changed from orange to green and the metal bolt snapped back into the door. “AHHHHH” it was like a self important firework display. “I can get into this building but none of the peasants can, Ha.” I thought to myself as the door swung open and I ascended a flight of stairs. Greeting several middle-aged men in suits, I continued down a corridor. What’s this? Another door; another plastic panel beside it! I got the badge out of my pocket again, surly my badge wouldn’t open two security locked doors?
This time; goose bumps of narcissism as I raised the badge. The same tell tale bleep and light show. “I’m James Bond,” I reflected aloud as I continued towards my desk.
“If the peasants get through the first door, they haven’t got a chance of getting past this one. I’m going to have to let them in.” What power I had.
That's how every morning in the NHS started.
I sat down at my desk with a cup of awesome work tea, content that I was a shoo-in to get the job I had worked so hard for. After all only idiots wouldn’t give it to me, right?
Well it turns out that all employers continue to be idiots, because I didn’t get the job.
Getting told you will remain unemployed by your boss is a lot like getting wacked in the Sopranos. You’re innocently tapping away at your keyboard one day, minding your own business while all but one of your colleagues leaves the room. Then; before you even have time to call them a cocksucker, bang, there’s blood splatter all over the computer screen and your head flops lifeless into a plate of office cake.
“Moist, there’s no easy way to say this...” After that I ignored everything she said. I spent the next hour printing out posters and waved goodbye to my successful life as James Bond of the public sector and got the bus home.
I sit before you, dependant, unable to drive, unemployed, unloved and penniless or DUUUP for short. Just like every other twenty-one year old graduate then. (Well apart for the driving... everyone can drive, they’re all just DUUP.)
I feel I should mention that on Sunday I got so colossally drunk that I danced around with an inflatable guitar and became incredibly aggressive in front of everyone I know. It was like Scott Pilgrim meets Scarface. Disgraceful.
If you would like to know how to achieve something similar with an evening here is the recipe for a Moscow Mule. They really are very delicious
· A few drops of Angostura Bitters
· Two measures of Vodka
· One measure of lime juice
· Toped up with ginger beer...
A few of those and you'll be a right wanker. It's worth mentioning that the morning after drinking a rather a lot of these I went into work at a hospital. It may be why I didnt get the job.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Four Parties and an Interview
The last few weeks have presented more plot twists than an average episode of Jonathan Creek. Intrigue, suspense, love, lust, triumph and disaster, we’ve had the lot. I have found time to write this blog in what can only be described as the last ad break; after which, we will all find out who murdered who and whether the killer is going to chuck themselves off a cliff, (That’s what usually happens).
So what’s been happening?
Well, your ever so handsome and humble narrator has been working (unpaid) in an office for eight weeks trying to secure himself a well paid job. A job that would not only offer financial security but also a break from the inevitable boredom of watching all of his friends piss off back to uni. It would also provide him with enough money to continue his driving odyssey and in due course, get himself.... HIS OWN PLACE.
Working in an office is really very bad for you. Since starting I have developed a fetish for canteen food, in particular, trifle. Each lunch time I scuttle down to the food hall and grab myself a BLT sandwich, a pot of pineapple and a strawberry trifle. Often, the trifle is so appealing that I eat it first. This makes the first few mouthfuls of BLT taste weird but it’s completely worth it. I should add that this food is often in addition to a school boy style packed lunch. If I continue in the same vein I’ll be obese in a month. If the overeating wasn’t enough I’ve also suffered from some pretty serious sleep deprivation. Not wanting to miss out on the fun of the summer holidays, I have made little to no consideration for the working week when planning my sleeping pattern, often awaking with my ears buzzing and spending entire days downing tea to stop my eyes sealing themselves shut.
The last and most serious of my health concerns comes in the form of a growing fondness for cigarettes. At first I had the odd one to fit in. Then I wanted to stop stealing other people’s so I bought a pack or two. Then I decided I often wanted to look cool while walking around on my own. I mean it’s not like I’m addicted or anything bad like that, it’s just..... Sometimes I fancy one, all the time. I regularly wake up with a smoky mouth.
So I spent eight weeks stuffing envelopes, laminating, writing about middle aged women and abusing my body in preparation for the interview I had last Thursday. I wasn’t nervous about the interview but I was really fucking stressy. When occasionally stopping to look at myself in the mirror (at least 10 times a day) in the preceding week I didn’t recognise the zombie staring back at me.
The interview itself went fine, but there were 300 applicants so I’m not holding my breath. In truth I am holding my breath. I spent eight weeks working there which left me black lunged and penniless. If they don’t give me the job it might be me Jonathan Creek comes after when he finds an NHS director with their head twated in with a laminator. I can just imagine Alan Davies crouched over the body.
“Look! The murderer has given him paper cuts all over his body..... That’s funny, no blood. These wounds were inflicted after he died! What sick bastard did this?!”
Me. I did it! He didn’t give me a job.
Anyway, enough of that, for now at least, I find out in the next day or two.
So what’s been happening?
Well, your ever so handsome and humble narrator has been working (unpaid) in an office for eight weeks trying to secure himself a well paid job. A job that would not only offer financial security but also a break from the inevitable boredom of watching all of his friends piss off back to uni. It would also provide him with enough money to continue his driving odyssey and in due course, get himself.... HIS OWN PLACE.
Working in an office is really very bad for you. Since starting I have developed a fetish for canteen food, in particular, trifle. Each lunch time I scuttle down to the food hall and grab myself a BLT sandwich, a pot of pineapple and a strawberry trifle. Often, the trifle is so appealing that I eat it first. This makes the first few mouthfuls of BLT taste weird but it’s completely worth it. I should add that this food is often in addition to a school boy style packed lunch. If I continue in the same vein I’ll be obese in a month. If the overeating wasn’t enough I’ve also suffered from some pretty serious sleep deprivation. Not wanting to miss out on the fun of the summer holidays, I have made little to no consideration for the working week when planning my sleeping pattern, often awaking with my ears buzzing and spending entire days downing tea to stop my eyes sealing themselves shut.
The last and most serious of my health concerns comes in the form of a growing fondness for cigarettes. At first I had the odd one to fit in. Then I wanted to stop stealing other people’s so I bought a pack or two. Then I decided I often wanted to look cool while walking around on my own. I mean it’s not like I’m addicted or anything bad like that, it’s just..... Sometimes I fancy one, all the time. I regularly wake up with a smoky mouth.
So I spent eight weeks stuffing envelopes, laminating, writing about middle aged women and abusing my body in preparation for the interview I had last Thursday. I wasn’t nervous about the interview but I was really fucking stressy. When occasionally stopping to look at myself in the mirror (at least 10 times a day) in the preceding week I didn’t recognise the zombie staring back at me.
The interview itself went fine, but there were 300 applicants so I’m not holding my breath. In truth I am holding my breath. I spent eight weeks working there which left me black lunged and penniless. If they don’t give me the job it might be me Jonathan Creek comes after when he finds an NHS director with their head twated in with a laminator. I can just imagine Alan Davies crouched over the body.
“Look! The murderer has given him paper cuts all over his body..... That’s funny, no blood. These wounds were inflicted after he died! What sick bastard did this?!”
Me. I did it! He didn’t give me a job.
Anyway, enough of that, for now at least, I find out in the next day or two.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Safety Information
Due to some incredible advances in technology and my total automotive incompetence I’m blogging to you from a train. People have been using computers on trains for twenty years or so, but I’m a technotard so this is all a bit of a novelty. The whole experience is making me feel like one of those executive bankers who claim a six figure bonus each year. I’ve started feeling that wankerish urge to wear shirts with the wrong colour collar and spend thousands of pounds on a bottle of wine, then let everyone know exactly how much it cost.
You’ll probably be reading this long after I arrive in sunny Cornwall, not just because you’re too cool to check my blog but also because I can’t get to grips with the fucking train wireless internet. This unfortunate mechanical hitch means that today’s entry will be Old-Person-Fact-less. I know, I know, I completely understand if you want to stop reading but it’s not my fault, it’s this god awful word processor of mine. Despite receiving a new hard drive and some super protective internet condom software to fend off the computer syphilis it caught a few months ago the Toshiba remains a dusty, overheating dog of a laptop. No wonder I struggle with computers when my own laptop is even more technotarded than I am. Everyone else has those snazzy Mac books, Wankers. They’re meant to be useful for all sorts of design and image manipulation but I have my doubts. I mean they cost over a grand! If you need to change a photograph that much your obviously not a very good photographer. Stupid, over-priced pieces of poser crap. God, I really want one.
After spending a load of time/money in cities you really appreciate the ability to take a deep breath without filling your lungs with warm engine heated air. When you breathe in Cornwall it feels like taking in the oxygen of at least 8 London breaths. The feeling is similar to the one you get after chewing that eucalyptus gum (Airwaves?!). It almost hurts your insides to take in so much clean oxygen. If you live in London you might as well just start smoking twenty a day; it won’t do you more harm than a daily trip on the tube (NOT MEDICAL ADVICE).
The healthy feeling you get in the West Country is actually alarmingly deceptive. Those rosy cheeks you see in holiday snaps are in fact pockets of blood trapped in your face after the clotted cream tea clogs your arteries. I find it really quite amazing that anyone born beyond Bristol is able to get out of bed in the morning. There are so many delicious Cornish and Devonshire delicacies with the ability to leave a consumer incapacitated for up to twelve hours.
Here is a short list.....
Scones
Clotted Cream
Pasties
......I did say it was a short list. OK maybe there isn’t a wide range, but what there is, is amazing. In the five nights I spend in St Erth I aim to put on at least four and a half stone.
Oh yeah they do cheese as well.
You’ll probably be reading this long after I arrive in sunny Cornwall, not just because you’re too cool to check my blog but also because I can’t get to grips with the fucking train wireless internet. This unfortunate mechanical hitch means that today’s entry will be Old-Person-Fact-less. I know, I know, I completely understand if you want to stop reading but it’s not my fault, it’s this god awful word processor of mine. Despite receiving a new hard drive and some super protective internet condom software to fend off the computer syphilis it caught a few months ago the Toshiba remains a dusty, overheating dog of a laptop. No wonder I struggle with computers when my own laptop is even more technotarded than I am. Everyone else has those snazzy Mac books, Wankers. They’re meant to be useful for all sorts of design and image manipulation but I have my doubts. I mean they cost over a grand! If you need to change a photograph that much your obviously not a very good photographer. Stupid, over-priced pieces of poser crap. God, I really want one.
After spending a load of time/money in cities you really appreciate the ability to take a deep breath without filling your lungs with warm engine heated air. When you breathe in Cornwall it feels like taking in the oxygen of at least 8 London breaths. The feeling is similar to the one you get after chewing that eucalyptus gum (Airwaves?!). It almost hurts your insides to take in so much clean oxygen. If you live in London you might as well just start smoking twenty a day; it won’t do you more harm than a daily trip on the tube (NOT MEDICAL ADVICE).
The healthy feeling you get in the West Country is actually alarmingly deceptive. Those rosy cheeks you see in holiday snaps are in fact pockets of blood trapped in your face after the clotted cream tea clogs your arteries. I find it really quite amazing that anyone born beyond Bristol is able to get out of bed in the morning. There are so many delicious Cornish and Devonshire delicacies with the ability to leave a consumer incapacitated for up to twelve hours.
Here is a short list.....
Scones
Clotted Cream
Pasties
......I did say it was a short list. OK maybe there isn’t a wide range, but what there is, is amazing. In the five nights I spend in St Erth I aim to put on at least four and a half stone.
Oh yeah they do cheese as well.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Sand and Sleepers
With graduation done and dusted adult life has truly begun. So far I have ascertained that it’s a tiring old business. I’ve started working full time in a hospital, except that I’m not sure it really counts as working because I don’t get paid. With no income from my job I have been forced to continue my money grubbing benefit claim. The whole situation leaves me in the peculiar position of working for free and being paid to do nothing.
The NHS is good fun. I have been tasked with a number of duties, some are engaging and educational, some are just shit. Part of my job is to go around the wards picking up interesting stories about healthcare, which is kinda cool. Roaming the corridors in search of a scoop makes me feel like Dustin Hoffman in All The Presidents Men (which, if you haven’t seen, you should) or Louis Theroux on a Weird Weekend. However for every hour or so of bad ass independent investigation I get to do, I can expect to spend three hours laminating; swings and roundabouts I suppose.
When it’s your job to barge into wards, invade people’s privacy and ask sick patients or pissed of staff irritating questions you soon get an eye for approaching the right people. In general, I have proved popular with rosy cheeked middle aged/ elderly women and so direct any irksome enquiries their way. On the other hand, sweaty, stressed out working class men seem to have less time for the middle class pipsqueak routine.
Another amazing thing about hospitals is the incredible number of old people found within. If you ever wondered what happens to people after their seventieth birthday then just look in a hospital, either that or Sainsburys on Saturday morning. It turns out that old people tend to be the perfect interviewees, friendly, bored and often captive, they always provide an in depth analysis of hospital life. This ranges from the colour of the walls to why they dislike vegetables. It made me feel bad that I’ve never normally given a shit about what elderly folks say and so from now on I aim to include an “Old Person Fact” in my blog whenever I get the opportunity.
Old Person Fact 1, Old people are among the happiest in China.
The NHS is good fun. I have been tasked with a number of duties, some are engaging and educational, some are just shit. Part of my job is to go around the wards picking up interesting stories about healthcare, which is kinda cool. Roaming the corridors in search of a scoop makes me feel like Dustin Hoffman in All The Presidents Men (which, if you haven’t seen, you should) or Louis Theroux on a Weird Weekend. However for every hour or so of bad ass independent investigation I get to do, I can expect to spend three hours laminating; swings and roundabouts I suppose.
When it’s your job to barge into wards, invade people’s privacy and ask sick patients or pissed of staff irritating questions you soon get an eye for approaching the right people. In general, I have proved popular with rosy cheeked middle aged/ elderly women and so direct any irksome enquiries their way. On the other hand, sweaty, stressed out working class men seem to have less time for the middle class pipsqueak routine.
Another amazing thing about hospitals is the incredible number of old people found within. If you ever wondered what happens to people after their seventieth birthday then just look in a hospital, either that or Sainsburys on Saturday morning. It turns out that old people tend to be the perfect interviewees, friendly, bored and often captive, they always provide an in depth analysis of hospital life. This ranges from the colour of the walls to why they dislike vegetables. It made me feel bad that I’ve never normally given a shit about what elderly folks say and so from now on I aim to include an “Old Person Fact” in my blog whenever I get the opportunity.
Old Person Fact 1, Old people are among the happiest in China.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Durex Duluxe
I think it is safe to say that Durex Deluxe condoms are the rubbers Alan Sugar would use if he got sick of his wife and wanted to pound some floozy in a casino toilet. The Deluxe is marketed as the Rolls-Royce of protection and it’s hard to argue with that description. Durex have obviously put in the extra man hours to make their new classier contraception stand out from the crowd. Every aspect of design seems to have been treated with a bit more care than your bog standard, behind-the-bike-shed Johnny. A curved cream box and silver lettering add a touch of sophistication, while the individual contact lens-esque containers made me feel like James Bond using an awesome new sex gadget. But is it worth the extra cash?
As I hurriedly peeled back the layer of protective wrapping I was struck by how much care had been put into each condom. A super thin disc of latex rests in its own little, space-age pod. Then I realised I had an erection and stopped caring. That’s the fundamental problem with high end condoms; when you’re faced with a expectant girl, lying on her back and spreading her legs for you, neither of you give a shit about the packaging. Also I didn’t quite understand why Durex had made the special effort of ensuring the Deluxe is “crystal clear.” It’s an impressive feat of engineering and all, but at the end of the day, a dick covered in plastic is a dick covered in plastic. You’re still going to look pretty stupid whether it’s transparent or bright green... Well I do anyway. If that’s what the extra pennies went on then I wouldn’t have bothered. Luckily there is more to the Deluxe than a crystal clear view of my penis.
It’s always worth considering that the best condom is the one you can’t feel. Unsurprisingly having your knob in a balloon can somewhat distract from the romance of sexual intercourse and so, with its price already thrown into question, all the fanciness of the Deluxe would count for nothing if it felt like you’d shoved your bell end into a rubber glove. Thankfully, for men the world over, it doesn’t. The Deluxe is super thin and almost feels as though you’re not wearing anything at all, which as far as I’m concerned is ideal.What I especially liked about the Deluxe is its simplicity. It doesn’t offer any of the gimmicky rubbish that some brands get carried away with. Tingling lubricants, lumps and bumps are all well and good in moderation but sometimes there’s so much going on that sex becomes less about your partner and more about humping a lumpy sack of lube. What the Deluxe offers is something far better. You can actually feel yourself inside whoever you’re sleeping with. It allows you to forget about protection and just enjoy having sex.
The Deluxe is undoubtedly the best condom I’ve used, but at two quid a shag, it’s expensive. If I was rich I would stock up. However, if like me, you aren’t Baron Sugar then you’ll have to weigh up whether it’s worth the extra cash or not. It’s definitely worth trying.
As I hurriedly peeled back the layer of protective wrapping I was struck by how much care had been put into each condom. A super thin disc of latex rests in its own little, space-age pod. Then I realised I had an erection and stopped caring. That’s the fundamental problem with high end condoms; when you’re faced with a expectant girl, lying on her back and spreading her legs for you, neither of you give a shit about the packaging. Also I didn’t quite understand why Durex had made the special effort of ensuring the Deluxe is “crystal clear.” It’s an impressive feat of engineering and all, but at the end of the day, a dick covered in plastic is a dick covered in plastic. You’re still going to look pretty stupid whether it’s transparent or bright green... Well I do anyway. If that’s what the extra pennies went on then I wouldn’t have bothered. Luckily there is more to the Deluxe than a crystal clear view of my penis.
It’s always worth considering that the best condom is the one you can’t feel. Unsurprisingly having your knob in a balloon can somewhat distract from the romance of sexual intercourse and so, with its price already thrown into question, all the fanciness of the Deluxe would count for nothing if it felt like you’d shoved your bell end into a rubber glove. Thankfully, for men the world over, it doesn’t. The Deluxe is super thin and almost feels as though you’re not wearing anything at all, which as far as I’m concerned is ideal.What I especially liked about the Deluxe is its simplicity. It doesn’t offer any of the gimmicky rubbish that some brands get carried away with. Tingling lubricants, lumps and bumps are all well and good in moderation but sometimes there’s so much going on that sex becomes less about your partner and more about humping a lumpy sack of lube. What the Deluxe offers is something far better. You can actually feel yourself inside whoever you’re sleeping with. It allows you to forget about protection and just enjoy having sex.
The Deluxe is undoubtedly the best condom I’ve used, but at two quid a shag, it’s expensive. If I was rich I would stock up. However, if like me, you aren’t Baron Sugar then you’ll have to weigh up whether it’s worth the extra cash or not. It’s definitely worth trying.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
The Deep End
Having now visited the job centre on several occasions the novelty of ‘the dole’ has faded. If standing in the same cue as withered, emphysema ridden, old men, waiting for hand outs doesn’t encourage you to make something of yourself then I’m not sure anything will. Why all unemployed people seem to spend their time hacking up their lungs remains a mystery but I’ve developed a cough already.
I feel a fresh ambition to become rich and successful. Then I can afford to buy the next series of The Wire on DVD or, depending on salary, blu ray. It seems that in this difficult financial climate work can be very hard to come by and so as a result the old CV needs a bit of beefing up. I have been volunteering to do fundraising for charities and such, but am consistently struck by pangs of guilt over the selfish nature of my efforts. As a fairly cynical person I would hate to put myself in that same bracket as Bono and Bob Geldolf who, despite being incredibly charitable with their time and money undermine any good will I have for them with their self-righteous, smug git facial expression and overly sincere visits to poor African villages. It’s as though they feel they have the insight and right to insist that normal people give their money away.
“Give us your fucking money!”
No thanks Bob, I’m not as rich as you and I want to spend the little money I earn (have given to me by the government) on stupid things like Crunch Corners and Tesco’s Chicken Wraps.
So I feel a moral obligation to leave any charitably activities I undertake off my CV. That way I’m not directly benefiting from something that I ought to do for good will. Then again I really want an HD telly and a Ferrari; so I should probably just shut up, accept Bono is a better person than I am and say that I’ve raised four million pounds for cancer research on my CV. It does seem a little hypocritical of me to criticise, whilst living off Job Seekers Allowance....
Anyway, Last night was grad ball, which is probably where today’s bitterness stems from. I am, as usual, hanging. A hangover has the power to surgically remove your optimism gland and leave you an angry lobotomised bastard. Today I’m that bastard. It would just be a repeat of several of my earlier entries to describe the events of last night so I’ll leave you to imagine, but you can safely assume that a large amount of time was spent wildly chanting football songs and cueing for drinks. The ball made leaving seem university much more real than it had been previously. Amid the numerous domestics and sickages I took time to soak up the atmosphere one last time, before passing out on a wooden floor.
Inevitably I woke up with a stiff neck and speaking of stiff; (I’m sorry, couldn’t resist) I have recently been given the opportunity to review a new range of condoms. Shockingly there’s a shortage of sexually active heterosexual men who keep online diaries about their feelings and so I have been given the task of fucking my way through 5 packets of Durex... result! It is now my, awesome sex mission to woo a lady and fill her with so many different types of latex that she develops an allergy. Rather optimistically, the friend who gave me this opportunity included several XL rubbers in her parcel. I fear that may be like slipping a cocktail sausage in a sock.
PS. Sorry Potty Mouth....... “You have to forgive me!!!”
I feel a fresh ambition to become rich and successful. Then I can afford to buy the next series of The Wire on DVD or, depending on salary, blu ray. It seems that in this difficult financial climate work can be very hard to come by and so as a result the old CV needs a bit of beefing up. I have been volunteering to do fundraising for charities and such, but am consistently struck by pangs of guilt over the selfish nature of my efforts. As a fairly cynical person I would hate to put myself in that same bracket as Bono and Bob Geldolf who, despite being incredibly charitable with their time and money undermine any good will I have for them with their self-righteous, smug git facial expression and overly sincere visits to poor African villages. It’s as though they feel they have the insight and right to insist that normal people give their money away.
“Give us your fucking money!”
No thanks Bob, I’m not as rich as you and I want to spend the little money I earn (have given to me by the government) on stupid things like Crunch Corners and Tesco’s Chicken Wraps.
So I feel a moral obligation to leave any charitably activities I undertake off my CV. That way I’m not directly benefiting from something that I ought to do for good will. Then again I really want an HD telly and a Ferrari; so I should probably just shut up, accept Bono is a better person than I am and say that I’ve raised four million pounds for cancer research on my CV. It does seem a little hypocritical of me to criticise, whilst living off Job Seekers Allowance....
Anyway, Last night was grad ball, which is probably where today’s bitterness stems from. I am, as usual, hanging. A hangover has the power to surgically remove your optimism gland and leave you an angry lobotomised bastard. Today I’m that bastard. It would just be a repeat of several of my earlier entries to describe the events of last night so I’ll leave you to imagine, but you can safely assume that a large amount of time was spent wildly chanting football songs and cueing for drinks. The ball made leaving seem university much more real than it had been previously. Amid the numerous domestics and sickages I took time to soak up the atmosphere one last time, before passing out on a wooden floor.
Inevitably I woke up with a stiff neck and speaking of stiff; (I’m sorry, couldn’t resist) I have recently been given the opportunity to review a new range of condoms. Shockingly there’s a shortage of sexually active heterosexual men who keep online diaries about their feelings and so I have been given the task of fucking my way through 5 packets of Durex... result! It is now my, awesome sex mission to woo a lady and fill her with so many different types of latex that she develops an allergy. Rather optimistically, the friend who gave me this opportunity included several XL rubbers in her parcel. I fear that may be like slipping a cocktail sausage in a sock.
PS. Sorry Potty Mouth....... “You have to forgive me!!!”
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Born For It
OK OK I’m sorry. I’ve been a little distracted of late and for a number of reasons Moist has taken a back seat. If you can find it in your hearts to forgive me and continue reading I will try to explain why I’ve been such a terrible non blogging bastard.
Moist‘s Movements
Leaving university is a rather strange process. You spend the whole last term cursing the fact that you have exams and then once their over you pack your bags and fuck off home. That’s if you’re most people. I took an entirely less sensible approach. Boozing was rather high on my list of priorities, as were BBQ’s and watching the football. Somewhere further down the list, below sitting outside in the rain smoking, was revision. It certainly made my term exciting and I don’t think I could have partied any harder without causing a severe failure in either my exams or internal organs. This rather disproportionate focus on socialising was reflected in my last set of results. However, being the super genius that I am I still managed to get a 2.1 and have now returned home joining the millions of other graduates in search of jobs this summer.
It said on the news the other day that there are 60 graduates for every post- grad position in Britain. It’s a daunting statistic for anyone but its worse if you can’t decide what you want to do, and worse still if you’d rather sit at home and eat an eight pack of twister lollies. Having strolled round the job centre perusing the pamphlets it became clear that my skill set is not particularly suited to many jobs.
The saying goes that you can be a Jack of all trades and a master of none, now I’m quite bad at a lot of things; spelling for example, so I’m definitely not Jack. On the other hand I can’t really think of anything that I’m a master of. Which I think, makes me a ....Moist of some trades?
Sensing that there weren’t many jobs available for a Moist of some trades during a recession I decided to get my act together, take a step back and make a list of things to do with the aim of becoming a master of ... a trade.
Things to do list
. Get a job
. Pass my driving test
. Get married
. get a place to live
. watch The Wire
It took me a day or two of staring, gormless at my list before I realized that all of the goals are linked to one another. If I pass my driving test I will be able to drive further to different jobs becoming more employable in the process. Once I have a job then I will be able to earn money to get a place to live. Once I have a place to live I’ll be able to woo ladies more effectively and then once I’m married I will have someone to watch The Wire with.
So with the plan firmly established and another driving test booked all I needed to do now decide on a career path.
I successfully attempted to bake my first cake the other day. It was an achievement that led me to believe I was almost definitely born to bake. My wild assumption was supported by the discovery that I had a great grandfather who baked. I really like the idea of keeping family traditions going and baking is clearly a skill that has been passed down to me genetically because those who ate my feathery soft Victoria sponge unfailingly declared it to be the “single greatest moment of taste sensation” they had ever experienced. Well sort of. My mum sort of choked it down with a grin on her face and said “well done.” whilst trying not to cough it back up. If I’m going to I follow in my families footsteps then I really have to be a builder. For centuries Moist’s on my dad’s side have been building houses, offices, schools and shit. Maybe I was born to build? Unfortunately after a brief experiment with a patio it became apparent that I lack the practical skills, hand eye coordination and such to hammer nails or cut wood in a straight line. Another disadvantage I have is that I’m far too muscular to be a builder. As we all know builders need to be scrawny and thin, and that’s just not me...I’m pretty sure a load of my family met a sticky ends so perhaps it’s better if I start making my own footsteps instead of stepping into theirs.
I was just about running out of hope for a job when I found the perfect occupation. It turns out I was born for benefits. Job seekers allowance is ideal. It’s like a challenge to see how long I can procrastinate for and I really am a master of procrastination. I decided that I could become a master of the dole. So today I officially started claiming job seekers and from now on all I have to do is look into getting a job and the government pays me, Suckers! It’s freed up so much time that I have been able to watch two seasons of The Wire. That’s one target crossed off the Things to do list.
Actually screw Job seekers I want to go to Baltimore and become an undercover cop.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Hop on the Bus, Gus
The thing about minced beef is despite appearing varied, in reality you can only do one thing with it. Don’t get me wrong, Bolognese, Burgers, Meat Balls and Cottage Pie are all equally flavoursome; but if you think about it, you just can’t have mince without tomato and once you’ve realize that, you’re fucked. The illusion is shattered and mince is monotonous for ever more. Think about the recipes.
Bolognese- Bit of mince beef, big old can of chopped tomato.
Cottage Pie- Get your mince nice and brown in a pan but don’t forget to add a can of chopped tomato
Meat Balls- You’d better believe those balls are getting socked in a tomato sauce
Burgers- Mince beef patty, onion, salad, bread bun, cheese, .... Hold on a sec, you better whack a slice of tomato on in that bad boy or at the very least a healthy squirt of Ketchup.
It’s all a bloody conspiracy. Mince is about as flexible as a brick and will never excite me again.
So the other day I’m sat eating my Cottage Pie and I have the tomato epiphany, decide that mince is boring and that I need to eat some chicken or something. It’s not an all together remarkable story but bare with me because mince meat is only the very tip of the iceberg. In an instant the soggy pie had launched me into a stream of spectacular new consciousness comparable to those experienced by Hawkins, Einstein or even Shakespeare. So many things out there pretend to be interesting, but like minced beef, just aren’t. Take alcohol for example, sure, whisky tastes different to beer but that doesn’t change the headache. You don’t slur your words in a different accent. Drunk is drunk. The discovery also put pay to my growing love for rap music. It turns out “Boom, boom, boom, bitch” has a sell by date. It was like an apple had fallen on my head and I'd discovered gravity. I’d discovered how to see through things that are shit. I’d been given the gift of Shit-ray goggles. CSI is a great T-V show isn’t it? WRONG!
“Oh what do we have here? A dead body with a can of Lynx shoved up its arse?”
“Pretty much boss, I recon we should listen to The Who and shine a blue light on some shit until we realize that it was the only guy we bothered interviewing in this episode. Oh yeah and he had a twin or something.”
SHIT-RAY'D Give me a knighthood, a big wig and call me Sir Isaac.
Now, on Friday, about half an hour after I finished a bowl of incredibly unsatisfactory Bolognese my friends and I went to see Robin Hood. Now I should qualify this next bit by saying just how much I was looking forward to this film. I really wanted to like it. If you had been in the car on the way to the multi-plex with us you would have been treated to at least three renditions of the song.* I love Gladiator, Russell Crowe inspires me to do great things and Ridley Scott gives me an erection. Unfortunately for Ridley, if you had joined me in the back of the Peugeot, not only would you have noticed my angelic singing voice but you would also have seen me wearing the Shit-Ray goggles. Picture a pair of Ray-Bans with bright yellow lenses and a pink nutty professor swirl. (Unfortunately for the people sat behind in the cinema me I also took along my huge Isaac Newton wig) So after an unacceptable number of adverts, the film began and sure enough under all the gloss and budget the goggles un-earthed a horrible little turd of a film.
I’m not quite sure at which moment within the two and a half hours of detritus it became apparent that the whole thing was a piece of shit but there are a number of contenders. It may have been when Maid Marian led a scantily clad band of (unnecessary) orphan children to the cliffs of Dover to do battle with the French. It may also have been when Russell Crowe opened his mouth and began speaking in an imaginary medieval accent, but having deliberating for some time I decided the worst bit was the story. Not since CSI have I seen such a formulaic piece of nonsense. It’s hard to think of a time when I've have been more disappointed. I now understand how women feel after they have sex with me. For those of you out there yet to experience that luxury the story leaves you with the same feeling you get when eating a sandwich at the beach. There are few grains of sand stuck in the bread somehow and the whole sandwich is ruined. A lot like mince you can quite happily gobble up Robin Hood without thinking too much but if you were expecting Gladiator, you'll be dialing Dominos for something tastier. Right I'm gonna stop now, because If I think about that film anymore I will never be happy again.
I think I might go and buy some chicken today, then watch Gladiator
*ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD RIDING THROUGH THE GLEN, ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD, WITH HIS MERRY MEN, HE TAKES FROM THE RICH, HE GIVES TO THE POOR... and so on.
Bolognese- Bit of mince beef, big old can of chopped tomato.
Cottage Pie- Get your mince nice and brown in a pan but don’t forget to add a can of chopped tomato
Meat Balls- You’d better believe those balls are getting socked in a tomato sauce
Burgers- Mince beef patty, onion, salad, bread bun, cheese, .... Hold on a sec, you better whack a slice of tomato on in that bad boy or at the very least a healthy squirt of Ketchup.
It’s all a bloody conspiracy. Mince is about as flexible as a brick and will never excite me again.
So the other day I’m sat eating my Cottage Pie and I have the tomato epiphany, decide that mince is boring and that I need to eat some chicken or something. It’s not an all together remarkable story but bare with me because mince meat is only the very tip of the iceberg. In an instant the soggy pie had launched me into a stream of spectacular new consciousness comparable to those experienced by Hawkins, Einstein or even Shakespeare. So many things out there pretend to be interesting, but like minced beef, just aren’t. Take alcohol for example, sure, whisky tastes different to beer but that doesn’t change the headache. You don’t slur your words in a different accent. Drunk is drunk. The discovery also put pay to my growing love for rap music. It turns out “Boom, boom, boom, bitch” has a sell by date. It was like an apple had fallen on my head and I'd discovered gravity. I’d discovered how to see through things that are shit. I’d been given the gift of Shit-ray goggles. CSI is a great T-V show isn’t it? WRONG!
“Oh what do we have here? A dead body with a can of Lynx shoved up its arse?”
“Pretty much boss, I recon we should listen to The Who and shine a blue light on some shit until we realize that it was the only guy we bothered interviewing in this episode. Oh yeah and he had a twin or something.”
SHIT-RAY'D Give me a knighthood, a big wig and call me Sir Isaac.
Now, on Friday, about half an hour after I finished a bowl of incredibly unsatisfactory Bolognese my friends and I went to see Robin Hood. Now I should qualify this next bit by saying just how much I was looking forward to this film. I really wanted to like it. If you had been in the car on the way to the multi-plex with us you would have been treated to at least three renditions of the song.* I love Gladiator, Russell Crowe inspires me to do great things and Ridley Scott gives me an erection. Unfortunately for Ridley, if you had joined me in the back of the Peugeot, not only would you have noticed my angelic singing voice but you would also have seen me wearing the Shit-Ray goggles. Picture a pair of Ray-Bans with bright yellow lenses and a pink nutty professor swirl. (Unfortunately for the people sat behind in the cinema me I also took along my huge Isaac Newton wig) So after an unacceptable number of adverts, the film began and sure enough under all the gloss and budget the goggles un-earthed a horrible little turd of a film.
I’m not quite sure at which moment within the two and a half hours of detritus it became apparent that the whole thing was a piece of shit but there are a number of contenders. It may have been when Maid Marian led a scantily clad band of (unnecessary) orphan children to the cliffs of Dover to do battle with the French. It may also have been when Russell Crowe opened his mouth and began speaking in an imaginary medieval accent, but having deliberating for some time I decided the worst bit was the story. Not since CSI have I seen such a formulaic piece of nonsense. It’s hard to think of a time when I've have been more disappointed. I now understand how women feel after they have sex with me. For those of you out there yet to experience that luxury the story leaves you with the same feeling you get when eating a sandwich at the beach. There are few grains of sand stuck in the bread somehow and the whole sandwich is ruined. A lot like mince you can quite happily gobble up Robin Hood without thinking too much but if you were expecting Gladiator, you'll be dialing Dominos for something tastier. Right I'm gonna stop now, because If I think about that film anymore I will never be happy again.
I think I might go and buy some chicken today, then watch Gladiator
*ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD RIDING THROUGH THE GLEN, ROBIN HOOD ROBIN HOOD, WITH HIS MERRY MEN, HE TAKES FROM THE RICH, HE GIVES TO THE POOR... and so on.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
The Gap In My Teeth
First off I want to address a rather pressing issue. Having recently told a number of friends that my motto is, ‘I never trust a man unless I’ve touched his penis,’ I’d like to point out now that this does not apply to women.
The saying came into being after an intimate night in the south of Spain when a group of my (male) buddies decided that true friends could feel comfortable platonically cupping each other’s genitalia. It was an emotionally charged evening of booze, brotherhood and extreme manliness. So as you can imagine it was mortifying to discover that at least three close female friends have taken my motto in completely the wrong way; thinking that they can touch men, quite literally, Willy-nilly. Well ladies, you’ve got it all wrong!
The Moist household has been inundated with a series of crazes in recent weeks; from religiously watching How I Met You’re Mother to perfecting my salsa recipe, but three in particular have given me the most pleasure.
1. Season a housemate
When you feel a little bored there is nothing better for brightening your day than sneaking up on a housemate with a pepper grinder and seasoning their head. I managed to get MEH this morning. Tomorrow I’ll try to get him with the salt as well, the day after that.... Basil.
2. Bonsai
That’s right; in an effort to become more culturally varied I have taken up the Japanese art of growing miniature trees. I read about them the other day and so the next time I went to Tesco I bought a little pot plant and hacked half the leaves off. The Japanese say it takes years of cultivation before the mini trees are perfect, but what do they know. I managed to cut mine down to size and I only bought it a week ago.
3. Belly Scratching
Less of a hobby this, but still terrifically satisfying, nearly every day I insist my good friend Lucy comes over and scratches my belly like I’m a dog. It’s very relaxing and she gets to feel useful.
In summary I am keeping myself occupied.
After murdering someone, or taking their last Rolo, the worst thing you can do to a person is punish them for liking you. It’s something we all do, but I have a feeling I’m particularly bad. Sometimes, when I think about it, I sit and cringe at how much I take my family for granted. It’s one of those feelings that make you go bright red from embarrassment even though the event was ages ago.
“Moist, do you want to go out for dinner with Nana and Grandpa one day this week? Their getting a Chinese feast, me and dad will try to get some time after work, it will be really nice to get the family together!”
“Ah sorry, I’m pretty busy sitting around with the guys and talking about boobs this week, maybe some other time, yeah?”
It really is a grade-A shit of a thing to do, when all my family want to do is spend time with me. I did exactly the same thing to my ex girlfriend.
“Moist, do you want to make dinner and stay in with a movie tonight?”
“Um, yeah sure, but I’ll invite P-Dizzle and the guys as well, wouldn’t want it get boring.”
It haunts me to remember the look on her face as she died inside, (In fairness, dinner and a movie did get a bit boring sometimes) but it’s a sad fact of life is that once you know someone thinks you’re amazing you stop caring what they think. I am currently attempting to address the balance.
The saying came into being after an intimate night in the south of Spain when a group of my (male) buddies decided that true friends could feel comfortable platonically cupping each other’s genitalia. It was an emotionally charged evening of booze, brotherhood and extreme manliness. So as you can imagine it was mortifying to discover that at least three close female friends have taken my motto in completely the wrong way; thinking that they can touch men, quite literally, Willy-nilly. Well ladies, you’ve got it all wrong!
The Moist household has been inundated with a series of crazes in recent weeks; from religiously watching How I Met You’re Mother to perfecting my salsa recipe, but three in particular have given me the most pleasure.
1. Season a housemate
When you feel a little bored there is nothing better for brightening your day than sneaking up on a housemate with a pepper grinder and seasoning their head. I managed to get MEH this morning. Tomorrow I’ll try to get him with the salt as well, the day after that.... Basil.
2. Bonsai
That’s right; in an effort to become more culturally varied I have taken up the Japanese art of growing miniature trees. I read about them the other day and so the next time I went to Tesco I bought a little pot plant and hacked half the leaves off. The Japanese say it takes years of cultivation before the mini trees are perfect, but what do they know. I managed to cut mine down to size and I only bought it a week ago.
3. Belly Scratching
Less of a hobby this, but still terrifically satisfying, nearly every day I insist my good friend Lucy comes over and scratches my belly like I’m a dog. It’s very relaxing and she gets to feel useful.
In summary I am keeping myself occupied.
After murdering someone, or taking their last Rolo, the worst thing you can do to a person is punish them for liking you. It’s something we all do, but I have a feeling I’m particularly bad. Sometimes, when I think about it, I sit and cringe at how much I take my family for granted. It’s one of those feelings that make you go bright red from embarrassment even though the event was ages ago.
“Moist, do you want to go out for dinner with Nana and Grandpa one day this week? Their getting a Chinese feast, me and dad will try to get some time after work, it will be really nice to get the family together!”
“Ah sorry, I’m pretty busy sitting around with the guys and talking about boobs this week, maybe some other time, yeah?”
It really is a grade-A shit of a thing to do, when all my family want to do is spend time with me. I did exactly the same thing to my ex girlfriend.
“Moist, do you want to make dinner and stay in with a movie tonight?”
“Um, yeah sure, but I’ll invite P-Dizzle and the guys as well, wouldn’t want it get boring.”
It haunts me to remember the look on her face as she died inside, (In fairness, dinner and a movie did get a bit boring sometimes) but it’s a sad fact of life is that once you know someone thinks you’re amazing you stop caring what they think. I am currently attempting to address the balance.
Friday, 7 May 2010
The Most Moist
In spite of numerous attempts to bring me down to earth recently, I have remained a Quadruple Threat. This is at least fifty percent due to the confidence boosting affects of the song Shakespeare by Akala. (Not only does he pigeon- hole himself as a “much more handsome” reincarnation of Old Bill but also claims to be as “Smart as King Arthur”.) It’s fast approaching the top 25 most played songs list in i-tunes.
The other day I took a great deal of satisfaction in watching Britain’s most significant and memorable event of the past five years. Tottenham completing their fairy tale march to fourth place in the league left me with what Blur would call a sense of enormous well being. I was glued, motionless to the screen for the entire 90 minutes, only moving after each opportunity fizzed past the post which would prompt a fit of jumping around wildly shouting, sweating and swearing. After the final whistle I was compelled to sporadically wave my middle fingers in my housemate’s faces and suggest rather too loudly, that everyone was a wanker. It was all rather exciting and left me in need of a rest.
Luckily I had the General Election to bring my heart rate right down to a grinding halt. I often claim to be up on my politics but in truth my knowledge is adequate at best. As soon as anyone mentions the economy my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about what Megan Fox’s vagina looks like. However this time, I was genuinely interested in the outcome of the glorified popularity contest. It came as a huge disappointment when, at around four thirty in the morning Dimbleby, Paxman and Co. began to realize that nothing would be even remotely decided for the foreseeable future. I went to bed, disheartened. (I did just about manage to pull myself out of the pits of depression to have a group bath with my course mates and roll around on wheelie chairs smashing into people)
I always think it’s far too simple to slag off a politician, after all their easy targets. They tend to be fairly ugly, intelligent people, lacking in charisma or in other words, geeks. Let’s face it; if they were still at school they would be getting mercilessly bullied. Instead of being negative like everyone else and blabbing on about how they are “all as bad as each other.” I think we should be praising the fact that they are all equally competent. I mean, come on, Brown, Clegg and Cameron are as clean as a nun’s bedtime reading. I had no idea who to vote for really. The three parties had roughly the same idea of right and wrong and none of the candidates ever killed anyone so you might as well pick your favourite colour.
If only there was a scandal. We could find out Clegg traffics African women into the country and sells them to the mob as sex workers. At least then we would know who not to vote for. The biggest one was when Cameron was forced to admit he smoked a joint while he was at school.... Wow.
“Oh my god! Isn’t he that boy who got a Saturday detention for taking a Danish pastry from the canteen without paying?”
It’s not like he got caught with a belt tied around his bicep, needle in arm and a hooker giving him a blowie was it? They are only human. When I heard Cameron got caught with weed at school I couldn’t help but feel sorry for his 15 year old self. There was just an image in my mind of a chubby potato headed little wanker with tears rolling down his red cheeks, as he tried to convince the head teacher he was just trying to fit in. Do we want our politicians to live the most sheltered lives possible, perhaps we should grow them in cages? Poor old Brown too. He got verbally assaulted in the street by some angry old bitch with a chip on her shoulder and a look in her eye. All he did was suggest that she might be a bit of a pain in the arse. If only he’d of punched her and made the whole choice simpler.
The other day I took a great deal of satisfaction in watching Britain’s most significant and memorable event of the past five years. Tottenham completing their fairy tale march to fourth place in the league left me with what Blur would call a sense of enormous well being. I was glued, motionless to the screen for the entire 90 minutes, only moving after each opportunity fizzed past the post which would prompt a fit of jumping around wildly shouting, sweating and swearing. After the final whistle I was compelled to sporadically wave my middle fingers in my housemate’s faces and suggest rather too loudly, that everyone was a wanker. It was all rather exciting and left me in need of a rest.
Luckily I had the General Election to bring my heart rate right down to a grinding halt. I often claim to be up on my politics but in truth my knowledge is adequate at best. As soon as anyone mentions the economy my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about what Megan Fox’s vagina looks like. However this time, I was genuinely interested in the outcome of the glorified popularity contest. It came as a huge disappointment when, at around four thirty in the morning Dimbleby, Paxman and Co. began to realize that nothing would be even remotely decided for the foreseeable future. I went to bed, disheartened. (I did just about manage to pull myself out of the pits of depression to have a group bath with my course mates and roll around on wheelie chairs smashing into people)
I always think it’s far too simple to slag off a politician, after all their easy targets. They tend to be fairly ugly, intelligent people, lacking in charisma or in other words, geeks. Let’s face it; if they were still at school they would be getting mercilessly bullied. Instead of being negative like everyone else and blabbing on about how they are “all as bad as each other.” I think we should be praising the fact that they are all equally competent. I mean, come on, Brown, Clegg and Cameron are as clean as a nun’s bedtime reading. I had no idea who to vote for really. The three parties had roughly the same idea of right and wrong and none of the candidates ever killed anyone so you might as well pick your favourite colour.
If only there was a scandal. We could find out Clegg traffics African women into the country and sells them to the mob as sex workers. At least then we would know who not to vote for. The biggest one was when Cameron was forced to admit he smoked a joint while he was at school.... Wow.
“Oh my god! Isn’t he that boy who got a Saturday detention for taking a Danish pastry from the canteen without paying?”
It’s not like he got caught with a belt tied around his bicep, needle in arm and a hooker giving him a blowie was it? They are only human. When I heard Cameron got caught with weed at school I couldn’t help but feel sorry for his 15 year old self. There was just an image in my mind of a chubby potato headed little wanker with tears rolling down his red cheeks, as he tried to convince the head teacher he was just trying to fit in. Do we want our politicians to live the most sheltered lives possible, perhaps we should grow them in cages? Poor old Brown too. He got verbally assaulted in the street by some angry old bitch with a chip on her shoulder and a look in her eye. All he did was suggest that she might be a bit of a pain in the arse. If only he’d of punched her and made the whole choice simpler.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Last Of A Dying Breed
Not so long ago I was plunged headlong into a crisis of confidence. My friend Potty Mouth came to stay and she informed me that my recent blogs have been shit. Valuing her opinion above everyone else’s* I decided to take onboard her advice and mix things up a bit, after all, she did have a point; I can’t just carry on blabbing on about wanking and drinking. Things have stagnated
It was after a brief period of contemplation that I realized it wasn’t just my blog that was boring. I had become some kind of post-dissertation zombie. I’d cut out every hobby in order to “work,” and in doing so become a walking, talking food bin that resided predominantly in the library and the pub.
The facts were disturbing and I became very concerned that I may never get a fast car or a hot, super horny wife with the ability to produce the three sons I so badly crave. (Maximus, Antony Soprano III and Isambard) It was a very bleak time.
I lay about listening to my usual selection of rock and roll, folk and Dub-Step (also Kate Bush but you can’t really categorize her) and became increasingly stale. Then I actually listened to the lyrics and all became clear.
All my favourite music is about two things. Love or Drugs, sometimes both and neither are particularly conducive to a good mood. Let’s not be harsh, they have their ups but there is always that horrible crash of a come down eventually. No wonder I was frittering my days away with cigarettes and alcohol, if The Stones and The Kinks harp on about being depressed through your headphones then eventually it’s going to take its toll. It’s kind of like subliminal advertising, if you keep walking past a big red block with a giant golden M printed on it eventually you’ll get a Maccy D’s and If I kept listening to Johnny Cash my loved ones would all surly die and I’d turn into an alcoholic. Things needed to change, and fast. There were five weeks of uni left and I wasn’t about to spend them feeling like Morrissey.
I took radical action. (A lot like the feminists I’m meant to be writing an essay about at the moment.) I created a new playlist. On it was the finest selection of Rap, Crunk and Hip Hop I could muster from my.... huge selection. The hope was that the relentless arrogance of rappers would rub off on me and instead of worrying about love and drink I would become far more concerned with praising myself and shooting people from other neighbourhoods.
It worked a treat and after a few days of listening to Jay-z, Ludacris, and Eminem my confidence grew immeasurably. I have started rolling around referring to myself as the Triple Threat. It’s my ghetto acronym because I’m good looking, funny and awesome at sex. That’s three threats. I could even upgrade it to a Quadruple if I include my newly acquired awesome taste in music as a threat, which I think I will.
I genuinely challenge all of you to trade in your rock for rap and join me. It is impossible to feel in anyway negative. Since I converted I have become convinced that I was born in Harlem and that I have an incredible talent for basketball. I also have a strange craving to wear all my most valuable possessions around my neck or on my fingers.
It’s decided, I will continue to listen to rap and Crunk indefinitely.
Elton John counts as Gangster Rap doesn’t it?
*Everyone else has carried on fully loving my writing and saying how amazing I am.
It was after a brief period of contemplation that I realized it wasn’t just my blog that was boring. I had become some kind of post-dissertation zombie. I’d cut out every hobby in order to “work,” and in doing so become a walking, talking food bin that resided predominantly in the library and the pub.
The facts were disturbing and I became very concerned that I may never get a fast car or a hot, super horny wife with the ability to produce the three sons I so badly crave. (Maximus, Antony Soprano III and Isambard) It was a very bleak time.
I lay about listening to my usual selection of rock and roll, folk and Dub-Step (also Kate Bush but you can’t really categorize her) and became increasingly stale. Then I actually listened to the lyrics and all became clear.
All my favourite music is about two things. Love or Drugs, sometimes both and neither are particularly conducive to a good mood. Let’s not be harsh, they have their ups but there is always that horrible crash of a come down eventually. No wonder I was frittering my days away with cigarettes and alcohol, if The Stones and The Kinks harp on about being depressed through your headphones then eventually it’s going to take its toll. It’s kind of like subliminal advertising, if you keep walking past a big red block with a giant golden M printed on it eventually you’ll get a Maccy D’s and If I kept listening to Johnny Cash my loved ones would all surly die and I’d turn into an alcoholic. Things needed to change, and fast. There were five weeks of uni left and I wasn’t about to spend them feeling like Morrissey.
I took radical action. (A lot like the feminists I’m meant to be writing an essay about at the moment.) I created a new playlist. On it was the finest selection of Rap, Crunk and Hip Hop I could muster from my.... huge selection. The hope was that the relentless arrogance of rappers would rub off on me and instead of worrying about love and drink I would become far more concerned with praising myself and shooting people from other neighbourhoods.
It worked a treat and after a few days of listening to Jay-z, Ludacris, and Eminem my confidence grew immeasurably. I have started rolling around referring to myself as the Triple Threat. It’s my ghetto acronym because I’m good looking, funny and awesome at sex. That’s three threats. I could even upgrade it to a Quadruple if I include my newly acquired awesome taste in music as a threat, which I think I will.
I genuinely challenge all of you to trade in your rock for rap and join me. It is impossible to feel in anyway negative. Since I converted I have become convinced that I was born in Harlem and that I have an incredible talent for basketball. I also have a strange craving to wear all my most valuable possessions around my neck or on my fingers.
It’s decided, I will continue to listen to rap and Crunk indefinitely.
Elton John counts as Gangster Rap doesn’t it?
*Everyone else has carried on fully loving my writing and saying how amazing I am.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Desperado
Well, well, well. Tottenham didn’t just get one over on Arsenal; no no, we gave Chelsea a damn good thrashing too and life is good.
I have arrived back at university now for my last ever term. I’m attempting to get an early start on work but am incredibly easy to distract. By that I mean I will undertake any activity that isn’t work; cooking, gym, reading FHM, TV and even a little cleaning. Well actually, I don’t have to lie to you; there has been no cleaning or tidying of any kind.
My housemates are yet to return, leaving me (drum roll) HOME ALONE and you’d be amazed what a man will get up to when left to their own devices. Taking copious masturbation as a given I have made a salsa and ummmmm...not a lot else. The truth is I squander most of my alone time wondering around the house naked, rubbing my willy on my housemates possessions. It really is one of the most satisfying things you can do.
I spent the other evening sitting in my local with four buddies who had also come up to get a start on work. Like me, they were all too eager to find a distraction and as always alcohol proved itself to be the most effective procrastination tool. The evening ended with my friends and I scattered around my living room, performing a Rolling Stones tribute concert, at three in the morning. I’m sure the neighbours were thrilled. In fact I was so convinced of this, that when my friends finally left I treated the whole road to a solo encore, covering a number of classics with cigarettes in hand and whiskey in my stomach. In my drunken state I became certain that I was the next Johnny Cash and that I should tour America on a motorbike with a guitar slung over one shoulder.(It would have to be a motorbike really as I don't quite have the nack for cars yet).
It’s probably not such a good idea to continue my whisky habbit,
I’m sure someone somewhere told me alcohol isn’t good for you.
I have arrived back at university now for my last ever term. I’m attempting to get an early start on work but am incredibly easy to distract. By that I mean I will undertake any activity that isn’t work; cooking, gym, reading FHM, TV and even a little cleaning. Well actually, I don’t have to lie to you; there has been no cleaning or tidying of any kind.
My housemates are yet to return, leaving me (drum roll) HOME ALONE and you’d be amazed what a man will get up to when left to their own devices. Taking copious masturbation as a given I have made a salsa and ummmmm...not a lot else. The truth is I squander most of my alone time wondering around the house naked, rubbing my willy on my housemates possessions. It really is one of the most satisfying things you can do.
I spent the other evening sitting in my local with four buddies who had also come up to get a start on work. Like me, they were all too eager to find a distraction and as always alcohol proved itself to be the most effective procrastination tool. The evening ended with my friends and I scattered around my living room, performing a Rolling Stones tribute concert, at three in the morning. I’m sure the neighbours were thrilled. In fact I was so convinced of this, that when my friends finally left I treated the whole road to a solo encore, covering a number of classics with cigarettes in hand and whiskey in my stomach. In my drunken state I became certain that I was the next Johnny Cash and that I should tour America on a motorbike with a guitar slung over one shoulder.(It would have to be a motorbike really as I don't quite have the nack for cars yet).
It’s probably not such a good idea to continue my whisky habbit,
I’m sure someone somewhere told me alcohol isn’t good for you.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Horses for Courses
It’s five thirty in the morning and I’m sat in my room, fully awake.
(Half an hour of sleep later)
Ok, obviously not. In the days since my last blog a number of good and bad things have happened.
The Good:
My friends and I went to Wiltshire and stayed in Gandhi’s cottage, I got drunk in a car and urinated in a field, we ate a BBQ, hid under a bed, wrestled till blood was drawn, dressed up in 1930’s attire and had a murder mystery party.
The Bad:
Unfortunately while we were fooling around in the cottage my sporting dreams came crashing down around me. The first nightmare occurred on Saturday at 16:15 in Aintree. The Grand National is the only event I will ever gamble on and is also the only horse race I have ever watched. I invariably spend the Friday before studying newspaper articles and websites to get the low down on the best horses. After hours of research I eventually pick the horses with the best name or the best colour scheme. This year I went with Black Apalache, Flintoff and one other, a french horse with a really stupid name.
I eagerly paced down to Ladbrooks and put three pounds on each of them to win outright. That’s right, to win, none of this each way bollocks. As far as I’m concerned betting each way is for the elderly and people with vaginas. If you bet something is going to happen, actually bet that it’s going to happen. Don’t bet that your horse might win, but also that it might come second, third or fourth. It’s cheating.
Anyway my good friends Rock, Rebel and I listened to the race on the radio because our cottage didn’t have a telly. The radio makes everything twice, if not three times as exciting because you can’t see what's going on at all. Instead, you can imagine whatever you like is happening. In my head every horse is on fire, (Physically in flames) going at one hundred miles an hour, has wheels instead of legs and is painted bright blue.
As you can imagine, when Black Apalache wheel spinned into the lead my head nearly exploded. He had been lingering in second for some time, which my friend Rock and I had decided was excellent horse tactics, and then pranced over a fence into a commanding lead. I was sure this was my year. I’d never won before, so surly this was my turn, my destiny.
Black Apalache pranced on and on with a trail of thick black smoke bellowing out of his exhaust. He jumped fence after fence with ease, cruising clear of the trailing pack and for one glorious moment victory looked certain but then something terrible happened. After the very last fence, on the final straight, Black Apalache faded. I found out later that fading is quite a common equestrian problem. It happens when a horse uses up all its energy and slows down towards the end of the race but at the time, I was livid. How could this animal I had offered so much encouragement, “COME ON HORSE,” “JUMP YOU BASTARD,” etcetera, betray me? It’s not like he had fallen over after bravely galloping over a fence, it just looked as though he decided he didn’t want to win anymore.
That final straight will live long in my memory. The images are scorched into my brain. Black Apalache is going like the clappers and then all of a sudden, begins to disappear. His wheels turn into legs, his fire fizzles out and he is transformed into a naked middle aged man, worse still, there is a superfast T- rex chasing behind him and worst of all Rebel has an each way bet riding on the T-rex. The next few seconds last an eternity as Rebel’s T Rex catches up with the naked, middle aged Black Apalachi and gobbles him up like a porn star giving a blowie.
The T-rex won, and so did Rebel, and so did each way.
The dream was over for another year.
The second defeat was equally difficult to accept as my beloved Tottenham Hotspur were, unceremoniously dumped out of the FA Cup by the ugliest girl in the class, Portsmouth. I find that being a Tottenham fan is a lot like trying to woo ladies in sixth form. You keep asking out the hottest girls in the school but each time you do, you get beaten back down to reality and have to settle for the plain Jane’s like Burnley. Having only just been dumped by the ugly and fat Portsmouth, tonight Tottenham are going to try and get with the prettiest girl in the League. The girl they have always fancied is coming over and Tottenham are going to make a move. Now there is no reason why Tottenham shouldn’t beat Arsenal. The Gunners have put on a bit of weight lately; they have self esteem issues and only recently got dumped by the hottest guy in the world, Barcalona. On the other hand, Spurs have been getting a lot of action lately. Their looking trim, they started growing a beard and arn’t as spotty as they used to be. It’s the perfect opportunity for Spurs to fill the role of rebound guy. Will they take it?
No. Having gathered vast experience of both Tottenham and Sixth Form I have realized the result of asking out a hot girl and playing Arsenal are almost exactly the same. You lose/get rejected, get drunk, stagger home, tug yourself dry in the shower, then go to bed and cry yourself to sleep. Alternatively you could sit and cry in the shower, go to bed, and then tug yourself to sleep, it’s up to you.
If only Tottenham had the confidence to beat Arsenal. After all their in the same league, Arsenal are just people, they have faults, they’re not untouchable but Tottenham don’t believe that they can get with them and that’s the problem. I mean Liverpool may be sluts but we managed to screw them, and it might have only been a one night stand but we fucked Chelsea a year or two ago. Each time we come up against Arsenal we’re too nice to them. We show them too much respect. Arsenal have been put on a pedestal and as long as their sat up there Tottenham are always going to settle for being ‘just friends.’
But maybe, just maybe, tonight’s the night that we finally get what we always wanted. Perhaps we can get Arsenal drunk or pray on their insecurities, or both. If we can do that then there is the slightest chance that they may be seduced by our new charm.
It will probably be a draw, but I don’t have a metaphor for that.
(Half an hour of sleep later)
Ok, obviously not. In the days since my last blog a number of good and bad things have happened.
The Good:
My friends and I went to Wiltshire and stayed in Gandhi’s cottage, I got drunk in a car and urinated in a field, we ate a BBQ, hid under a bed, wrestled till blood was drawn, dressed up in 1930’s attire and had a murder mystery party.
The Bad:
Unfortunately while we were fooling around in the cottage my sporting dreams came crashing down around me. The first nightmare occurred on Saturday at 16:15 in Aintree. The Grand National is the only event I will ever gamble on and is also the only horse race I have ever watched. I invariably spend the Friday before studying newspaper articles and websites to get the low down on the best horses. After hours of research I eventually pick the horses with the best name or the best colour scheme. This year I went with Black Apalache, Flintoff and one other, a french horse with a really stupid name.
I eagerly paced down to Ladbrooks and put three pounds on each of them to win outright. That’s right, to win, none of this each way bollocks. As far as I’m concerned betting each way is for the elderly and people with vaginas. If you bet something is going to happen, actually bet that it’s going to happen. Don’t bet that your horse might win, but also that it might come second, third or fourth. It’s cheating.
Anyway my good friends Rock, Rebel and I listened to the race on the radio because our cottage didn’t have a telly. The radio makes everything twice, if not three times as exciting because you can’t see what's going on at all. Instead, you can imagine whatever you like is happening. In my head every horse is on fire, (Physically in flames) going at one hundred miles an hour, has wheels instead of legs and is painted bright blue.
As you can imagine, when Black Apalache wheel spinned into the lead my head nearly exploded. He had been lingering in second for some time, which my friend Rock and I had decided was excellent horse tactics, and then pranced over a fence into a commanding lead. I was sure this was my year. I’d never won before, so surly this was my turn, my destiny.
Black Apalache pranced on and on with a trail of thick black smoke bellowing out of his exhaust. He jumped fence after fence with ease, cruising clear of the trailing pack and for one glorious moment victory looked certain but then something terrible happened. After the very last fence, on the final straight, Black Apalache faded. I found out later that fading is quite a common equestrian problem. It happens when a horse uses up all its energy and slows down towards the end of the race but at the time, I was livid. How could this animal I had offered so much encouragement, “COME ON HORSE,” “JUMP YOU BASTARD,” etcetera, betray me? It’s not like he had fallen over after bravely galloping over a fence, it just looked as though he decided he didn’t want to win anymore.
That final straight will live long in my memory. The images are scorched into my brain. Black Apalache is going like the clappers and then all of a sudden, begins to disappear. His wheels turn into legs, his fire fizzles out and he is transformed into a naked middle aged man, worse still, there is a superfast T- rex chasing behind him and worst of all Rebel has an each way bet riding on the T-rex. The next few seconds last an eternity as Rebel’s T Rex catches up with the naked, middle aged Black Apalachi and gobbles him up like a porn star giving a blowie.
The T-rex won, and so did Rebel, and so did each way.
The dream was over for another year.
The second defeat was equally difficult to accept as my beloved Tottenham Hotspur were, unceremoniously dumped out of the FA Cup by the ugliest girl in the class, Portsmouth. I find that being a Tottenham fan is a lot like trying to woo ladies in sixth form. You keep asking out the hottest girls in the school but each time you do, you get beaten back down to reality and have to settle for the plain Jane’s like Burnley. Having only just been dumped by the ugly and fat Portsmouth, tonight Tottenham are going to try and get with the prettiest girl in the League. The girl they have always fancied is coming over and Tottenham are going to make a move. Now there is no reason why Tottenham shouldn’t beat Arsenal. The Gunners have put on a bit of weight lately; they have self esteem issues and only recently got dumped by the hottest guy in the world, Barcalona. On the other hand, Spurs have been getting a lot of action lately. Their looking trim, they started growing a beard and arn’t as spotty as they used to be. It’s the perfect opportunity for Spurs to fill the role of rebound guy. Will they take it?
No. Having gathered vast experience of both Tottenham and Sixth Form I have realized the result of asking out a hot girl and playing Arsenal are almost exactly the same. You lose/get rejected, get drunk, stagger home, tug yourself dry in the shower, then go to bed and cry yourself to sleep. Alternatively you could sit and cry in the shower, go to bed, and then tug yourself to sleep, it’s up to you.
If only Tottenham had the confidence to beat Arsenal. After all their in the same league, Arsenal are just people, they have faults, they’re not untouchable but Tottenham don’t believe that they can get with them and that’s the problem. I mean Liverpool may be sluts but we managed to screw them, and it might have only been a one night stand but we fucked Chelsea a year or two ago. Each time we come up against Arsenal we’re too nice to them. We show them too much respect. Arsenal have been put on a pedestal and as long as their sat up there Tottenham are always going to settle for being ‘just friends.’
But maybe, just maybe, tonight’s the night that we finally get what we always wanted. Perhaps we can get Arsenal drunk or pray on their insecurities, or both. If we can do that then there is the slightest chance that they may be seduced by our new charm.
It will probably be a draw, but I don’t have a metaphor for that.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Idle Hands
Unlike Christmas, Easter doesn’t come with a three month build up and this year there seems to be even less egg hype than usual. Maybe it’s the recession or that nobody really likes to celebrate a person getting nailed to a big wooden cross (and coming back to life of course) but Easter is decidedly low key. As far as I’m concerned, this has made the whole thing much more fun. God; how I loathe the build up to Christmas with its glittering fake happiness and prolonged festivities.
As a secular person I find Easter provides a great deal less disappointment. There is no pressure to pretend you’re delighted with a less than spectacular gift. You know exactly what you’re getting and if you don’t get a big egg made of chocolate with more chocolate in the form of a rabbit or a duck on the side then you have every right to complain. At Christmas, even if you’re given a luminous green jumper with a hairy vagina embroidered onto the front you have to smile and tell the colour-blind loved one that you will wear it every day. At Easter, on the other hand, if a friend presents you with anything other than chocolate, a carrot perhaps, then you can tell them exactly where to go.
“Fuck you.” You can say “I want chocolate.”
This Easter has been great. I decided to eat as much of my mum’s leg of lamb as I possibly could and in doing so, rendered myself immobile. My dad did the same, then decided to attempt some DIY in the bathroom which prompted a fit of uncontrollable vomiting. He now looks like he’s just died of the plague. My brother, Mist, is the talented sibling in my family. He managed to teach himself the piano in a year or two and now reluctantly plays for my grandparents whenever they come over. I’ll teach him to show me up! I would offer to display my talents but I don’t think Nana and Grandpa would be too impressed by my ability to touch my nose with my tongue.
Almost everyone was out of town this week. As a result I spent a good few days wanking and watching telly, sometimes both at the same time. I wasted hour after hour flicking through photos of other people having fun on facebook, which I have now realized, makes time pass more slowly. I also tried to hype myself up for the Oxford v Cambridge boat race. Unfortunately it dawned on me about fifteen minutes in that the reason the BBC make such a fuss of the race’s rich history is due to it being the dullest sport of the year. They had Sir Steve saying what a close fought contest it had been and interviews with some tired toff’s saying how happy/ upset they were but the whole thing left me underwhelmed. By the time the Cambridge crew decided to chuck the small guy in The Themes I was ready to pay for Sky Sports. I understand that it takes years of training but it has to be the single biggest anti-climax in the world of sport. This year was considered a close race and Cambridge won by over a length! That’s not close! A close race is a one hundred meter sprint decided by the shiny part of a man’s forehead in a photo finish. I dread to think how uninspiring a one sided race is.
I can’t wait for the Grand National. It may always be disappointing and full of horses*but it has all the key ingredients for fun; bright colours, danger, small Irish men riding wild animals and gambling.
*I don’t trust horses for a number of reasons but mostly because they have thicker necks than legs.
As a secular person I find Easter provides a great deal less disappointment. There is no pressure to pretend you’re delighted with a less than spectacular gift. You know exactly what you’re getting and if you don’t get a big egg made of chocolate with more chocolate in the form of a rabbit or a duck on the side then you have every right to complain. At Christmas, even if you’re given a luminous green jumper with a hairy vagina embroidered onto the front you have to smile and tell the colour-blind loved one that you will wear it every day. At Easter, on the other hand, if a friend presents you with anything other than chocolate, a carrot perhaps, then you can tell them exactly where to go.
“Fuck you.” You can say “I want chocolate.”
This Easter has been great. I decided to eat as much of my mum’s leg of lamb as I possibly could and in doing so, rendered myself immobile. My dad did the same, then decided to attempt some DIY in the bathroom which prompted a fit of uncontrollable vomiting. He now looks like he’s just died of the plague. My brother, Mist, is the talented sibling in my family. He managed to teach himself the piano in a year or two and now reluctantly plays for my grandparents whenever they come over. I’ll teach him to show me up! I would offer to display my talents but I don’t think Nana and Grandpa would be too impressed by my ability to touch my nose with my tongue.
Almost everyone was out of town this week. As a result I spent a good few days wanking and watching telly, sometimes both at the same time. I wasted hour after hour flicking through photos of other people having fun on facebook, which I have now realized, makes time pass more slowly. I also tried to hype myself up for the Oxford v Cambridge boat race. Unfortunately it dawned on me about fifteen minutes in that the reason the BBC make such a fuss of the race’s rich history is due to it being the dullest sport of the year. They had Sir Steve saying what a close fought contest it had been and interviews with some tired toff’s saying how happy/ upset they were but the whole thing left me underwhelmed. By the time the Cambridge crew decided to chuck the small guy in The Themes I was ready to pay for Sky Sports. I understand that it takes years of training but it has to be the single biggest anti-climax in the world of sport. This year was considered a close race and Cambridge won by over a length! That’s not close! A close race is a one hundred meter sprint decided by the shiny part of a man’s forehead in a photo finish. I dread to think how uninspiring a one sided race is.
I can’t wait for the Grand National. It may always be disappointing and full of horses*but it has all the key ingredients for fun; bright colours, danger, small Irish men riding wild animals and gambling.
*I don’t trust horses for a number of reasons but mostly because they have thicker necks than legs.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Moist Chin Investigates
Some time ago I mentioned that my housemate, Seth had disappeared for a couple weeks without as much as a phone call. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he called? It was a mystery. When Seth returned from his bizarre absence he began acting very strangely. He was quieter, his hair was fluffier and I couldn’t be sure but I thought his eyes were closer together. Also he absolutely refused to tell us where he had been. The closest we got to an explanation came when Seth said he’d been ‘busy’ at home and that he was back now, so it didn’t matter. As a huge fan of The Sopranos my immediate assumption was that Seth had killed someone, either that or he was working for the FBI, but I couldn’t be sure. There wasn’t very much on the television that week and I couldn’t be bothered with the gym so I decided to play Sherlock.
My investigation techniques were varied and extremely complex but mostly involved nagging at Seth to tell me what had happened.
“What happened? What happened? What happened?” I would repeatedly enquire politely.
“Like I said, I was busy! Nothing happened.” He would reply, exasperated
“You killed a man didn’t you?!”
Nobody else seemed to care where Seth had been which made several of the classic interrogation methods that I wanted to employ difficult. For example, ‘good cop, bad cop,’ wasn’t an option. Instead I went for the ‘really fucking repetitive to the point where it’s unbearable cop’. It didn’t work and after running out of ideas I was forced to give up on my enquiry and just start pretending I knew what happened.
We first started making up lies about Seth on a particularly miserable hangover morning. The night before I had managed to stay fairly sober and guide an absolutely wrecked Seth back home to bed. B-dawg, Pete and I went to KFC and realized over a bargain bucket, that if Seth didn’t remember the night before, we could tell him he had done things he hadn’t and he would believe us. It was perfect (and a little confusing to write down). If you can make someone believe that they did something they didn’t then it might as well be true. So when we got home from KFC we told Seth that he had kicked a young girl in the back and ordered her to “get out of the way.”
After a little convincing he believed us and a fantastic new hobby was born.
‘memory filling’
You should try it!
Since that original lie, our friends and neighbours have all believed that Seth is some kind of sociopath capable of kicking babies off motorway bridges. So a couple of months (and a few lies) later, when I said that the reason Seth was missing was that he had shunted an old woman over with his car and he had to stay at home in order for the police to interview him, nobody even batted an eyelid. The truth was far more exciting, or at least exactly as exciting.
A week or two after his return, Seth sauntered up to the house with a new car...
He was greeted with filthy looks from those who thought he had rammed an old lady, while the rest of us all wondered why he had a new car. He couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
I was getting a lift in his new Peugeot and he finally admitted it. Apparently he was driving like a wanker and flipped his old car down a hill, writing it off in the process.
Mystery solved.
I’m not sure though. I still think he killed a drug dealer, put the body in the boot of his car and dumped the whole thing in a river.
My investigation techniques were varied and extremely complex but mostly involved nagging at Seth to tell me what had happened.
“What happened? What happened? What happened?” I would repeatedly enquire politely.
“Like I said, I was busy! Nothing happened.” He would reply, exasperated
“You killed a man didn’t you?!”
Nobody else seemed to care where Seth had been which made several of the classic interrogation methods that I wanted to employ difficult. For example, ‘good cop, bad cop,’ wasn’t an option. Instead I went for the ‘really fucking repetitive to the point where it’s unbearable cop’. It didn’t work and after running out of ideas I was forced to give up on my enquiry and just start pretending I knew what happened.
We first started making up lies about Seth on a particularly miserable hangover morning. The night before I had managed to stay fairly sober and guide an absolutely wrecked Seth back home to bed. B-dawg, Pete and I went to KFC and realized over a bargain bucket, that if Seth didn’t remember the night before, we could tell him he had done things he hadn’t and he would believe us. It was perfect (and a little confusing to write down). If you can make someone believe that they did something they didn’t then it might as well be true. So when we got home from KFC we told Seth that he had kicked a young girl in the back and ordered her to “get out of the way.”
After a little convincing he believed us and a fantastic new hobby was born.
‘memory filling’
You should try it!
Since that original lie, our friends and neighbours have all believed that Seth is some kind of sociopath capable of kicking babies off motorway bridges. So a couple of months (and a few lies) later, when I said that the reason Seth was missing was that he had shunted an old woman over with his car and he had to stay at home in order for the police to interview him, nobody even batted an eyelid. The truth was far more exciting, or at least exactly as exciting.
A week or two after his return, Seth sauntered up to the house with a new car...
He was greeted with filthy looks from those who thought he had rammed an old lady, while the rest of us all wondered why he had a new car. He couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
I was getting a lift in his new Peugeot and he finally admitted it. Apparently he was driving like a wanker and flipped his old car down a hill, writing it off in the process.
Mystery solved.
I’m not sure though. I still think he killed a drug dealer, put the body in the boot of his car and dumped the whole thing in a river.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Thirteen and Up
Each time I move back home I feel a bit more claustrophobic. Obviously seeing the family is great but relying on mum and dad is a bit 40 Year Old Virgin. When you live with your friends you can stagger in at five in the morning, play some Rolling Stones tracks with the base turned up and start mouthing off about how much of a goon John Terry is. This does tend to piss off the housemates a bit but after a hug or two we all move on (except MEH). It’s different back at home. The kitchen is off limits after 10pm and there is no talking while either, Antiques Road Show, Eggheads or University Challenge is on the telly. Unfortunately awesome bands such as The Stones have been pigeonholed along with American sit-coms as, “horrible racket.” My dad has an incredible ear for modern music; any jingle played above four decibels will be greeted with any of the following phrases.
“What is that horrible racket?”
“Turn that rubbish down!”
“Shut that racket off, I’m getting a head ache!”
This usually results in one of the three most immature responses you can imagine. Pick any of the following,
“Oh my god, it’s so unfair!”
Turning up the music really loud
or my favourite...
Exaggerated sigh followed by a “FOR FUCKS SAKE.....” then a door slam.
The problem is that once my parents start treating me like a child I behave like one. It’s like how when a sane person is accused of going mad and nobody believes that they are sane, they go insane. In fact it’s exactly like that. Well done Moist, good metaphor.
The worst bit is that all my complaints are horribly ungrateful. Seeing as they have paid for all my food, shelter and education for over twenty-one years the least I should do is shut up while my parents watch educational television. Even if The Antiques Road Show does make me want dig myself a deep cold grave, I should really allow them that small pleasure in peace.
I blame Universities. Building up huge student loans isn’t the best way to gain independence and so I’m going to be scrounging off the rents for a year or two yet. Bloody top up fees, I bet James Bond didn’t move back in with his mummy and daddy Bond after he finished studying guns and spying at Cambridge.
Today my family went for a ‘welcome back Moist’ meal (see I really am an ungrateful shit.) Much, to my displeasure, I got ID’d. Considering I was already feeling hopelessly dependant this was a worst case scenario. What made it so much worse was that the GIRL that did the deed couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one herself. ....She didn’t even ID me to my face. Back-stabbing ID slut.
I ordered a Peroni and she walked off to get the manager. Two minutes later Mr Manager appeared and said,
“Excuse me, can I ask your son for ID?” with a wankerish look on his face.
He didn’t even ask me. What a fuck face.
It was like your girlfriend dumping you, via a text to your dad. That wasn’t quite such a good metaphor.
I bet Maximus from gladiator didn’t get ID’d at my age and if he did, I bet Mr Manager didn’t ask his dad for ID on his behalf. Maximus would have stabbed the manager’s face off. By the way, if you’re reading this and you don’t know what I look like, I’m six foot and four inches tall, with a big beard. Plus I’m outrageously ripped and look about thirty.
....sort of.
“What is that horrible racket?”
“Turn that rubbish down!”
“Shut that racket off, I’m getting a head ache!”
This usually results in one of the three most immature responses you can imagine. Pick any of the following,
“Oh my god, it’s so unfair!”
Turning up the music really loud
or my favourite...
Exaggerated sigh followed by a “FOR FUCKS SAKE.....” then a door slam.
The problem is that once my parents start treating me like a child I behave like one. It’s like how when a sane person is accused of going mad and nobody believes that they are sane, they go insane. In fact it’s exactly like that. Well done Moist, good metaphor.
The worst bit is that all my complaints are horribly ungrateful. Seeing as they have paid for all my food, shelter and education for over twenty-one years the least I should do is shut up while my parents watch educational television. Even if The Antiques Road Show does make me want dig myself a deep cold grave, I should really allow them that small pleasure in peace.
I blame Universities. Building up huge student loans isn’t the best way to gain independence and so I’m going to be scrounging off the rents for a year or two yet. Bloody top up fees, I bet James Bond didn’t move back in with his mummy and daddy Bond after he finished studying guns and spying at Cambridge.
Today my family went for a ‘welcome back Moist’ meal (see I really am an ungrateful shit.) Much, to my displeasure, I got ID’d. Considering I was already feeling hopelessly dependant this was a worst case scenario. What made it so much worse was that the GIRL that did the deed couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one herself. ....She didn’t even ID me to my face. Back-stabbing ID slut.
I ordered a Peroni and she walked off to get the manager. Two minutes later Mr Manager appeared and said,
“Excuse me, can I ask your son for ID?” with a wankerish look on his face.
He didn’t even ask me. What a fuck face.
It was like your girlfriend dumping you, via a text to your dad. That wasn’t quite such a good metaphor.
I bet Maximus from gladiator didn’t get ID’d at my age and if he did, I bet Mr Manager didn’t ask his dad for ID on his behalf. Maximus would have stabbed the manager’s face off. By the way, if you’re reading this and you don’t know what I look like, I’m six foot and four inches tall, with a big beard. Plus I’m outrageously ripped and look about thirty.
....sort of.
Friday, 26 March 2010
Back With A Bang
It’s been a while.
When writing a dissertation, doing anything other than writing you’re dissertation feels like a sin. That sin could be eating, drinking, watching TV, cleaning, washing, or even writing a blog. For the last six weeks the closest I’ve come to putting on fresh clothes has been leaving dirty garments on a hanger for a couple of days, spraying them with lynx or CK 1 if I’m going out, and re-wearing. After about four wearings, clothes join the other discarded outfits on Mount Attire.
Mount Attire started out as a foothill of socks and pants I had worn but hadn’t yet worn to the gym and were therefore, still eligible for reuse. Four weeks before the hand in Pant Mound became Garment Hill. Then with two weeks to go, I finally gave up on hygiene all together and created Mount Attire. In a miracle of fashion fusion, Mount Attire stands at around three foot tall and spans four square meters. The view from the summit is fairly spectacular. Sadly the whole lot is going in the wash tomorrow. The end of term has arrived and I’m off home to eat food that doesn’t come out of a plastic box and use soap that doesn’t smell like hospital.
I have been busy since I last wrote. For a start I had another driving test. This time, I didn’t fail...... Unfortunately I didn’t pass it either. I turned up at the test centre totally prepared for another soul destroying half hour joy ride around Leicestershire only to be greeted by my old friend Santa Claus.
“Hello.” He said as he walked up to my perfectly parked Focus. “Sorry, you’re examiner is on strike, now fuck off!” Well he didn’t say fuck off, but that’s how I’m choosing to remember it. A strike, can you believe it? So I still can’t drive.
In other news I have continued my struggle with alcoholism. The filthy habit has taken me around the country on benders of varying intensity. I managed to visit Birmingham, which as it turns out, is a pretty awesome night out.
Moistometer: 9/10
I also managed to pass out before midnight at my buddy P-dizzle’s house party in Devon. I partied too hard, too fast and learned a valuable life lesson. However, by far the biggest night out was DISSERTATION HAND IN NIGHT or being slightly less dramatic, last night. I drank whisky with a straw; I ate pizza off the floor, I spent far too much money and I woke up in a beautiful ladies bed. It was pretty brilliant.
I’m sure you want the lowdown. Well even if you don’t, you’re getting it. Handing in your dissertation is a strange feeling. You spend every waking moment thinking of nothing else (thinking about it doesn’t necessarily mean working on it) and then all of a sudden it’s gone. So after ambling around twiddling our thumbs, my course buddies and I decided that it would be a good idea to start festivities early. We indulged in a cheeky Big Mac and Mcflurry combo and began the slow numbing process. Predictably, the drinking got out of hand and I ended up buying round after round of Sambuca shots, then things went a little hazy. I ended up “dancing” with a girl from my course (Coop) and I use the term dancing loosely. I was swaying on my heels and waving my arms around while she repeatedly put her hand in my face and mooshed it like a lump of blu-tac. It was incredibly romantic.
We ended up walking home via a late night takeaway. She really wanted to get pizza and chips, which I paid for and she didn't eat. We were innocently enjoying our feast when, out of the blue,our culinary adventure was rudely interrupted. We were joined by three protein munching, Abercrombie wearing lumps of meat, hell bent on ruining my life. One of the morons (Wasp) happened to be related to a famous rugby player. He was a real piece of shit and worst of all he was determined to steel my woman. Now Coop and I are acquaintances at best, but when Wasp started hitting on her I became convinced that she was the one. It seems Wasp’s wooing technique mostly consists of putting down any nearby male and sadly I was well within range. I would love to say that after his first dig at my expense I got up and punched him right in his stubbly face. I didn’t. I don’t fully remember if I got Wasp to fuck off by making a snide comment about him being the lesser sibling or if he just got bored of belittling me but he did eventually fuck off to whatever cess pit he came from.
After that I walked Coop home and she invited me in. (SUCK IT WASP) Everything was going swimmingly, but when I went for a wee I got stuck in the toilet; it took me a good five minutes of fiddling with the lock to break out. It was quite embarrassing really. When I rejoined her in the living room, Coop invited me up to her room. I was amazed by the invite, even after I had been in the loo so long, she must of thought I was pooing.... I wasn't, honestly.
Not wanting to be rude, I joined Coop in her room but then, unbelievably, I didn’t hit on her. That’s right, I was a gentleman. In some intoxicated epiphany I realized she was far too drunk and so we had a nice nap in her bed. I woke up in the morning and made my way home. Not quite as interesting as it sounded was it.
probably should have made a move.
On the plus side I can just tell people I slept with her. Technically it’s true. We did sleep together and it’s not my fault if people make assumptions.
.....Only joking.... sort of
When writing a dissertation, doing anything other than writing you’re dissertation feels like a sin. That sin could be eating, drinking, watching TV, cleaning, washing, or even writing a blog. For the last six weeks the closest I’ve come to putting on fresh clothes has been leaving dirty garments on a hanger for a couple of days, spraying them with lynx or CK 1 if I’m going out, and re-wearing. After about four wearings, clothes join the other discarded outfits on Mount Attire.
Mount Attire started out as a foothill of socks and pants I had worn but hadn’t yet worn to the gym and were therefore, still eligible for reuse. Four weeks before the hand in Pant Mound became Garment Hill. Then with two weeks to go, I finally gave up on hygiene all together and created Mount Attire. In a miracle of fashion fusion, Mount Attire stands at around three foot tall and spans four square meters. The view from the summit is fairly spectacular. Sadly the whole lot is going in the wash tomorrow. The end of term has arrived and I’m off home to eat food that doesn’t come out of a plastic box and use soap that doesn’t smell like hospital.
I have been busy since I last wrote. For a start I had another driving test. This time, I didn’t fail...... Unfortunately I didn’t pass it either. I turned up at the test centre totally prepared for another soul destroying half hour joy ride around Leicestershire only to be greeted by my old friend Santa Claus.
“Hello.” He said as he walked up to my perfectly parked Focus. “Sorry, you’re examiner is on strike, now fuck off!” Well he didn’t say fuck off, but that’s how I’m choosing to remember it. A strike, can you believe it? So I still can’t drive.
In other news I have continued my struggle with alcoholism. The filthy habit has taken me around the country on benders of varying intensity. I managed to visit Birmingham, which as it turns out, is a pretty awesome night out.
Moistometer: 9/10
I also managed to pass out before midnight at my buddy P-dizzle’s house party in Devon. I partied too hard, too fast and learned a valuable life lesson. However, by far the biggest night out was DISSERTATION HAND IN NIGHT or being slightly less dramatic, last night. I drank whisky with a straw; I ate pizza off the floor, I spent far too much money and I woke up in a beautiful ladies bed. It was pretty brilliant.
I’m sure you want the lowdown. Well even if you don’t, you’re getting it. Handing in your dissertation is a strange feeling. You spend every waking moment thinking of nothing else (thinking about it doesn’t necessarily mean working on it) and then all of a sudden it’s gone. So after ambling around twiddling our thumbs, my course buddies and I decided that it would be a good idea to start festivities early. We indulged in a cheeky Big Mac and Mcflurry combo and began the slow numbing process. Predictably, the drinking got out of hand and I ended up buying round after round of Sambuca shots, then things went a little hazy. I ended up “dancing” with a girl from my course (Coop) and I use the term dancing loosely. I was swaying on my heels and waving my arms around while she repeatedly put her hand in my face and mooshed it like a lump of blu-tac. It was incredibly romantic.
We ended up walking home via a late night takeaway. She really wanted to get pizza and chips, which I paid for and she didn't eat. We were innocently enjoying our feast when, out of the blue,our culinary adventure was rudely interrupted. We were joined by three protein munching, Abercrombie wearing lumps of meat, hell bent on ruining my life. One of the morons (Wasp) happened to be related to a famous rugby player. He was a real piece of shit and worst of all he was determined to steel my woman. Now Coop and I are acquaintances at best, but when Wasp started hitting on her I became convinced that she was the one. It seems Wasp’s wooing technique mostly consists of putting down any nearby male and sadly I was well within range. I would love to say that after his first dig at my expense I got up and punched him right in his stubbly face. I didn’t. I don’t fully remember if I got Wasp to fuck off by making a snide comment about him being the lesser sibling or if he just got bored of belittling me but he did eventually fuck off to whatever cess pit he came from.
After that I walked Coop home and she invited me in. (SUCK IT WASP) Everything was going swimmingly, but when I went for a wee I got stuck in the toilet; it took me a good five minutes of fiddling with the lock to break out. It was quite embarrassing really. When I rejoined her in the living room, Coop invited me up to her room. I was amazed by the invite, even after I had been in the loo so long, she must of thought I was pooing.... I wasn't, honestly.
Not wanting to be rude, I joined Coop in her room but then, unbelievably, I didn’t hit on her. That’s right, I was a gentleman. In some intoxicated epiphany I realized she was far too drunk and so we had a nice nap in her bed. I woke up in the morning and made my way home. Not quite as interesting as it sounded was it.
probably should have made a move.
On the plus side I can just tell people I slept with her. Technically it’s true. We did sleep together and it’s not my fault if people make assumptions.
.....Only joking.... sort of
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Monday, 8 February 2010
The Good, The Cute, and the Ugly
If, like me, you have an ego with the tendency to balloon so far out of control that the rubber discolours and it’s no longer possible to tie a knot in the end, then you’re never too far from an abrupt deflation. Having spent every ounce of modesty at my disposal writing this blog from a likable perspective, I feel obliged to let you in on the truth. I hold an incredibly high opinion of myself. Think Christ, but better looking and you’re just about spot on my self-estimation. Now that’s out of the bag I can disclose the details of Saturday night without risk of empathy or sympathy of any kind.
I’ve recently given up on a long standing dream of a successful political career and currently feel a fresh freedom to disclose all the sordid stories that may have caused scandal for a future Prime Minister. Just over a week ago I regained consciousness in an unfamiliar room. This alone, was not all that remarkable. The two unusual components of my morning were first that I woke up in a bed rather than on a cold, hard, floor and second that I was accompanied in said bed, by a beautiful lady. Also present, was the all too familiar, dull thumping ache on the left side of my face. A symptom that unfailingly informs me a vast quantity of alcohol was consumed the previous night. Hangover aside, waking up in bed with a half naked lady is the ultimate achievement isn’t it? Well actually, the reality doesn’t quite live up to the dream. Scrambling around a room in the buff, desperately trying to find underwear with a stranger watching isn’t very Daniel Craig. It’s not even Daniel Radcliff.
After being informed we had not had intercourse I left with renewed confidence in my ability to woo. If I could do it so smashed I couldn’t remember, then surly I would be even more capable fairly sober. Saturday night was the pin prick my ego so badly needed. We went to our local club and straight off I walked up to the hottest, happiest girl I could find and said,
“Hey, do I know you?”
Her broad grin disappeared immediately,
“No.”
“Oh....right ... bye,” and off I went.
I accept the ‘do I know you?’ line is cheesy and also very obviously a line, but I really did think I knew her. Ok I didn’t but she was six or seven sorts of hot. In my defence she seemed disproportionately angry, I mean, I didn’t stab her! Not one to give up about half an hour later with my buddies in toe I bumped into another girl I knew. This time I actually did know them and wasn’t just trying to convince myself that I did in order to start a conversation. I would even go as far as to say I fancied her a bit. So when I made eye contact, said,
“Hi,” and started walking over, only for her to turn 180 degrees and gallop away I was left a little crushed. (Picture a balloon careering around the room making a fart noise as air rushes out of the bottom.) Then someone called me cute... Revolting.
In other news....
Today one of my housemates, Seth, returned from a mysterious absence. He refuses to tell us what he's been up to. Where did he go? What did he do? .....The investigation begins.
I’ve recently given up on a long standing dream of a successful political career and currently feel a fresh freedom to disclose all the sordid stories that may have caused scandal for a future Prime Minister. Just over a week ago I regained consciousness in an unfamiliar room. This alone, was not all that remarkable. The two unusual components of my morning were first that I woke up in a bed rather than on a cold, hard, floor and second that I was accompanied in said bed, by a beautiful lady. Also present, was the all too familiar, dull thumping ache on the left side of my face. A symptom that unfailingly informs me a vast quantity of alcohol was consumed the previous night. Hangover aside, waking up in bed with a half naked lady is the ultimate achievement isn’t it? Well actually, the reality doesn’t quite live up to the dream. Scrambling around a room in the buff, desperately trying to find underwear with a stranger watching isn’t very Daniel Craig. It’s not even Daniel Radcliff.
After being informed we had not had intercourse I left with renewed confidence in my ability to woo. If I could do it so smashed I couldn’t remember, then surly I would be even more capable fairly sober. Saturday night was the pin prick my ego so badly needed. We went to our local club and straight off I walked up to the hottest, happiest girl I could find and said,
“Hey, do I know you?”
Her broad grin disappeared immediately,
“No.”
“Oh....right ... bye,” and off I went.
I accept the ‘do I know you?’ line is cheesy and also very obviously a line, but I really did think I knew her. Ok I didn’t but she was six or seven sorts of hot. In my defence she seemed disproportionately angry, I mean, I didn’t stab her! Not one to give up about half an hour later with my buddies in toe I bumped into another girl I knew. This time I actually did know them and wasn’t just trying to convince myself that I did in order to start a conversation. I would even go as far as to say I fancied her a bit. So when I made eye contact, said,
“Hi,” and started walking over, only for her to turn 180 degrees and gallop away I was left a little crushed. (Picture a balloon careering around the room making a fart noise as air rushes out of the bottom.) Then someone called me cute... Revolting.
In other news....
Today one of my housemates, Seth, returned from a mysterious absence. He refuses to tell us what he's been up to. Where did he go? What did he do? .....The investigation begins.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
I got dis
So.... where to begin? I have finished exams and handed in my coursework, time for a little bit of R and R. Unfortunately I did less resting and more drinking, a relaxing activity in moderation but I think that half a bottle of whisky and god know what else is a tad over the recomended daily intake. (In fact I fear that it is more than the weekly allowance.) Well that was last night, and this morning, I am imobalized, it feels like contracting the plauge. My skin feels like paper bags and my mouth tastes of synthetic fruit.
Plans for the day.
construct a sausage sandwitch. (done)
Make a hang over nest.
. two sofas pushed together.
. everything soft.
I probably should explain my earlier intoxicated entry. It all started when we watched Tottenham vs Leeds. Obviously the best team won and so, Prince The B dawg, MEH, Blunt and I set out on an expadition to the union with a skip in our step. (Pete joined us but he supports disgusting Leeds so he was ...down beat.) Things got messy fast and there were many casualties. As each of my fellow explorers were picked off by alcohol poisoning and bouncers I became icolated.
Having only recently woo-ed a lady on a night out I felt good about myself. Tonight was going terribly though, no females and no friends in sight. Then an interesting development. I found a lady that liked Garth Mareghi's dark place. (infact she was one of the zombies i met at haloweeen.) This was the second time I have ever fallen in love. Doing impressions of Garth Marenghi characters; brilliant impressions at that, didn't endear her to me instantly but surely a prelonged effort would win her over. It was around about the time of my third Dean Learner quote that I saw the girl that liked "The Who" from ages ago. I abandoned my new love to chase after her. It's a bit hazy but then somehow, they were both getting with other people..... Sluts! Its sort of like that fable about the dog with the meat in his mouth that see's a bigger bit of meat in his reflection. Then drops the meat into the water or something like that. What I'm trying to say is, I dropped my meat. What is a night club other than a cattle market?
On the way home I felt the need to call or text everyone I know, much to their displeasure. I'm sure once my hangover is gone I will be embarrassed about my phone calls and terrible dancing but I just can't bring myself to care about it now.
Its taken me four hours of sitting watching Hornblower and having chips thrown at me to write this, and its terrible.
As a result of last nights boozing and some rather unwise wagers Pete has to 'nosh off ' Blunt. I'm not sure if it's a sight I'm looking forward to or dreading.
as they say in Hornblower "The wine was in and the wit was out"
Hangoverzilla: 8/10
woozilla 5/10
drunkdactyl 9/10
Moist Man of the moment. Niko Krancjar
Plans for the day.
construct a sausage sandwitch. (done)
Make a hang over nest.
. two sofas pushed together.
. everything soft.
I probably should explain my earlier intoxicated entry. It all started when we watched Tottenham vs Leeds. Obviously the best team won and so, Prince The B dawg, MEH, Blunt and I set out on an expadition to the union with a skip in our step. (Pete joined us but he supports disgusting Leeds so he was ...down beat.) Things got messy fast and there were many casualties. As each of my fellow explorers were picked off by alcohol poisoning and bouncers I became icolated.
Having only recently woo-ed a lady on a night out I felt good about myself. Tonight was going terribly though, no females and no friends in sight. Then an interesting development. I found a lady that liked Garth Mareghi's dark place. (infact she was one of the zombies i met at haloweeen.) This was the second time I have ever fallen in love. Doing impressions of Garth Marenghi characters; brilliant impressions at that, didn't endear her to me instantly but surely a prelonged effort would win her over. It was around about the time of my third Dean Learner quote that I saw the girl that liked "The Who" from ages ago. I abandoned my new love to chase after her. It's a bit hazy but then somehow, they were both getting with other people..... Sluts! Its sort of like that fable about the dog with the meat in his mouth that see's a bigger bit of meat in his reflection. Then drops the meat into the water or something like that. What I'm trying to say is, I dropped my meat. What is a night club other than a cattle market?
On the way home I felt the need to call or text everyone I know, much to their displeasure. I'm sure once my hangover is gone I will be embarrassed about my phone calls and terrible dancing but I just can't bring myself to care about it now.
Its taken me four hours of sitting watching Hornblower and having chips thrown at me to write this, and its terrible.
As a result of last nights boozing and some rather unwise wagers Pete has to 'nosh off ' Blunt. I'm not sure if it's a sight I'm looking forward to or dreading.
as they say in Hornblower "The wine was in and the wit was out"
Hangoverzilla: 8/10
woozilla 5/10
drunkdactyl 9/10
Moist Man of the moment. Niko Krancjar
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
woo?
Right the first thing you have to understand is that I am really drunk!
Itsetg abouit 7 hours since I failed my drving test again and I am not a happy bunny. If I was sober I WOULD tell you lll a halerious story about how it went but I'm not so..... you are gonna have to put up with the ramblings of a mad man. I sholudl remind you sober MOUST tht you should keep this as a reminder of the bad times when the good times come around.. sOO What happened toniufgr was a bit of a disaster; i met this lady that had the same favourite tv show as me (garth marenghis dark place)_ and i was totally wooing her, and then I met this other girl, and i was totes wooing her too cos i met her before and we talked about THE WHO, so we were all dancing and they both got with other people oiur ratoios I can t beliece it to be gair!
qwwoozilla 2 /10
OH NO!
Itsetg abouit 7 hours since I failed my drving test again and I am not a happy bunny. If I was sober I WOULD tell you lll a halerious story about how it went but I'm not so..... you are gonna have to put up with the ramblings of a mad man. I sholudl remind you sober MOUST tht you should keep this as a reminder of the bad times when the good times come around.. sOO What happened toniufgr was a bit of a disaster; i met this lady that had the same favourite tv show as me (garth marenghis dark place)_ and i was totally wooing her, and then I met this other girl, and i was totes wooing her too cos i met her before and we talked about THE WHO, so we were all dancing and they both got with other people oiur ratoios I can t beliece it to be gair!
qwwoozilla 2 /10
OH NO!
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Pink Plastic
I have been reliably informed that my latest blog reads like a emotional 13 year old girls diary. I, in retrospect, agree and have taken it upon myself to do better. No more bitching and moaning from me.
So I had another driving test and it went brilliantly. This time instead of evil old Santa Claus, I was presented with a new examiner..... a lady examiner. With my charm and powers of seduction I thought to myself, (and aloud to my instructor) there was no way she could fail me. Not with a smile like mine. I could ignore the priorities at roundabouts, I could forget to change down a gear, I could even hit the curb and she would still pass me. Not only that, she would also fall at my feet and beg me to drive her to the nearest premiere inn for an hour of passion.
I'm pretty sure she must be married to Brad Pitt or something because she was, as it turned out, resistant to my bedroom eyes. Either that or she's a lesbian. The notion that she might actually be a single, straight woman and find me unattractive is simply inconceivable. Women loving me is like maggots loving apples. It's just in their nature. If I begin to believe otherwise I'm not sure my ego could take it.
It seems that roundabouts are incorrectly named. The wording 'roundabout' suggests a vagueness that does not suit the situation.
Harmonica: "How far away is the station?"
Moist: "Oh the station. I know. Well, it’s aROUND ABOUT a mile in that direction."
Whilst driving today the lovely examiner politely requested that I take a right at the roundabout ahead. I came to the natural conclusion that I would go in ROUNDABOUT the right direction. Apparently this is "dangerous". I also decided, given the slap-dash naming of the 'roundabout' that I would wait roughly, about, approximately, aROUND ABOUT the correct amount of time for traffic approaching from the right to manoeuvre. Who decides why Mr Rover gets priority over me is a mystery but one certainty is blitzing it out in front of him is also considered "dangerous." Well let me tell you something DVLA. Life is dangerous and if you can't deal with the driving titan that is me then you better get off the roads. Driving isn't for pansies. I laugh in the face of danger, and gear changes, and steering.
Anyway where was I? Oh yeah. Roundabouts should actually be called Exactabouts. Then I would know precisely how to deal with the situation. Had the beautiful lady to my left announced,
"Moist, I want you to turn right at the Exactabout coming up ahead. Bear in mind that it’s an EXACTabout."
I would have acted appropriately
"Oh so you want me to change down a gear, get a nice early look, approach from the right hand lane then wait for that Rover to go. Got ya."
Was that so hard DVLA?
I have booked another test. (am also considering a change of lucky pants)
Driving test attempts. 3
Failed attempts: I'd rather not say.
One piece of fantastic news is that I have now got my laptop fixed and pornputer is back on the nightshift. The computer techies at uni live on the top floor of the tallest building on campus. Much like Dracula’s tower and the hunchback of Notre Dame’s cathedral they are separated and shunned by normal society. I approached with caution. Not wanting to feel out of place or computer illiterate, I attempted to discuss the problems my computer was having without using the phrase
"I watched a whole load of porn and now it’s beyond fucked."
Instead, I made an effort to copy as much as I could from films that I had seen with computers in, like The Matrix.
“Yeah, I think what happened was it got all corrupted and shit. I mean it used to have like, a load of gigabites and all the rams and now it’s just like it has no rams at all"
I don't think they bought it. However they were really pretty sweet and for the small (gulp) price of 70 smackeroos I have all the rams back.
GIGABYTES on my hard drive; 250
Moistometer: 7/10 pretty freaking moist outside
Sunday, 17 January 2010
BAD GIRLS
January exam period is well and truly underway now. So of course I’m going out more than ever. I am currently sat, hung over, in my room with Lucy after a day, attempting to revise. Writing this entry is an admission of my failure. In an endeavour to appear studious I have created the ideal working environment. Anything from the level of desk clutter to the lighting of my room creates the potential for ten to fifteen minutes of procrastination. I even created a work play list which is brilliant. Think: Mills Brothers, Pink Floyd, Eddie Vedder, Elbow, Moby, Rolling Stones and you will get the idea.
After a good hour or so of Feng Shui-ing my room I sat down and looked through the reading list for my Media Panics module. This was followed by a long look on You Tube for relevant revision material with numerous detours to look at Blackalisious and dub step videos.
When I actually managed to get down to work I was left enraged by some of the feminist literature I encountered. I really don’t want to appear sexist but… ( and I appreciate that usually a statement like this is almost always used as a qualification for saying something outrageous like I’m not a racist but, or I’m not a sex criminal but) I find it difficult to deal with the endless reams of man hate that my course forces me to read. What do these academics want from me? According to most anthropology and sociology as a man I am the cause of all women’s suffering in the world. The whole thing had me contemplating an amature sex change. Now I’ve done my share of shitty things to women in the past, but I’ve also done some pretty bad stuff to men. In my view that’s equality; apparently not. Actually, (according to Men’s Work, Woman’s Work) equality will only be achieved when men are wiped out and women recreate artificially.
At the moment I spend my days being told what a bastard I am by women in books and my nights being told what a wanker I am by women in clubs. It doesn’t really seem fair. If men have it so much better I’d like to find out how, so I can make the most of it.
Days in the same pants: 2 ½
Days in the same shirt: 3
Days in the same jeans: Unknown
Moistest WOMAN of the moment: Paula Radcliff
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Crunch Corner
Back at university now..... still stuck on Pornputer.At sports universities it is essential to join a gym. Even the fattest and scrawniest people have a membership and I'm no different. It's a really unusual environment and despite being as hooked as everyone else here, I can say with some certainty that I am in no danger of becoming a 'gym freak'. When you enter the gym you leave the real world behind. Things that matter on the outside like happiness, intelligence, looks and money no longer seems important. It's you, you're muscles and you're cardio against everyone else’s. The new world brings new laws. These laws are enforced by gym police or 'Personal trainers'. Unlike regular police; who fight crime and give hoodlums a thump every so often, gym police sit gormlessly behind computers or stand around pointlessly stretching, occasionally sneering at the civilians. If you are lucky enough to overhear one speaking then the conversation will almost certainly involve how muscular they are.
It is all too easy to get caught up in the competitive atmosphere. It is equally easy to get caught out. The treadmill is particularly bad for this. In the real world if someone is faster than you they jog past and that’s that. The defeat is quick, painful and momentary. On the treadmill however, you’re harrowing defeat is rubbed in your face the whole time your conqueror bounds along beside you. To avoid this I have been know to put the speed up to 19 km per hour for a bit just so everyone around thinks I’m a cross between Usain Bolt and Paula Radcliff. Obviously this speed is unsustainable but sometimes the illusion works. However every so often something awful happens and the person jogging beside me takes a sneaky look at my machine and notices that I’ve only run 300 metres. At this point I am in a bit of a pickle. I’m tiring horribly, stranded miles from an impressive distance at a speed I cannot maintain. The disgrace of slowing the thing down to a sensible 12 km per hour is too great. Stopping it all together isn’t an option either. That way the fucker next to me knows I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up this pace though; I’m not actually Paula Radcliff. There is only one course of action. I continue absolutely deadpan for 10 or so seconds after the initial peek from Mr Nosey in order to give the impression I could effortlessly continue at this pace for some time. Then fake a mild injury. This is done by suddenly grimacing and slamming the emergency stop button. Whilst the running mat bit slows down I hop about a bit as if it’s painful to put weight on my foot. Once it’s stopped all together I give my leg a rub and stretch my foot as professionally as possible. Then I walk out, gym session over. By doing this I have successfully avoided embarrassing myself in front of all the other gym goers. To them I am still a finely tuned athlete. Obviously I am still left with the inner shame that I had to fake pulling a muscle to avoid any real exercise.
P.S Don’t judge me for faking an injury. Footballers do it and they get paid 50 grand a week.
It is all too easy to get caught up in the competitive atmosphere. It is equally easy to get caught out. The treadmill is particularly bad for this. In the real world if someone is faster than you they jog past and that’s that. The defeat is quick, painful and momentary. On the treadmill however, you’re harrowing defeat is rubbed in your face the whole time your conqueror bounds along beside you. To avoid this I have been know to put the speed up to 19 km per hour for a bit just so everyone around thinks I’m a cross between Usain Bolt and Paula Radcliff. Obviously this speed is unsustainable but sometimes the illusion works. However every so often something awful happens and the person jogging beside me takes a sneaky look at my machine and notices that I’ve only run 300 metres. At this point I am in a bit of a pickle. I’m tiring horribly, stranded miles from an impressive distance at a speed I cannot maintain. The disgrace of slowing the thing down to a sensible 12 km per hour is too great. Stopping it all together isn’t an option either. That way the fucker next to me knows I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up this pace though; I’m not actually Paula Radcliff. There is only one course of action. I continue absolutely deadpan for 10 or so seconds after the initial peek from Mr Nosey in order to give the impression I could effortlessly continue at this pace for some time. Then fake a mild injury. This is done by suddenly grimacing and slamming the emergency stop button. Whilst the running mat bit slows down I hop about a bit as if it’s painful to put weight on my foot. Once it’s stopped all together I give my leg a rub and stretch my foot as professionally as possible. Then I walk out, gym session over. By doing this I have successfully avoided embarrassing myself in front of all the other gym goers. To them I am still a finely tuned athlete. Obviously I am still left with the inner shame that I had to fake pulling a muscle to avoid any real exercise.
P.S Don’t judge me for faking an injury. Footballers do it and they get paid 50 grand a week.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Whoever did this...
It has come to my attention that something terrible has happened. Some sick bastard started the second layer of our Fox's luxury biscuit selection before the top layer was complete. This is a gross and unacceptable breech of confectionary law and it will not go unpunished. It is difficult to fully describe the disgust I felt when I peeled back the corrugated black card layer separator only to find the white chocolate wafers with praline filling had disappeared. I now know how it felt to unearth Tutankhamun’s tomb and then be horribly cursed. I must continue my life, doomed to eat biscuits only partially covered in chocolate or the shitty digestives.
The cookie incident left me demoralized but I have still managed to make some progress with the first of my new year’s goals. I have decided to be a banking fat cat and now that’s been decided all I have to do is wait for the banks to offer me a job and I’ll be puffing Cuban cigars and gulping whisky in no time.
The cookie incident left me demoralized but I have still managed to make some progress with the first of my new year’s goals. I have decided to be a banking fat cat and now that’s been decided all I have to do is wait for the banks to offer me a job and I’ll be puffing Cuban cigars and gulping whisky in no time.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
My Purple Pepper Grinder
Today was truly dull. I went for a run and wrote about four hundred words of my dissertation. That was it. At the age of 16, Wayne Rooney was scoring goals in the Premiership. Boris Becker won Wimbledon at 17 and at 21 my Gran was raising a child! I’m 21 and the closest I have come to raising anything was when some mould grew in my gym bag.
With this in mind, continuing to simply write about my day to day exploits seems a little self indulgent. I recently watched Public Enemies and it became apparent after about three minutes, that my life isn’t nearly as interesting as John Dillinger’s. So I have decided to give myself some New Years goals to work towards for the decade to come. I’m not about to start robbing banks but hopefully they will spice things up a bit
My Goals
1. Become filthy rich
2. Get a smoking hot wife (must also be more intelligent than me and have a sense of humour)
3. Pass my driving test and get a big shinny car that makes everyone assume I have an enormous penis
4. Become famous within my field, but not soo famous that people shout at me from across the street.
5. Eat in a Michelin stared restaurant then go straight to McDonald’s and buy a McFlurry
6. Buy a house with a Jacuzzi
7. Meet the Prime Minister
8. Write a genuinely good play
9. Watch Tottenham Hotspur play at Wembley stadium
10. Go to a Movie Premier
11. Collect over 20 different pepper grinders
I’ll keep you posted with my progress.
At the start of David Copperfield he talks about whether he will be the hero of his own life or not. Don’t worry this isn’t about to get philosophical and I didn’t read the book or anything clever like that. I just saw the beginning of the film on the telly and thought the question was interesting. Who is the hero of my life?
Well that’s easy. It’s Jennifer Aniston.
With this in mind, continuing to simply write about my day to day exploits seems a little self indulgent. I recently watched Public Enemies and it became apparent after about three minutes, that my life isn’t nearly as interesting as John Dillinger’s. So I have decided to give myself some New Years goals to work towards for the decade to come. I’m not about to start robbing banks but hopefully they will spice things up a bit
My Goals
1. Become filthy rich
2. Get a smoking hot wife (must also be more intelligent than me and have a sense of humour)
3. Pass my driving test and get a big shinny car that makes everyone assume I have an enormous penis
4. Become famous within my field, but not soo famous that people shout at me from across the street.
5. Eat in a Michelin stared restaurant then go straight to McDonald’s and buy a McFlurry
6. Buy a house with a Jacuzzi
7. Meet the Prime Minister
8. Write a genuinely good play
9. Watch Tottenham Hotspur play at Wembley stadium
10. Go to a Movie Premier
11. Collect over 20 different pepper grinders
I’ll keep you posted with my progress.
At the start of David Copperfield he talks about whether he will be the hero of his own life or not. Don’t worry this isn’t about to get philosophical and I didn’t read the book or anything clever like that. I just saw the beginning of the film on the telly and thought the question was interesting. Who is the hero of my life?
Well that’s easy. It’s Jennifer Aniston.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Elton John
It has been a long time since I last wrote. For this I apologise. Christmas is always a busy blur of eating, family and alcohol and this year was no different. I have also been prevented from updating by a particularly aggressive computer virus, a virus which was almost certainly caused by the huge volume of pornography flowing through my computer’s electrical veins. With one laptop dying from computer syphilis I have been forced to use my old laptop, ‘Pornputer’ for day to day activates. Pornputer was christened after I received a brand spanking new laptop as part of a government grant. The idea was that the new expensive computer would stay virtuous and work hard, while Pornputer would be a horrible slut of a laptop that whored its way around the internet and stored videos of naked ladies. Unfortunately, one fateful night the temptation of seeing ‘Hot Blonde gets a mouth full’ in a higher resolution was too great. Did the expensive glossy new computer have Norton internet security?
Of course it didn’t.
The rest, as they say, is history. Ironically Pornputer has ploughed on regardless. It must use some kind of extra thick internet condom because it survives even the most outrageous short movies. Christmas has been pretty great in general. I have almost entirely avoided working on my dissertation and I have seen a lot of friends and family. New Years Eve was a bit of let down, but when isn’t it? Everyone stands around a clock or a television and waits for twelve. I’m not trying to be a party pooper or a poor sport but twelve o’clock happens twice a day. It’s like each year we wait to see if the world will explode at the strike of midnight. To our surprise it doesn’t and so we all go home disappointed. I’m probably just being a moody little bastard because there were no ladies around to woo. We ended up in the most horrendous pub trying not to make eye contact with the drunk, overweight, middle aged women on the prowl. At midnight I was left to think about how at that exact moment, just about every girl I ever fancied or ever would was probably tongue deep in some other guy. It all comes down to being in the right place at the right time and I was probably as far from the right place as was physically possible. I wouldn’t feel too sorry for me though, I watched a whole lot of very high quality television over the Christmas period. ‘Muppet Christmas Carol’ and ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ are my personal favourites for the festive season but I’m always open to new and exiting ways to avoid seeing the Queens Speech or the Corrie Christmas special.
Woozilla 1/10 A drunk older women took a shine to me…… she was about 20 stone and had brown teeth.
Moist man of the moment: Beaker from the Muppets
Drunkometer: 8/10 Christmas has left me with pickled insides.
Moistometer 9/10 all that bloody snow and it didn’t stick around long enough for a White Christmas!
Of course it didn’t.
The rest, as they say, is history. Ironically Pornputer has ploughed on regardless. It must use some kind of extra thick internet condom because it survives even the most outrageous short movies. Christmas has been pretty great in general. I have almost entirely avoided working on my dissertation and I have seen a lot of friends and family. New Years Eve was a bit of let down, but when isn’t it? Everyone stands around a clock or a television and waits for twelve. I’m not trying to be a party pooper or a poor sport but twelve o’clock happens twice a day. It’s like each year we wait to see if the world will explode at the strike of midnight. To our surprise it doesn’t and so we all go home disappointed. I’m probably just being a moody little bastard because there were no ladies around to woo. We ended up in the most horrendous pub trying not to make eye contact with the drunk, overweight, middle aged women on the prowl. At midnight I was left to think about how at that exact moment, just about every girl I ever fancied or ever would was probably tongue deep in some other guy. It all comes down to being in the right place at the right time and I was probably as far from the right place as was physically possible. I wouldn’t feel too sorry for me though, I watched a whole lot of very high quality television over the Christmas period. ‘Muppet Christmas Carol’ and ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ are my personal favourites for the festive season but I’m always open to new and exiting ways to avoid seeing the Queens Speech or the Corrie Christmas special.
Woozilla 1/10 A drunk older women took a shine to me…… she was about 20 stone and had brown teeth.
Moist man of the moment: Beaker from the Muppets
Drunkometer: 8/10 Christmas has left me with pickled insides.
Moistometer 9/10 all that bloody snow and it didn’t stick around long enough for a White Christmas!
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