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.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
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.
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