| I'd buy that for a dollar |
[Aug. 24th, 2008|12:16 pm] |
I killed Bob Morton because he made a mistake
DICK JONES! DICK JONES!
Now it's time to erase that mistake
DICK JONES! DICK JONES!
You see I've got this problem
I don't like Cops
And Cops, don't, like, me
BITCHES LEAVE!
Can you fly Bobby?
DICK JONES! DICK JONES!
What is this shit?
DICK JONES! DICK JONES!
I work for OCP
DICK JONES! DICK JONES!
AND OCP RUNS THE COPS! |
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| Live music |
[Aug. 13th, 2008|05:29 pm] |
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Hullo thar folks, I need your help in a time of desperate need. I've not been to a gig since Hellfest and have found myself in the unpleasant situation of having none lined up in the future either, so is anyone aware of anything good on the horizon? I need more live metal but all the bands I like seem to be on a perpetual tour of the festivals this time of year. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 21st, 2008|10:39 am] |
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Thrash metal is fucking awesome. |
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| My review of the new Down album |
[Oct. 5th, 2007|09:02 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Down - Over the Under | ] |
You can cancel the end of year polls for music everybody, the competition is over. Down, the heavy metal supergroup consisting of the entire New Orleans music scene is back and firing on all cylinders with Over The Under, their third album in a career that has lasted over a decade. They might not exactly be prolific, but this is going to scoop every single award out there. Best album? Down. Best band? Down. Best international band? Down. Best live act? Down. Mobo Music Award? Down. Best Picture? Down. Best Special effects? Down. And while all you posey, wankey, "oh, I only drink darjeeling" types out there will of course be poised and ready to shoot down any statement I make by posting extended essays on what a staggering triumph in artistic expression the new Explosions in the Sky album is, you can go and...well, do something I guess. I kinda lost my train of thought by making myself too angry there, so I'm going to go punch the cat until I can focus again. Come here Mr Bigglesworth, I like chicken, I like liver, meow mix meow mix please deliver.
Anyway, as I was saying, you can forget everything else released this year, this album slays them all. Devildriver are all but forgotten, Sage Francis but a distant memory and Amon Amarth can all go suck off each other's horned helmets, they are nowt but the fleeing children on the edges of the cinema screen who nobody pays attention to when the T-Rex comes stomping into view. Buy this CD now heathens. What? Specific reasons? Okay, here's three: 'On March The Saints' is the greatest song you have yet to welcome into your life, 'Nothing In Return' is a tripped out, laid back epic of a song so serene that just listening to it can make you stoned and the ending to 'Pillamyd' is the heaviest thing ever. Yes. EVER. In CAPITAL LETTERS. This album is so metal, it bleeds mercury. It can make Kerry King cry like a girl and since they first listened to it, Rob Halford and Freddie Mercury are no longer gay. That's right, Down can bring long dead rock singers back to life and make them pure in the eyes of the lord. HAIL! |
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| Rope a dope |
[Sep. 3rd, 2007|07:15 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Sage Francis - Human The Death Dance (buy this record infidels!) | ] |
I've had a long time to think since I posted that last update. Being unemployed will do that to you. Even so, despite the abundance of spare hours I've enjoyed since finishing the dissertation, I've not really done much thinking at all. Partly because I'm thinking of ways to edit the living fuck out of it, but mainly, my lack of cognitive action is down to this wonderful game:
For those of you that haven't experienced Bioshock thus far, it's awesome. It's also the reason why yesterday morning at about three thirty I started suffering heart palpitations, convinced that a vintage, diving suit clad monstrosity was stealing the orange juice from the fridge. After wondering when I lost the ability to shoot bees from my finger tips, I resorted to smacking the intruder with a wrench, which isn't related to Alex's dawn visit to casualty at all. So, given that it's taking up all my free time, it seemed like a terrific subject for a proper livejournal comeback. Possibly with a hilarious subject line like "darling it's better, down where it's wetter." Unfortunately, the joke never progressed further than the title.
So, with my motivation for writing on LJ dwindling, I found sitting on facebook changing my status every ten minutes was a far more productive outlet for all my creative energies, until a certain media event caught my eye...
The tenth anniversary of Princess Diana's death.
I couldn't believe it. Ten full years have passed since that tense day spent in my grandparents living room, wondering whether they'd stop the news coverage at 10.15 to show Airplane 2 (they didn't). And even now, the full truth hasn't been revealed. What did happen in Paris that pivotal day in 1997? Did an MI5 hit rob us of the people's Princess? Were sinister forces at work behind the scenes? Surely, a Limousine driving at over 100 mph through a twisting underpass with a boozed up chauffeur at the wheel and a swarm of paparazzi motorcycles in hot pursuit couldn't just crash could it? Well, I for one am not satisfied. It was time for investigative journalism to do the work that the police force neglect to, all because they're held in the sway of the corporations. Doing their corporationey things.
Thus, in the face of both the French and the UK Police forces finding no basis for the conspiracy theories, I decided to dig deeper. And I wasn't going to depend on the 'facts' either. Oh no, I was going to rely on the real truth, the one provided by rumours, hearsay and statements from dubious individuals. And whenever a hole appeared in the theory, I just made a bunch of stuff up. The results are staggering. Diana was indeed murdered but it wasn't because of MI5. Neither was it because a secret racist pact meant no member of the Royal Family could have a child with Dodi Fayed (shockingly, a man who was neither English or German). The real devils at work behind the scenes were in fact....
....The Church of Scientology!!!!
You want proof? How about this - The Royal Family's bloodline is descended from members of the Austrian Royal Family circa the 1800s. Austria of course is right next door to Germany and do you know what's banned in Germany? The Church of Scientology. And if further proof is needed, here is a picture of Tom Cruise, taken moments after the crash:
Remarkably cheerful considering the radiant whirlwind of love that was Diana has all too recently been mangled in a horrific auto-wreck isn't he? I rest my case.
So what to do? Well, I presented my findings to the British police but they were unwilling to investigate further. Undettered, I sent a full report to every newspaper I could get in contact with: The Daily Mail did not respond, The Independent were too busy focusing their energies on a panicky global warming article to return my call and The Times said they were interested, but could I justify all the points I'd made? Hence why I am convinced that they are secretly involved in the cover up. Damn corporations, a pox on them.
However, all was not lost. The Sun didn't ring but did send back a letter (written in surprisingly large text) connecting the Church of Scientology to the increase in football hooliganism. The Daily Express meanwhile will be publishing a full feature in tomorrow's paper about it and "expressed" their appreciation by voting me "Best." Finally, The Star sent me a picture of Lucy Pinder with her tits out. They didn't mention anything about my theory whatsoever but it was still a nice thought.
So what's next? Well, in the wake of my discoveries I've come up with a way to combat the Evil Sci Fi cult! Seeking legal help will be fruitless, they have snaked their slimy tendrils into the fleshy brain cells of far too many high powered lawyers, but there is one route they do not have a monopoly on - forming a religion. I hereby announce plans for the creation of the first Church of Diantology, founded to reveal the truth about this great injustice and spread the teachings that this wonderful woman gave the world! What teachings I hear you ask? Love! Lovey love love! For African children. And all you need to do to be a member is take part in a conditioning test, then if we think you're a suitable candidate, you'll be granted access to a wealth of Truth Machines, cunningly disguised as memorabilia. Obviously, there'll be a nominal fee.
(And if anyone can remind me how to do LJ cuts I'd be grateful). |
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| Attention universe |
[Aug. 22nd, 2007|04:08 pm] |
Dressing like this:
does not make you cool. Nobody thinks you're about to start doing slow-motion martial arts moves no matter how long you spent copying scenes from the Animatrix in front of your bedroom mirror. Nobody thinks you're a night-walking, new age vampire who exists on an intangible plain of existence somewhere between eternal life and eternal death. You just look like a dick. Especially if you wear New Rocks at the same time.
And get a haircut. |
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| Ten minutes worth of spazz |
[Feb. 2nd, 2007|07:16 pm] |
Good evening everyone. I've been thinking of doing another Livejournal update for a while now so as to make that entry I did at the beginning of the year seem a little bit less like the last dying gasp of a repeatedly flogged horse but have thus far been unable to come up with anything. Not that I'm an especially uncreative person you understand, in fact I've been coming up with all sorts of ideas. Just now as I was glancing over my friends page, I read an entry by a girl called Kirsty who bar one pleasant text exchange on Christmas Day I have not spoken to in a criminally long time and was inspired to write something about zombies. Then I considered the possibility that zombies are one of the most overdone subjects in the world and considered writing about my plans for a trip to Disneyland next week. However, I am not sure I have many plans for my trip to Disneyland next week bar getting on Thundermountain and shouting "wahey" an awful lot and that would make for a boring entry. I then found myself contemplating the possibility of an entry about zombies in Disneyland and needless to say the track of my mind proceeded to unfold with a sense of tedious inevitability, so I've opted for a different approach to this here creative splurge.
Okay, this might be a bit of an excuse to kill the twenty minutes before my turkey, chips and onion rings finish cooking, but I've opted just to write and see what comes out. Interesting no? Well, it was an exercise my Creative Writing tutor told me about when I was in my second year and when I last tried it, started by writing a sentence about holding a pen and by the time I reached the bottom of the page was talking about Goblins besieging a beautiful golden city and reducing it to a smoking ruin, so who knows, the results may be interesting. And what's more, it also provides a welcome excuse for any of you pop-psychology fans out there for an insight into the direction my mind normally flows and thus provide me with a long detailed explanation in a comment that follows about how Transformers references and self-referential humour illuminate some sort of perverse sexual desires hidden in the recesses of my warped mind. Or something.
Anyway, all of this is getting in the way so I suppose that now the groundwork and explanations are out of the way I'd best get started. But maybe I've already started? I haven't of course, I'm kidding. Or maybe I'm not. For all you know, I could have started writing free flow right at the very start of this journal entry. I mean come on, my grammar and punctuation are exceptionally poor today throughout every paragraph and by careful reasoning, this could be used to illuminate the fact that the above introduction wasn't in fact laying the groundwork but a steady stream of consciousness laid out on a page. Ooooh, isn't this befuddling? I'm sure you're all sat there right now mulling over just how clever I am by raising a conundrum like this. But then maybe you're not and are instead thinking "I saw through this weak facade before I even clicked on your icon you silly little man." Well ring a ding ding Einstein, maybe I also foresaw that very reaction and riddled my every thought with plot holes and inconsistencies in advance?
Anyway, I fear this is ultimately going to go in circles and my dinner's nearly ready so I'm going to call a halt to the exercise right now. That's it, it's done. I'm finished. Provided I started in the first place, who knows, maybe I planned and mapped out every typo, every example of poor grammar and ultimately designed this entry from the floor up for days on end to fill it with conundrums. Whatever, it's all going out in the editing phase anyway. Dinner time! |
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| New years |
[Jan. 6th, 2007|06:32 pm] |
Hello again everyone! My it's been a long time since I've been around these parts but don't get too comfortable. At present I'm taking a break from doing a five thousand word pain bringer mega bastard of an Interpreting Film Essay for my Masters course, not to mention stabbing myself repeatedly in the eye with a fork while crying "Why did I ever do a Masters," so figured I'd do a little update on here. And being as it's the first day of the official "Christmas is fucking over" period, why not devote my time and effort to drawing up a list of resolutions to maintain until around mid March. But as I said, don't get too accustomed to my presence, I'll probably disappear again until next year if my recent productivity rate is anything to go by. So without further ado...
My New Year's Resolutions
By Tim, age 22 and 3/4
1. I will lose weight and be noticeably thinner by this time next year.
2. I will go to the gym more and improve my fitness.
3. I will travel to Thailand and have a series of adventures, usually involving my Arch Nemsis, The Great Lo Pei.
4. I will write a two thousand page epic novel detailing the rise and fall of a criminal underworld figure, set in Moscow against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution which despite being a rollercoaster ride of passion, romance, life, loss and despair will still be a horrendous critical and commerical failure due to my staunch refusal to change the name of my lead character; John "Steel Fist" Bradshaw.
5. I will feed an entire bathtub full of beans to a Scots Highland Terrier.
6. I will entice an eclectic group of six strangers into an eerie looking mansion atop a lonely hill, promise a million pounds sterling to the one who survives the night then shut the door, tape the following results and sell it to a Television company as a new reality survival show called "The Night of Chilled Blood."
7. I will stop pinching ideas from fia5co.
8. I will face my daemons, visit a therapist and find out through regressive hypnotism exactly what happened in my childhood to cause me to burst into tears everytime the word 'Ramhorn' is mentioned.
9. I will locate the source of all those bastard chain bulletins that keep turning up on Myspace and beat whoever is responsible to death with a life size cardboard cutout of Tom's fist.
10. I will attain critical mass.
11. I will construct a mechanism that will enable me to create a significant matter shift in every sea shell in the world so that in future, when anyone holds one to their ear, instead of hearing the ocean crashing upon the shore, they'll hear "Shame on da Nigga" by the Wu Tang Clan.
That'll do for now I reckon. Truth be told I kinda miss the days when I was a regular on here but what the hell, punctuality and dedication were never my greatest traits, as should be evident by the fact I'm doing a resolutions post six days into the new year. Even so, happy new year everyone, hope it was a good one. Well, better than Saddam's anyway.
HO HO HO! |
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| Porn |
[Sep. 21st, 2006|03:15 pm] |
Afternoon everyone,
I'm back in Watford again for a week or so to visit my parents before my masters course at Southampton starts at the beginning of October so needless to say I've found myself with a bit more time on my hands than I'm normally used to. Having been unable to contact any of my old friends except for Paul, re-read my entire Hellboy collection and spent an age playing Rome Total War again, I've resorted to desperate measures to pass the time. Yes that's right, I'm posting on here again and what's more, I'm going to talk about porn.
Now the reason for this particular topic is down to several things. Firstly, in recent movie You, Me & Dupree, Matt Dillon's wife is horrified to discover Owen Wilson masturbating furiously in their living room to her husband's Asian Penetration collection and blows her mind (in an angry way, not a 'jet of fluid across the room' kind of way) and I'm interested to know why exactly it is such a taboo subject. Second of all, my girlfriend discovered my stash a short while back and simply laughed it off, so I'm keen to see what other women folk's reactions would be if they discovered their spouses dabbled in a game or two of "spot the first timer" when there was nothing else on telly. And thirdly, because let's face it, porn may be utterly awesome some of the time, but more often than not it's totally hilarious.
Yes, from the "gee girls it sure was nice of my uncle to lend me his villa for the weekend, wanna check out the pool" dialogue to the gut-wrenching look of horror on the housewife's face when I worked as handyman and misread her request to fix the fridge, there is no better kind of comedy. But then again, there is a darkside. You might not believe this, but the adult movie industry has a sordid underbelly as anyone who has ever accidentally picked the wrong Animal Farm movie on Amazon while studying George Orwell will readily tell you. And this came to a head (pun very much intended) when I was at work the other week. My mate Rich had his phone with him and promptly showed all of us an incredibly funny but also indescribably disturbing video of a young Japanese girl having ten live fish inserted into her backside before blasting the slimy wiggling beauties out into a bowl. We all had a good laugh about it at the time, but I was troubled. Troubled by the look of humiliation on her face, troubled by the thought of what depths she must have reached in order to consider doing such a thing, troubled by the idea of the industry abusing and misusing this poor girl but most of all, troubled by the thought that there is a market for this sort of thing and that somewhere in the world, some sweaty palmed office worker on his lunch break is getting all excited watching said video and going "Hell yeah bitch, take it, take it, oh man this is the real shit right here." |
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| Snakes On A Plane |
[Jul. 14th, 2006|07:14 pm] |
In tribute to the forthcoming Samuel L. Jackson blockbuster movie, I've decided to pen a little ditty. Enjoy:
The skies are all clear it isn't even raining
Looks like the flight will be all plain sailing
No cancellations and no delay
Five hours no stopovers and landing in LA
All ordinary except what's this distraction?
Oh look dear it's Samuel L. Jackson
The man is looking sharp, the man is looking groovy
I hear there's major buzz about his upcoming movie
Take off is normal the pilot doesn't miss a beat
And soon we're cruising nicely at ten thousand feet
But two hours later and shit gets frantic
This never would have happened with Virgin Atlantic
This has got to be a joke, this can't be real
Steward why is there an Adder in my in-flight meal?
I know pest control isn't really your department
But there seems to be a Python in the overhead compartment
So please don't panic or treat me with disdain
I don't mean to cause a fuss I don't mean to complain
But the same thing happened when I travelled to Bahrain
Now a lot of passengers are in agonising pain
So go call ground control, we've got Snakes on the plane
ON THE PLANE MOTHERFUCKER WE'VE GOT SNAKES ON THE PLANE
Just one bite sends the venom cursing through your veins
ON THE PLANE MOTHERFUCKER WE'VE GOT SNAKES ON THE PLANE
Don't fuck with a King Cobra or that boy will bring the pain
Now everyone is screaming and half of us are dead
Jackson's beating up a snake that landed on his head
The steward's face is swollen and a nasty shade of red
I think he has been bitten by a Copperhead
Everyone knows their venom really makes you ill
Just look at Michael Madsen in the second Kill Bill
Now let's all calm down this is just a reminder
Before we all get eaten by a vicious Sidewinder
Or before we crash and end up in traction
I think we should all turn to Samuel L. Jackson
He's got experience fighting animals gone bad
From that film with Thomas Jane with the sharks in the lab
So when it comes to monster movies, the man is a fixture
And when he finishes headbutting that Boa Constrictor
I'll ask him for help, I'll be his disciple
Even though he's only here cos he liked the film's title
But there's no shame in the game cos he'll always be the same
Ranting and raving like a black John Wayne
And with his help we'll find who is to blame
For putting all these Snakes on the motherfucking plane
ON THE PLANE MOTHERFUCKER WE'VE GOT SNAKES ON THE PLANE
Just one bite sends the venom cursing through your veins
ON THE PLANE MOTHERFUCKER WE'VE GOT SNAKES ON THE PLANE
Don't fuck with a King Cobra or that boy will bring the pain |
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| OH NO! |
[Jun. 8th, 2006|11:35 am] |
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Oh man, it's all gone wrong, pre-Download drinking was such a horrifically bad idea. |
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| Inside! Expendable Man reveals why he is updating again! |
[May. 14th, 2006|07:54 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Peter Andre - Insania! | ] |
This past Friday I did my last day's work at Barclays. I am now a free man of the working world and will be spending most of the summer temping and working at Delta Force and while I am glad not to have to suffer the stress of the financial industry anymore, I did enjoy working with the people there who were all wonderful. However, that isn't what I want to talk about today. No, the topic for today's little burst of Asbo-tempting rage is down to what happened during my lunch breaks. You see, I would typically wander across the road to Spar for my food as they make a mean Chilli chicken baguette and thanks to that brief amble into a newsagent each day, I now know more about Jordan's life than I ever have before. And the reason for this is quite simple; you can guarantee that no matter where you are in this country, you can still glance at a magazine rack and see that botoxed fissog gawping back at you with some ridiculous tagline underneath it concerning the latest drastic developments in her life despite the fact she's not done anything worth writing about since...since...since ever quite frankly. Come to think of it, what does that woman do?
And for those of you who think I might be over reacting a tad, consider this: In the past few months I have seen the following cover taglines on Heat, Reveal, Goss, Dross and Semi-Literate-God-What-The-Fuck-Are-You-Reading-This-For magazines:
Jordan: Why I'm having more surgery
Jordan: The Truth About my new surgery
Jordan: Why I want new boobs for Christmas
Jordan and Pete's new dream home
Jordan: On Pete, Love and Harvey
Jordan: Harvey Kicks Me
Jordan: The truth about my rivalry with Chantelle
Jordan: My new friendship with Chantelle
Jordan renews her rivalry with Chantelle
Jordan: Rage at love rival's claims
Jordan: My break from Pete "Why I had to go"
Jordan: By her mum!
To be perfectly honest I was genuinely intrigued when I saw the last one and even momentarily considered flicking through the pages to read said article, but then decided not to as it was incredibly unlikely that her mum would write: "I'm so ashamed of my plastic whorish robo-monstrosity of a daughter and am hereby offering ninety thousand unmarked bills to the first person to headbutt her in the babymaker."
But what really gets me is that this stuff sells! And you know why? Because nowadays proper journalism is all about scandals and over-hyped bullshit. Just look at the backlash Tom Cruise has had this past year. Oh no, he jumped on a sofa, oh no he's a scientologist, oh no he thinks that Evil Galactic Warlord Xenu is planning another exodus of pain...how about just overlooking that for a moment and considering the fact that onscreen he's quite a talented actor? All I know is he was awesome in Collateral and I'm definitely going to see Mission Impossible 3 even if he is a placenta eating brainwashed freak.
So what happens? Thousands upon thousands of magazines are bought each year with such intriguing insights as "Wayne Rooney nearly trips over getting out of his car" (and yes, I have seen that in print, taking up a two page spread no less) and all it ever does is make people feel bad about themselves. And how does it do this? Well because Jordan is a role model for some folks out there and what has she done to get this far? She's whipped her tits out, regularly humiliated and degraded herself for the sake of gaining column inches and warped her once attractive body into some twisted silicone abomination that it isn't too hard to imagine David Tenant clashing with in the near future in another desperate bid to save the universe. So all you young women out there, believe in Katie Price and you too will go far! All you have to do is let go of all self decency and prostitute yourself shamelessly for the media spotlight, just don't be surprised if it all goes wrong and you wind up as nothing but a colossal pair of breasts with a head attached and a faded pop star husband hanging around at all times like Jabba's squeaking monkey mate from out of Return of the Jedi. |
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| It's coming home, it's coming home, it's coming...fuck |
[May. 8th, 2006|10:27 pm] |
Those of you who have been with me on this rollercoaster ride of fun, freewheeling and uh...furniture known as Livejournal since my very first entry (that'd be Aly then) might remember that one of my very first entries was about an idea for a Michael Owen movie that germinated in my mind like a nightmarish alien spore in need of a human host. Well, in an effort to take another victory in my ongoing battle against writer's block, I've decided to revisit those halycon early days and let a major international sports tournament fuel my creativity. That's right guys, tonight I'm going to talk about the world cup! What's that? You wanna know what happened to the proposed second half of my 50 Cent piss take? It went the way of Old Yeller, now shut up.
But anyway, the world cup is just around the corner and already, television companies are planning all sorts of melodramatic, artistic camera shots of footballs in close up with clouds speeding past in the skies above to remind us of how incredibly important it is that a bunch of overpaid imbeciles with silly haircuts give Johnny Foreigner a good thrashing. Well, I've got news for you England, it's not going to happen! Our chances of winning the world cup are about as likely as the Lightning Seeds doing anything this year apart from releasing that song again. And you know why? Because our footballers are a bunch of jumped up, self-important morons whose Napoleon complexes are only comparable to their bank balances and contrast almost perfectly with their IQs as they spiral rapidly into Neanderthal levels of grunting ineptitude.
I'll tell you who has a real chance of winning the world cup; all the countries that don't spend more money on sponsorship deals and newspaper headlines than they do on the training budget. You want us to have even the slightest chance? Well get those idiots out on the pitch and actually kicking a ball around, the more time they waste dressing up like cowboys and appearing on the sides of Pepsi cans the lower their abilities become. Athletes my ass, they need to learn a lesson in earning their keep and doing their jobs rather than lounging around getting pampered and shagging supermodels all days then throwing hissy fits when the skinny Brazilian kids who have had nothing to do in their entire lives except play football manage to beat them because "the ref was biased." |
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| I'll take ye to the Candy shop part one |
[Apr. 16th, 2006|01:51 pm] |
Following the "incredible success" of my previous journalistic mission to improve University paper sales by making some massively far-fetched interpretations of Pete Doherty's personal life several months back, I decided to hang up the pen and paper for a bit. Sure, I'd done a terrific job that would put most real journalists to shame, but I didn't want to overdo it. I didn't want to make the public sick of my philandering and so avoided any over-exposure by turning down some of the more high-profile assignments and enjoying a quiet life writing articles on fertiliser for Tediously Introverted Gardening Magazine. However, a former editor of mine got in contact with me just recently for a big scoop and the chance to see the inside of the multi-million dollar rap industry first hand. He was a bit vague with the details exactly, but how could i turn such an opportunity down?
Shortly thereafter I was on a plane to LA and after one excrutiatingly long journey across that vast body of water known as the Atlantic, I found myself setting foot on American soil for my newest job. Unfortunately, due to the strict laws regarding entry to the states I was denied access to the country and promptly sent packing back to England. Apparently the blade i had on my possession was classified under the new Patriot Act as a lethal weapon and my protests that it was an integral part of the pencil sharpener were ignored. So that was a £349 return ticket down the crapper.
However, I wasn't to be deterred so quickly obtained passage on another flight and hot-footed it back to the states. Sadly, despite leaving all potentially dangerous stationery items at home, I was still not allowed in as I was sat next to the actor who played Sayed on Lost on the plane and as all fans of that frustrating television drama know, his character served in the Imperial Guard during the first Gulf War. So bye bye trip to the land of the free, hello accusations of plotting with enemies of the state. In fairness though I did get off lightly for Sayed's protests that the show was fictional and he was originally from London went ignored and he was carted off into the swamps at the bottom of a disused runway and shot through the back of the head. God bless America.
I only returned to England for a short while as by now, I was determined to get into the US despite all the setbacks and promptly set off on another trip. My luck was still no better as this time a customs official noticed from my passport that I had visited France once and as such, had fraternised with the smelly and ungrateful freedom haters. So guess what? Yep, it's straight back to England for our intrepid hero once again. By now, I was utterly utterly sick of the ridiculous entry laws but my editor would not be discouraged and splashed out on a fourth ticket, urging me to not to say anything to the other passengers, take any books or magazines or show even the slightest hint of frustration when greeting the customs people and be sure to wear a shirt with the statue of Liberty on it. You're bound to get into the country that way I thought and he was right, I certainly did get in this time!
Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to leave either, for this time the customs people became a little cautious about this repeat offender who kept turning up at the gate and a thorough search of my bags revealed an item that positively confirmed my links with terrorism in their eyes; I had an Explosions In The Sky CD in my bag. Fuck. The good news was I'd finally made it past baggage claim. The bad news was I ended up incarcerated in a Freedom Camp for the next four years. Thank god the rest of the paper staff got drunk and nostalgic one night otherwise I'd have probably been forgotten completely and the immigration officials would never have received that phone call asking where I was.
So finally I was in and four years of having my head dumped in buckets of scorpions and fed nothing but rice had left me with a renewed angry determination to get my job done once and for all. That and an irreversible intestinal disease and no finger nails. My disappointment wasn't at an end sadly as arriving at the corresponding office, it turned out the rapper i'd been sent to interview, one Jam Master Jay I think his name was, had been gunned down while i was negotiating my way into the country and the assignment had been cancelled. At this point in the tale though my luck took a much needed turn for the better as they needed two new journalists right away! One to interview the new king of the rap world 50 Cent and the other to investigate the paradox that had resulted from me spending four years interred in a concentration camp yet still being able to go to University in Southampton and maintain an Internet journal at the same time. I graciously accepted the job of interviewing this new rap champion and looked forward to it immensely as by all accounts, he was a poet of the streets who spoke with an unflinching honesty so would have much wisdom to impart and also owned a Candy shop! Surely, all the misfortune I had suffered thus far was about to pay off... |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 6th, 2006|06:52 pm] |
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I wish 50 Cent would put some clothes on and stop shooting people. |
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| Boy meets girl, boy annoys girl, boy stands no hope in hell with girl |
[Feb. 15th, 2006|08:03 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Led Zeppelin - Whole Lotta Love | ] |
Surprisingly enough, it's exactly a year and one day since my last big update on the phenomenom that is Valentine's Day, the only day of the year that could challenge Christmas Day in its ability to split people into opposing camps of ecstatic optimism and boundless hatred. Not me though. I have never shared a Valentine's Day with a member of the opposite sex (unless you count the time when I was nine and my mum took me to the Natural History Museum for the day, man that Apatosaurus skeleton was awesome) which has resulted in two reactions that effectively cancel each other out; on the one hand I'm alone on the most love filled day of the year, on the other, I don't have to spend any money at all and can spend the evening eating Lamb and Mint flavour Walkers Sensations while watching Leprechaun In The Hood. As a result, I'm completely indifferent to the day itself and until recently, couldn't care less what other folks did with, or to each other one day in February every solar orbit.
But that changed when I had a vision. Well, I say "vision," but really I just ate some interesting muffins round Alex's house and then re-read an old update involving Buck Rogers coming out as a Robosexual to his mechanoid pal Twicky. When I woke up the following afternoon, the first thing I did after consuming an entire homemade Dundee cake was make a decision to change my ways and help those who could not find love! So I started my own robot dating agency in a quest to help genuine robots round the world find happiness.
Unfortunately, I did not take into account the fact that Robosexuality isn't a recognised human condition and was in fact made up by me for the sake of a dig at a 70's sci-fi show. As a consequence, very few people responded to the ad. Come to think of it, nobody did, so I opted to shift the focus in my marketing campaign which amounted to little more than neglecting to tell anyone they would be dating our metal servants.
Some weeks later however, business had not picked up. I only had one client to my roster, a male named O'Zorganax from the Robot World Destron Twelve who had become stranded on Earth when something involving a 'plasma fusion reactor' doing something bad with a spinny blue expensive looking thing meant his cruiser's engines detonated and consumed two Scottish islands in a whirling maelstrom of firey devastation. Day after day O'Zorganax would come into my office with a hopeful expression on his emotionless metal face that would be dashed with constant bad news. I could not keep making the excuse that I simply hadn't found anyone compatible with the poor fellow for much longer, but then luck came my way and a very nice young lass called Elaine phoned up to say she had split with her long term boyfriend over Christmas and was ready to get back into the dating game. Paydirt! I took her details down and promised to find her some company for Valentine's Day.
O'Zorganax of course was overjoyed and he presented me with a binary representation of admiration that I've since employed as a paperweight. First though, I made one final check and perused his three prime directives to ensure he would make a good match and was delighted to see the following:
Directive 1: Enjoy long walks on the beach
Directive 2: Discuss the latest literary best sellers
Directive 3: Consider new ways to position the furniture
And aside from the small niggle that he had a fourth, classified directive, I felt confident that he would knock Elaine dead when they finally got to meet. That was when he confided in me that he had never dated an Earth woman before and was very nervous, so I agreed to go along to the same restaurant with a two way radio linking us and thus help him out over dinner. I sat the lad down then took my place at a table a short distance away and pretended to peruse the menu in an attempt to draw attention away from the colossal radio antenna sticking out the top of my hat.
When Elaine turned up a quarter of an hour later, I could tell by her look of bemused horror that she wasn't in the slightest bit bothered by the sight of a mechanised tin man sat at a candelit table waiting anxiously for her. But at that moment disaster struck and a customer at the table next to mine took a call on his mobile, breaking the feed between me and my client. For a few seconds I couldn't make out any of the conversation he was making, but given that Elaine promptly turned and fled screaming out the front door, it couldn't have been the sweetest nothing in the world. O'Zorganax watched her go for a minute, then flopped down looking dejected.
Now, I felt bad for him I must admit, so I got up without even bothering to finish my chicken fajitas and tried to console him that there were plenty more fish in the sea. By a massive coincidence though, it turned out that the word 'fish' was the trigger mechanism required to set off his previously classified fourth directive, namely; "cleanse the human filth and burn their virulent stain off the face of their diseased world." I won't go into massive detail about what happened next, but needless to say I'm not going to be allowed in Nandos for a long, long time. |
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| A bunch of words about you know, stuff |
[Feb. 11th, 2006|05:24 pm] |
When you dream of one day becoming a television script writer, novelist and respected journalist, writer's block is not the best thing to find yourself struck down with, but in the past few weeks that is exactly what has happened to me. Sure, things on here may have seemed prolific as I got off my arse and did an update or two, but outside of Livejournal I have written diddly squat since sending off my application work to the London Film school. So I've decided to get round this not-that-sudden lapse by doing the old tried and tested trick of writing about writer's block. I'd urge you to hold the front page, but that all that nasty business involving Danish cartoons seems to be generating enough attention on its own.
But the thing really bothering me is why I've suddenly become such a slacker when it comes to my chief love in life? Okay, second love in life aside from ladies heaving chest balloons, but it's been so long since I last encountered any of them up close without clicking the play button on Windows Media Player that struggling to undo a girl's bra behind her back is now no longer an impossible challenge but more something that just happens to other people.
Anyway, as I was saying before I got sidetracked and spent twenty minutes considering whether "The Big Book of Tits" would be a decent literary comeback, I think my writer's block can be traced to the direction my life has taken since leaving University. I'm no longer immersed in a vibrant creative atmosphere as much as I'm immersed in the teeth-grindingly frustrating world of customer service at a bank. Don't get me wrong, when my job is good, I actually kinda like it and all my work colleagues are wonderful people, especially that guy who lent me his midget porn collection, but lord almighty it's frustrating sometimes. I can appreciate that sometimes I'll make mistakes, but if you're going to stand there shouting abuse in my general direction and claiming I can't do my job when you can barely speak any English in the first place then lord almighty, I'll just have to take a break from updating LJ to go and punch the cat because writing this sentence has got me so wound up! And the fucker refuses to appreciate all the effort that legions of experts in feline nutrition put into developing new and improved Whiskas Tuna Jelly!
That aside, the rest of my time is spent either lounging around in my room, losing my cool in spectacular fashion while playing Ninja Gaiden or spending hour upon hour on www.youtube.com hunting down wrestling videos. I mean come on, who needs to have an excellent grasp of all the subtleties and nuances of the English language when you can watch the latest Samoa Joe match from the IWA in Japan?
He power bombs the Necro Butcher onto a big metal guard rail people!
So not the best excuse for being a lazy slacker who can't be bothered to do any typing really is it? And with all that out of my system, I'm left wondering what the point of all this was. Maybe it was venting a little pent up frustration from work. Maybe it was a means to finally come out and say yes, I do enjoy watching men in very silly outfits beating each other round the head with chairs. Or maybe it was just a way to kill some time alone in the flat on a Saturday afternoon. The quest for truth may have gone unanswered, but at least the ride was fun and in the end, isn't that the real truth? The answer, is no. |
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| Death to the Infidels |
[Feb. 6th, 2006|07:59 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | Intolerant | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Corrosion of Conformity - In The Arms of God | ] |
Given how religious intolerance, violence and hatred are all the rage nowadays, I guess now is as good a time as any to update livejournal with a deeply insensitive post that'll remain firmly in place until someone with a bigger high horse than mine wanders along. Now, it seems a lot of the Islamic faithful of London have been getting their turbans in a twist ever since a Danish newspaper published some cartoons of the prophet Mohammend wearing a fashionable head piece composed of rags and a lit bomb. Well, I can safely say that I fully support the protestors in London in their actions, just as I support the Muslim protestors all around the world who are joining hands right now and sending the very clear message that freedom of speech is a privilege and a right, provided nobody says anything bad about the Muslims. They are a minority you know, all twenty six million of them, we're not allowed to say bad things about minorities.
Unfortunately, it's also struck me just how much religious and racial intolerance is going on in everyday society right under our noses completely unpunished! South Park for instance has an episode where the Priest father Maxi discovers the entire Catholic Church is committing paedophilic crimes with altar boys and worshipping a giant Spider inspired by a long-forgotten Doctor Who episode! And that in the popular Channel 4 comedy series Father Ted, there are numerous pot shots taken at the Irish! It's true, it's sad, but it's all true and yet all of this and many other similar situations have gone on for decades without repercussions.
Well enough is enough and it's time for action, so I say to the streets! Let us swarm en masse towards the offices of the people who let such atrocities slip into everyday culture and crush them for their insolence! Yes, let's beat, maul, burn and decapitate all those who dared to voice an opinion against any culture or religion, because when it comes down to it, that's the only way to make sure nobody ever accuses anyone of being involved in a violent, backwards, hate-driven society again.
And while we're at it, let's all turn our backs and pretend that cartoons such as these did not appear in newspapers from Egypt, Qatar or Syria:
Or the fact that protesting in London was largely pointless as no British newspaper has published the cartoons in question, but hey, if we did that, we'd also have to start paying attention to the chapters in holy books that say such diverting things as "don't massacre one another you bunch of idiots," wouldn't we? |
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