My blog is one year old today

All together now:

Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear bloggy
Happy Birthday to you


... and you smell like one too!

Wow. A whole year has gone by since Thomas HW Phipps, a mild-mannered newspaper journalist cage-fighter, turned on his computer and logged onto blogspot.com, and was transformed into the wild and kerazy pimp of magic known only as Chainsaw Zombie. It's been a journey, everyone. But wow. Isn't it amazing when you think that a whole year has gone by? And I mean, Christ, what a year it's been. Lets just think of the crazy things I've done, and all the amazing adventures that I've had.

...

Wow. A WHOLE year has gone by since last Christmas, and literally nothing has happened to me. I haven't matured, either emotionally or physically. No life-changing events have occurred. I haven't had any terrible experiences that have left me older and just a little bit wiser inside. I didn't get a job. I didn't learn to play the lute. No decent celebrities have died. Nothing has knocked me out of my comfortable rut. I still haven't been able to complete Goldeneye on 00 Agent. Thinking about it, what the hell was the point of 2005? I achieved fuck all. This blog is probably the most worthwhile thing that I've done all year.

That is undeniably depressing.

Well, this has been a shambles of a year. What a fucking waste of time 2005 was.

But anyway, back to the blog. Well, we've had some tears, we've had some anger, we've had some brutal fistfights to the death, we've even had some laughs. Actually, I hope we've had some laughs. I mean, I am a funny guy, and I do spend like an hour on a half on every post. There is some EFFORT put into this blog. I check the speling on every word, just to make sure there's no reason for anybody to think that this is some shabbily put together organisation. And you don't even realise how much work goes on behind the scenes of chainsawzombie.blogspot.com. You think that this magic just happens. BUT NO, YOU'RE WRONG. Every post goes through a 2 week long vetting process, in which I check and re-write every word at least twice. If I write a post and it's not good enough for my audience, then do I put it up anyway? NO I DON'T. I delete it and pretend it never happened. (NB: this is definitely not just a case of me being lazy and not being arsed to fix the post/write it).
Because of this, there are a number of pictures that I've made that no longer have posts to go with them. They're just floating about in cyberspace. They're alone and postless. Here are a couple of examples. If you want to, you could imagine the posts to go with them. They were really funny:







Kerazy, huh?

Anyway, I pasted my entire blog into Word. IT WAS 400 PAGES LONG. It also froze my computer twice, which just shows the power of decent literature. Here are some fun statistics:

Total words: 212, 731.
Total characters: 1,158,099.

FUCK that is a LOT of button pressing. I wonder how much energy I've used up just pressing the keys to work this blog? I KNOW I'LL WORK IT OUT USING MY AMAZING PHYSIX POWERZ. Well, using some weights I found downstairs, I reckon it takes about 60g of weight to depress one key on my keyboard. This is 0.06 kg, yeah? This is therefore 0.6 newtons, N. And you move the key, say, one cm, or 0.01 metres. And if work done (j) = force (N) x distance moved (0.01m) x the number of repetitions, then the total amount of work I've spent creating this blog is 0.6N x 0.01m x 1,158,099 = 6,948.59 JOULES. Or kilojoules. I can't remember. But that's still pretty cool. To be honest, I no longer do physics, so I have no idea what that number means. Or if I worked it out correctly.

Total number of Paragraphs: 7,705 (I quote my first ever post: "There will be paragraphs. Paragraphs are good." I feel I have lived up to my promise)
Total usage of the word 'fuck' (or varients): 603 (I therefore said this word an average of 1.65 times EVERY DAY)
Total usage of the word 'shit' (or varients): 427
Total usage of the most foul of foul C words (or varients): 71
Total number of swear words: 1,241 (which is 3.110275 times more than the South Park movie. Take that, you fiends!)
Total usage of "Oli G": 41
Total usage of the word "God": 194 (although it does pick up every time that "God" is included in a word, so a few of those might be from "Godzilla Ninjas". Yaaaay.)
Total usage of the word "Jesus": 44. So that means that all the combined power of religion can't compete with the F word. GO SWEARING!
References to sex: 147
References to drugs: 39
References to rock and/or roll: 183

And if you've just stumbled upon this blog after a long wandering through cyberspace, and want to know what all the magic is about, but you have some sort of alien lifeform eating its way through your brain and you only have a few minutes left to live, here's my blog compressed into a 100th of its size via the magic of Word's 'Autosummarise' feature:

Right. Cool, . Shit, . Yolk time.
"Right... ZOMBIE FILM TIME.
Cool . Poor guys. I hate people
Shit. If you're me. I hate people.
Zombie HEAD!"
DANCE PARTY TIME! Other cool guy: , .
FOUR TIMES. Shit. LIFE. Bond Films. Cool death? well.. Anyway. Cool. Fat people. ANYWAY. Shit, . ANYWAY. Anyway. Anyway. Anyway. If I want
ANYWAY. Shit, posted points posted points
Anyway... Saving people? Kill zombies... Guys. Ogg: Shit... Fucking God.
Zombie Films. Zombie... zombie... zombie... zombie.... Shit. If they're hard core."
Zombies. Killed. Zombies? Thomas's brain: SHIT!
Run. Zombies? Zombies? Class film.

I have no idea what that's all about. Screw you, Autosummarise. Piece of crap.

So basically, I'm great. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BLOG-BUDDIES! ONWARDS TO 2006!

(By the way, if you've enjoyed this blog and would like to send me money, please leave me a comment and we'll make the necessary arrangements. No time wasters.)

Blogging? Smlogging. Kerkaplogging. Klerklamumped. Siggedyumpted. Dumppedtumped. Dumped.

I know it's a long time since I last blogged, but GUESS WHAT GUYS? I have BIG NEWS. Really big news. If you're female, this could be the best news you've heard all year. I GOT DUMPED.
THAT'S RIGHT. I'M SINGLE AND AVAILABLE AGAIN. I'm now a solo pimp, back on the block, back on the blog, rollin' wit me homeboys and drive-buying from car-wheeling merchants on THE WIKKITY-WEST TOWN BROKEN-DREAMS BOULEVARD GHETTO HOMIE-BLUD. But seriously, take a ticket and form an orderly line, ladies, there's probably enough of me to go around. Actually, who am I kidding? There are only a few tickets left to Thomasville, population Me, principal industry: being really fit and amazing at everything. Walk, don't run, and SNAP ME UP before some passing Hollywood Starlet does.

"But Thomas, how did it happen?" I hear you cry. "Was there drama? Was there illicitness? Was there a love rat? Did you fall to your knees in the rain, crying out your heart, screaming your grief and loneliness at the sky? Did you ever give her the ring? What were her reasons? What are the details?"

Well, there are many answers to these questions. Many of these answers contain the word 'no'. The drama mostly consisted of two MSN conversations. No illicitness. Only one love rat, and that was an actual rat who was in love with another rat, and has no role in our breakup. No falling to my knees in the rain, crying out my heart, screaming my grief and loneliness at the sky. WHAT RING? Was it made of chocolate?

And now onto the reasons and details. Well, actually, if you're expecting reasons, I'd probably stop reading now, seeing as the female mind works kind of like a clock filled with custard and frogs (ie: oddly and non-sensically).

Well, my friends, firstly, the big dumping speech was over MSN. MSN. (I actually typed that MSN in capitals, as if SHOUTING IT, but you can't tell because MSN is already capitalised, so it doesn't really work. Perhaps I could incorporate some html or something? Maybe an exclamation mark or two? Hmm.) MSN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. MSN is such a coward's choice. Like, in ancient Japan, when you lost a battle you were supposed to stab yourself with your own sword in order to avoid the embarassment of losing a battle against the Godzilla ninjas. The same basic priniciple applies here, except stabbing yourself with your sword to avoid embarassment is kind of cool, whereas using an internet chat program is just wussy.
And anyway, you're only supposed to use MSN for asking out, not dumping (Unless you're me, in which any way of dumping is fine. Hey, the girl was lucky to get a chance in the first case, not my fault if she blew it, and I don't want get cried on). So that was Failure No.1 on girlfriend's part. She wanted a quick and easy breakup (Like a prostitute with running shoes), now she has long and drawn out (Like my penis being captured in pictoral form using a pencil).

Failure No.2: Giving me literally no decent reasons. Now, I know it's a female's perogative to instantaneously change her mind/change her mind again/have wild mood swings/have mild mood swings/change her mind AGAIN/go feral and eat her own babies/randomly start crying for no reason, but COME ON. I wouldn't have thought it was possible to go from happy as larry one day, to full nuclear relationship meltdown the next for no reason, but hey, thats why I'm not a girl, and that's what happened.
I mean, if she'd found me having sex with a swahlilian horse, or she wanted to run away with an emotionally-diorheatic midget dwarf with mother issues, or she'd suddenly been offered ONE MILLION DOLLARS to spend the night with an ugly billionaire played by Robert Redman, or she'd found me listening to Coldplay and enjoying it, well, then, I'd understand. But I'm a MALE, and I need CONCRETE REASONS. Possibly with a nice table of figures and numbers to back up the point. To be honest, for me, the optimum break-up would be in graphical form, including at least one multicoloured pie-chart. But I didn't even get a SCATTER GRAPH.
Instead, she chose to explain herself using a seemingly endless list of random female feelingful reasons that mean nothing to the more intelligent (read: male) members of society. Despite their total weakness and lack of reasoning, they still won the day. To explain this concept to the average male, I will use the famous Terminator 2: Judgement Day analogy.
The problem with fucked up female touchy-feely reasons is that they're the T-1000. No matter how many times I detonate them with your powerful explosive shrapnel shells of compressed logic and reasoning (as the Arnie terminator), they always seem to subltly shift to something different and equally non-sensiscal. This continues until I have no more shells left, or I lose interest. Therefore, "I feel we work better as friends due to some core differences in fundamental beliefs" shifts to "Well I'm actually a lot more female than you thought I was" shifts to "Well now I can't possibly go on because I KNOW we're going to break up sooner or later" shifts to "Well it's like a balloon, see, and when it pops IT'S GONE," shifts to "I don't want to break up with you, really, but now its just IMPOSSIBLE to go on because of my feelings". Its impossible to win this battle. Even liquid nitrogen/a really hot pit of molten metally stuff/the might of common sense can't defeat this T-1000 - the T-1000 of female emotions. This proves an important scientific point: Logic does not work on females. Write that point down in your copy-books. However, being a boatie, I've not won things for the past three years, and it hasn't really put me off. I'm used to it. To be honest, losing feels like the natural progression to me. Therefore, I kept pegging away at destroying her reasons, thus combatting the T-1000, thus fighting an unwinnable fight, for far too long. Reason for Failure No.2.

Failure No.3: Her third failure was in that she weakend - my endless attacks overwhelmed her enough for her to 'agree' to us 'going on a break'. Usually, when couples "go on a break" it means that they'll spend half a week apart feeling sad, before probably gett back together and having lots of fun make-up sex (By the way, make-up sex is NOT sex involving lipstick and rouge being thrown about willy-nilly. It's actually sex in which you make-UP your differences in opinion and vow to become better people). In this case "going on a break" does not mean that. We both knew that 'going on a break' meant 'stopping this awkard MSN conversation by throwing Thomas a possible bone of reconciliation, but then dumping him in two weeks time'. That bone was a bad idea. It was not a good idea to throw me that bone. That bone will bring you down, dear, no matter how much it makes you look less harsh for dumping your boyfriend of four months for no reason OVER MSN. I knew that the bone was just a bone. I knew that was literally no point. But then I thought to myself "I'll make a romantic gesture and VISIT HER AT HER HOUSE". So I did. Then I spent the day with her. In the process, I realised, 'What the fuck am I trying to get back with her for after all? She's very nice and all, but to be honest all the spark has gone and she spends all the time talking to her vacuous friends on the phone instead of building a totem pole to me, and then worshipping it."
So therefore, girlfriend, I have come to a decision. I don't think that it's a good idea that we go on a break. It is totally pointless. Nothing is going to happen. You obviously has no wish for us to be back together, and I've totally lost interest. Therefore, that's it. We've officially broken up. IT'S OVER. *Cries and screams at the sky* Actually, shit, shouldn't I tell you this in private first, instead of just randomnly coming up with it on my blog? Fuck, that would be really harsh, wouldn't it? Hey, at least it's not over MSN. Ha ha, I WIN.

So therefore, Lucia, overall I rate you 3/10 for your dumping technique. Must try harder (possibly, by PICKING UP THE PHONE AND CALLING, and by ACTUALLY HAVING SOME DECENT REASONS and GIVING ME EVEN A TINY BIT OF WARNING)

But anyway, I've gotten over the deep spiritual malaise that's plagued me for the past week. I feel fine again. Food tastes better, I'm full of blog ideas and best of all: IT'S NEARLY BOXING DAY! I am now a happy person. I am totally not twisted, deeply resentful, or suppressing feelings of violence or rage. In fact, as an example of my new zippedy-doo-da outlook on life, I offered to decorate our family Christmas cake:





I know what you're thinking. Shouldn't "SEASONS" have an apostrophe in it? After all, they are the greetings of the seasons - POSSESSIVE.

What? Bitter? Me? Nah.

Christmas, eh?

Shucks.
I'm liking these minimal posts that I've started doing.
They require less work. And they have a nice sort of cool white art-deco styling. I bet that Edward Hopper would love 'em.
Seriously, though, I WILL blog properly when I gain some motivation.
Which should be soon.
Hopefully.

Oh, and for all my Buddhist readers out there (seeing this is the most multi-cultural blog in the WORLD), aiming to achieve total spiritual enlightenment through meditation, fasting, and prayer, I have a SPECIAL Christmas present. Check out this sign I saw on my travels:



You guys must all feel so stupid. You thought that the only way to reach Nirvana was by extinguishing craving and breaking the circle of reincarnation, no longer experiencing any sense of the self and becoming one with Buddha, when IN FACT, it's readily available for a few quid from a kiosk in Kingston train station.
Tea latte is the way to go.
Cunts.
Merry Christmas.

I'm not going to blog

So stop fucking asking me.
Cunts.
Merry Christmas.

The BEST thing happened today

Okay. Picture the scene. It's just getting dark. It's the car park of our school. We boaties are just going out for our warm-up run. A certain boatie, Jack, is slightly ahead of the rest of the pack. He starts to jog out of the carpark. He's watched by a fat little 3rd year.
3rd year: Hey, run faster, you ginger shit.
Apparently this fat little 14 year old has been yelling insults at dear old Jack all day. Jack loses it. Like, he goes mental. And red. If you like swearing I advise you to read the next bit.
Jack: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING LITTLE PRICK CUNT! I'L KILL YOU.
Jack chases the little 3rd year, who gives a petrified little scream and runs behind a car.
Jack: COME BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE FUCK!
Third year squeals again. Deputy Headmaster comes out of the front of the school. He takes in the scene, gasps, and shakes the monacle, mortarboard and ginsugars from his head.
Deputy Head: Hey, stop that! STOP IT I SAY.
Jack doens't stop it and continues to chase the little 3rd year. Deputy Head goggles.
Deputy Head: STOP! What's going on?
Jack: Fuck off, ask him.
Jack begins to run off down the road. Deputy Head calls again after him angrily, Jack stops, turns back, gets reprimanded.

Now, why was that the best thing to happen today? Have a guess. Write it down on a bit of paper. In fact, write it down on the screen here:

..................................................................................................................

If the ink isn't flowing properly onto the screen, use a solvent pen. That oughtta do it.

Was it because I dislike Jack and the idea of him getting reprimanded makes me happy and warm? No (in fact, Jack didn't even get in that much trouble). Was it because I dislike the Deputy Head and the idea of HIM getting cussed makes me happy and moist? No. Was it because I like swearing, and the idea of such foul cursewords being thrown around the car-park makes me secretly thrillful? No.

It's because, just for once, a 6th former managed to deafeat a 3rd year at SOMETHING. For ONCE, it was a victory for our side. For ONCE, the smile was wiped from the face of one of the Lower School. We won. Why does this please me so much?

Because I fucking hate the lowest three years in my school.

Seriously. It's hate. It really is. The first, second, and third years in my school can all go fuck themselves. For some reason, God has managed to gather together the most annoying bunch of 11, 12, 13 year olds in the entire country and sent them all to my school. Perhaps he's testing me for when I take his place.

I KNOW that, in order for the 6th form to keep replenishing itself, the school has to allow some younger boys in at some point, and 11 year olds probably deserve a decent education too. But WHY DO THERE HAVE TO BE SO MANY OF THEM? It's like a feckin plague of 11 year old squeaky voiced screaming gel haired greasy little small testicled cheeky barging pre-pubescent smelly loud little shits has suddenly descended on my previously calm haven of solitude.

They run into me when I'm walking along. They yell loudly while I'm contemplating the deep lyrics of Coldplay's White Shadows. They stand in the middle of the corridors with their massive backpacks, blocking the routes for all to pass. They're cheeky to me, they wander about in huge gangs, they act like they own the entire school.

PSA: If you haven't grown any pubic hair yet, you don't get to own any large educational buildings. In fact, you don't get to be a proper member of society.

I walk down the corridors like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, scowling at the scum that now fills my school. They're everywhere, screaming and giggling in the toilets, running full pelt into lunch and skipping the queue because they're little, running around in circles and hurling balls at my head on the field, hanging out in droves outside the girl's school next door, screaming randomly in the corridor, blocking the pathways. And they all look so feckin BAD. I mean, god forbid I we have just a FEW good-looking members of the lower school. But noooooooo. Most of them seemed to have tailored their appearance with the sole objective of pissing me off. To clarify, they all fit into one of five categories:

Fat -- When the Lower School does the cross-country run, these are the flabby little shits who start walking after ten metres, go red, start holding their sides and act like they're the most hard done-by members of the entire school. Then they buy all the chocolate bars in the Tuck Shop before I even arrive there and wander about eating them and talking loudly about how great they are. They also stand in doorways and force me to literally enter their tubby bellies in order to pass.
Oh yeah, for some reason all the fat ones think that they're really great.

Long hair -- These stupid little emo/indie rock kids with long hair and little badges on their bags wander the corridors of my school in rebel posses, looking really superior. These are the kids who show up on mufi day dressed in ultra-ripped jeans (with Green Day badges on them), a Nirvana t-shirt, an Offspring hoody and long stripey gloves with cut-out fingers. These feckin fecks probably listen to Kiss FM in the morning and get really psyched when they hear Westlife playing a rocky cover of a Daniel Beddingfield song then stroke their long hair and thing about how cool and rockenroll they are for having such nice long hair. Hey, guess what, fuckos? Long hair is no longer a rebellious fashion statement. Seeing as a good third of the country has grown long hair in an attempt to grapple-hook onto this trend, it's turned into just a depressingly non rebellious trend. And not even a good trend, like those guys in the sixties who had their teeth replaced with tiny watercolour pictures of some different teeth. It's a stupid trend and in ten year's time, you'll look at a photo album and say "What the hell was I thinking?". Then hopefully you'll hang yourself. With some high tech rope.
Every-time I see some of these cooly-cool-Jim-coolios, I just wanna grab their pseudo-rebellious locks, bang their heads together, give them a bowl cut, nail them to a chair (it'd have to be a proper wooden chair, not the crappy brown plastic ones we get given at our school) and force them to listen to the Pixies for six hours straight. Knock some proper rockenroll into their skullz. Little wankers.
Oh yeah, for some reason all the ones with long hair think that they're really great.

Ugly ones -- A lot of the kids in the Lower School don't quite look right. A lot of them are unsavoury looking. Many of them are just offensively ugly. They have weird shaped heads, sticking out ears, shiny skin, massively undersized bodies, eyes too close together, fucked up teeth, wheels where feet should be, braces, bad posture, weird looking hands, horribly twisted bodies, tongues too big for their mouths, greasy hair, hunched backs, and BO. And they don't just keep this ugly to themselves. They won't just do me a favour put a paper bag/cast iron mask over their freakishly malformed faces. Oh, no. They've been told by their mothers their whole lives how beautiful and perfect and unique they are, so they go out of their way to be the most obnoxiously loud, inyourface ugly fucks they can be. I don't want to look at your greasy skin, Bruno, fuck off.
Oh yeah, for some reason all the ugly think that they're really great.

Quiet ones that don't say/do much -- Hey, I don't mind these. This is probably because, if I squint my eyes, I can almost pretend that they're not there. Then that's just another memeber of the Lower School that I won't be seeing. The quiet ones don't really think that they're really that great, because they have low self-esteem. I think that we have too much self-esteem in this school. The Lower School need to have their spirits broken.

The "Too Cool for School" kids -- This could almost incorporate the 'Long hair' category, as many of the long haired members fit directly into this section. Basically, the TCFS (usually the really rich ones) have got an idea that they're better than the entire school, so swagger around being superior. They usually wear fancy custom blazers that their grandparents bought them in an attempt to look slightly rebellious, and are usually the ones who spend their holidays skiing in a specially built mountain in Switzerland. They buy out the entire stock of sweets at the sweet sale then walk about eating them right in front of me just as a demonstration of their wealth and utter superiority to me. On mufti days, they are dressed head to toe in designer threads. Usually, their hair is gelled into a tiny little quiff, which they wear with a moronic amount of pride. Like a crown. A little hair crown. Cunts.
These are the cheeky fucks who think that it's a hilarious idea to pat me on the back and say 'HI MATE!' as they walk by. Or they yell insults at the rowers as we do our run, then giggle and high-five each other for being so clever. BLAM. Dragon punch, right in the throat. But you can't, because the moment you touch a younger member of the school, they burst into tears and run to fetch the nearest teacher. And does the teacher EVER take the side of the older 6th former? NO. It's not FUCKING FAIR.

So now you can see why I'm so happy that Jack managed to frighten the crap out of one, and didn't get that harshly punished.

Why do I hate the Lower School so much? Perhaps it's because that, now I'm finally leaving childhood, I resent their youthful exuberance. Perhaps they just have a confidence in life that I lack, and I express my burning jealousy in anger and violence. Perhaps I'm already a twisted bitter old man. Except, no, wait, the reason why I hate the Lower School so much is because they're all a bunch of arrogant little fucking penii.

I recently got so sick of all these fuckers in my school, I decided to right back. I did this by training a guerilla army to break into their houses, sterilise their mothers and set fire to their arms. No, not really. The only thing to do is a series of lighning maneuvres to break down their spirits and crack their morale. Therefore, I barge them full on whenever I see one standing in the middle of the corridor. I do this by using my shoulders. In addition to this, I often utilise my elbows to really smackem in the ribs. I also like to grab their backpacks, just for a second, and knock them into the walls. If I see one running towards me, I suddenyl step directly in his way and cackle as he bounces off me. It's the small victories like this that keep me sane. The Lower School deserve this. They really do. It's not bullying. There are so many of them, and they outnumber me by like 400-1. They're a plague on the school. It's like that bit in Starship Troopers when there's like a billion bugs rushing the compound and they keep killing them but they just WON'T STOP and they end up climbing on the bodies of their fallen comrades. Me vs the Lower School: It's a riteous religious war. Jesus supports me. He does, I asked him other day.

"Hey, Jee-Zizzle, can I go ram the Lower School?"
"Sure thing, Thomas. Have fun!"

And that was Jesus talking, so I think that I'm in the right here.

Seriously, this is what English Public School life is like

I went to our school's Prize-Giving ceremony yesterday. This is because I won a prize. The English Literature prize. For being good at English Literature. I don't go to Prize-Givings for fun. I was thus required to attend said Prize-Giving to collect said prize from said Ex-Chief Commissioner of Police. Did I say that Sir John Stevens was giving out the prizes? Sir John Stevens is the Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan police, which means that he could probably have me arrested and locked up for life with a phone call. But of course, he wouldn't do such a thing. He was looking very bright and cheery as he sat at the front of the hall and the Prize-Giving ceremony began.

But first, let me give a quick explanation. Every Public School in England has its own set of very esoteric rules. Every school has their own. For example, in the school of Radley (or as it's more properly pronounced, "Wadley"), all the boys must wear blueberries on the cuffs of their bell-bottoms on Saturdays and midwinter holidays. Meanwhile, at Eton they must wear top hats and tails every time the Headmaster is making an inspection of the school. They must also refer to male teachers as "Sir" and female teachers as "Giddy Ma'am". Over in Tiffin, all blonde pupils must keep their armpits and noses thoroughly waxed. This is inspected every Ha'Penny day. However, 6th formers are encouraged to grow long bushy mustaches. Our school is no different, and thus the Prize-Giving ceremony followed a very set ritual.

Well, first of all came the ritual sacrifice of the pig. Now many of you Americans who read this blog may not know this, but pig-sacrifice is still a fully accepted part of Independent School life (as long as it follows EU standards), as well as canings and the occasional bit of sodomy in the boy's common room. Smoking is forbidden on school grounds, however. But anyway. The tradition in our school is to sacrifice the pig and then daub the blood on the forehead of the boy who wins the Headmaster's Commendation Book Award. So, after Mr Cullen (RS teacher) had taken out the ceremonial silver knives and pierced the swine's throat, and allowed the blood to collect in the ceremonial silver dish (this was by far the most exciting part of the evening, especially when the pig nearly kicked our history teacher in the face), the silver bell of Sageness was rung by the oldest boy in the school and the Prize-Giving Ceremony could begin.

The rest of the teachers then filed in, wearing their ceremonial robes and looking either very proud of themselves, or mortified beyond belief. Everyone in the audience pretended that they were taking this solemn procession very seriously. I don't know why, it looked frankly ridiculous. I kept rupturing blood vessels in an attempt to not laugh at Mr Simpson wearing his huge fluffy red robe. I'm sorry, I should have been taking proceedings seriously, but COME ON. THEY WERE WEARING STUPID ACADEMIC ROBES. I bet that they all chased each other around the corridors beforehand yelling "I'M BATMAN!", giggling madly, and pushing hoops along with a stick.

Oh yeah, and talking of dumbass uniforms, the MP (member of parliament, dickhead) of our region was also present. Now it is the rule that MPs in this country have to wear full elaborate beefeater dress complete with huge gold medallion and lacy gloves at all time. He sat on the front row for the entire proceedings, said nothing, did nothing, just clapped ocasionally. Wearing lacy white gloves. I actually wish that I was making this bit up.

Next came the speeches. The school governor, a solemn looking man wearing the traditional public school laurel wreath across his ears and carrying the Hampton chalice of knowledge, gave a glowing speech about how great the school was. This was followed by the Headmaster (an aloof character who never leaves his office in school hours except to administer canings), who gave a glowing speech about how great the school was. Between the two speeches, everything possibly connected with the school was complimented, many times over. The buildings, the staff, the chapel, the buildings again, any future buildings that they might be planning on building, the staff again, the sports results, the staff, the way that the wind blows past the south-east block, the trees, the grounds, the groundkeeper, the little hobo who lives in the entrance halls and shines the teacher's shoes, the staff AGAIN, the gruel provision of the kitchens, the caning facilities, the caretakers, the staff, the exam results, the exam results, the exam results, the exam results, the brilliant way in which we did in our exams, the staff again, and finally... the staff.

This speech lasted roughly fifteen and a half hours. The staff were mentioned about seven hundred and fifty times. The boys in the school were not mentioned once. We are therefore not important. We knew this beforehand. There are posters up all around our school with the words You are not important in big bold letters. The teachers take these down every time parents come for a tour of the school. We're also allowed to smile and breathe above the regulated 20 breaths a minute when parents come round. It's quite a treat, really.

Finally, the prizes were given out, the winner of the Headmaster's Commendation Award was daubed, and I recieved my book prize (seeing as I won an English prize and I no longer do art, I chose an art book about Banksy; king of graffiti artists) and heartily shook the hand of Sir John Stevens, Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. "Very well done," he said to me cheerily. I nodded at him with a healthy amount of respect. Actually, I was kind of glad that he hadn't just taken that opportunity to flick through the book he was about to present to me. The artist has a kind of anti-police thing going on. This was like on the second page:



Would it have done for him to have seen that? No. I think not. Anyway, after three solid hours of prizes being given out to increasingly stoned looking leavers, and a nice recital by the school Chamber-Piccolo Sextet, Sir John Stevens, Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police gave us a speech. It was a very rousing speech, full of such hilarious jokes as 'Sir John Stevens, Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police phoning up another police station, only to be rudely treated by the operator" and "Sir John Stevens, Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police tells a joke featuring a boat and a lighthouse". Man, how we laughed at his many witty jokes. You know, if he hadn't been the Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force, I reckon that he'd have been an EXCELLENT stand up comedian. No, seriously, people were ROLLING IN THE AISLES. I was laughing so hard, my sides LITERALLY split. Actually, I was too busy watching him and thinking about how many confessions he'd beaten out of people in the past. There's a man whose done some torturing, I thought. Ol' Sir John "I'll hacksaw off your other foot if you don't tell me who sold you those drugs" Stevens, Ex-Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police - funny guy.

Talking of torture, I haven't even got to the reception after the main event. Well, first the school amateur mime-acrobatics team had to perform a ten minute solo from the acrobatic-mime adaptation of Journey's End. Following this, the organist played the National Anthem. Everyone stood up and sang it, looking very confused. I got to 'God Save our Gracious Queen" before petering out into singing random vowels in the vague tune of the song. Personally, I think that they should replace the National Anthem with "Into The Groove" by Madonna. That's a song that everyone loves and can sing along to. It's also finger-clickin' groovay.

Finally... FINALLY... we were allowed into the reception area, where we all mingled and congratulated each other on being just so damn amazing at everything. I also invented myself a brand new game.

Canapé Russian Roulette
This is an awesome game. It's a game of skill, luck, and bravery. And best of all, it's very simple to learn, and can last you any number of foolish corporate gatherings. You don't need very much to play this game. In fact, all you need is yourself. And one other person to play against. And some canapés. And possibly a large prize-giving occasion in which you are served such canapés. Because you can't go out and buy them yourself, oh no! That would ruin the whole point of the game.

Right. Once you have your crucial elements, the game is simple. You just pick up a canapé at random (one that you've never seen before in your life) and take a BIT bite. You must then chew and swallow it. You are NOT allowed to poke, closely examine, sniff, nibble, lick, test-taste, gulp, sluice, or spit out said canapé. That is against the rules. Once you've done this, you can either eat the rest of the canapé, or get rid of it. You then move onto the next tray and repeat. This continues until you are physically incapable of trying any more disgusting cheese whip garlic fish paste puff pastry chewy crunchy vegetable paste spicy crap covered wrap sausage battered pieces of shit canapés.

I was not good at this game. I managed a total of ONE canapé before giving up. But it was a motherFUCKER of a canapé. Of all the canapés in the world, this baby must have been the worst. This baby and its brothers and sisters. There was a big pile of them. They looked like a delicious combination of Yorkshire Pudding and Profiterole. There was a delicious looking white cream oozing from one. "Ooh" I thought to myself. "That does look delicious. I shall partake." I then picked it up and took a huge bite.

Oh. My. God.

I don't know what was in that canapé. I don't want to know. It was like some weird salmon mousse cream cheese culinary inbred incestuous abortion of a paste. Literally, the room span around me. I choked on it, gasped for air, leapt around gurkking, before rushing to the juice bar. Christ. And then I was stuck with three quarters of the canapé of doom still to eat. Because you can't just put it down somewhere. Oh no, that's against social conduct. And you can't just put it back on the plate, half eaten. Unhygenic. And you can't throw it in the air then punt it across the room into a crowd of 13 year olds. So I was left holding this thing, until I thought 'fuck it' and threw it into a random sink.

Who the fuck eats canapés and enjoys them? I'll tell you who: RICH PEOPLE. There. I made some social commentary.

So that's Canapé Russian Roulette, the first of two games that I've been playing recently. The other is the original Gameboy version of Donkey Kong Land. This game is so awesome. First of all, the cartridge is YELLOW, which is pretty cool, as all the other Gameboy cartridges were crappy old grey. Secondly, you get to play as either Diddy (boo) or DONKEY (woo) Kong, and you can run around jumping on the heads of snakes, gophers, evil monsters, armadillos, flying pigs, giant men, but not wasps. Whatever you do, DON'T try to jump on the wasps. They kill you.
What's brilliant is that its been like seven years since I last played this game, but I still remember the exact location of nearly every enemy, every K-O-N-G piece, most of the bonus levels, and in fact every jump in the game. I automatically remembered the traditional 'roll off every edge to give yourself an extra long jump' tactic without even thinking about it.
THOSE are reflexes. Awesome. And yet, I can remember all that, but I have no clue about the subjunctive? Life, ce ne'st pas fair.

I'm living it up, y'all.

I swear to God, I SHALL blog soon...

... but not today.
In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of a chirpy little cowboy fella:



You know what he's thinking? "I'm wearing ladies underwear", that's what he's thinking. Good night, Seatle. Seattle. Seattel. Sehatel. Fuck it.

Well, that's it. My life is no longer worth living.

George Best died today. It was at around 1.10 precisely.
And at that point, my entire life ended.
I'm not joking, George Best was my personal hero. Ever since I first saw him rescuing baby kittens from a blazing house-fire on TV, he's been my idol. I dreamt of being like him. Of looking like him. Of thinking like him, dancing like him, carving like him, dressing like him, playing like him, singing like him, cooking like him, smoking like him, fighting like him, of bar-tending like him and tap-dancing like him, grating cheese like him and ageing like him, of living like him and dying like him. His entire life has been an inspiration for me, and I've followed nearly every second of his monumental existance on this planet. Few of us know when we're going to be wiped off this moral coil, but Mr Best (or "Georgie B' as he was known by his many thousands of fans) managed to live every SECOND of his life to its very fullest. If there was something that George Best failed to achieve in his long and worthwhile life, then I've been hard pressed to find out about it.
I reckon that I was George Best's biggest fan ever. I mean, if someone was to go up to me and ask me "Who is your favourite footballer?" do you know what I'd say? George Best. If somebody went up to me and said "If you were to have a son one day, what would you name him?" do you know what I'd say? George Best Jr. If someone asked me "What's your favourite Broadway Show?" I'd say "Why, Phantom of the Opera, of course, but only the special football edition with the character of Christine being replaced by George Best.
See? THAT is how big a fan of George Best I am, and that is why I've compiled as many of the news headlines about him as I could. Here are just a few of them. They tell the whole epic story:

George Best ill: kidney infection.
George Best still ill.
OMG Gerge BEST ILLS?
George Best 'near death'.
George Best still near death.
George Best stable, near death say doctors.
George Best? Kidney infection? Yes.
Internal bleeding for Best.
Taxi for Best...s undertaker. Soon.
George Best still ill.
George Best continues to be ill.
George Best continues to be ill, with added attraction of internal bleeding.
It's snowing outside! Meanwhile, George Best is dying.
George Best George Best George Best George Best... dead dead dead
George Best... dead? NO. NOT YET.
George Best will probably not make it through the night, say doctors
George Best makes it through the night.
George Best will probably not make it through the day, say doctors
George Best just refuses to fucking die already
George Best DIES
DEAD
George Best dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
George Best dies: "Please do not panic" warns Chief Of Police
Tributes for George Best flooding in
Best dies: "That's one dead footballer" -- Doctor
13 George Best fans die in suicide pact
George Best dead: Martial Law called to quell rioting
Tony Blaire leaves Middle East peace conference, dedicates the final week and a half of his leadership to Best
George Best passes away: Newreaders everywhere look confused
Death of possibly the greatest man ever to live: full analysis
Nation mourns a legend

That's just a proportion of the news coverage of this tragedy. Now, there are SOME PEOPLE who think that this level of news reporting for the death of some old footballer is rediculous. They think that we shouldn't be subjected to endless news-flashes in which we're forced to listen to fuckwitted news reporters spouting pointless repetitive babble about some stupid alcoholic ex-footballer who's taking far too long to die and really has had no point for the last twenty years. But these people are WRONG. Dead wrong. Couldn't be wronger. They're about as wrong as Nat was when he thought that my girlfriend would ever consider saying 'yes sure I'll run away with you'. But that's all in the past.

I mean, if I had one criticism of the news reportage of George Best's death, it would be that there simply wasn't enough of it. I'll give you an example. It's yesterday. It's the middle of the night. I'm having a nice dream about cucumbers, when suddenly, I WAKE UP. I sit bolt upright in my king sized bed, with thoughts of George flashing through my fevered brain. How is he? Has he taken a turn for the worst? Is he still stable? Or has he died, shattering the world? Has humanity just experienced the worst disaster since the moon landing crew missed the moon and crashed into the Sun?
I just don't know. I turn on the wireless but -CURSES- they're playing a song. And I can't wait seven minutes for the next newsflash, I have to know NOW. But I can't. Because they aren't reporting anything. So while waiting for news to occur, I both wet AND soil myself. Thanks a lot, NEWS MEDIA.

Personally, I wouldn't be adverse to a 24 hours a day Best-A-Thon. Just solid coverage of the Best story as it unfurls. That would have solved all my problems. In fact, fuck it, they should give George Best his own TV channel. I can't think of a more deserving man. It could be called George TV (and the tagline would be "The BEST channel!") and basically it would be 24 solid hours of Ol' Besty. There'd be repeats of his football matches, that old documentary that he used to do, more repeats of his matches, and "Georges Top Tips', a TV show with a looky-likey of George giving retarded children tips on climbing down the stairs, getting dressed, and turning on the television without punching themselves unconscious. There would also be a game show called "You're Kidney-ing me!" (Hosted by that guy who used to present Get your own back! and the G-B lookalike) in which contestants compete to get donor kidneys. They'd have to complete a series of gladiator-style obstacle courses, each more deadly/humiliating than the last. Every time a contestant lost, they'd be denied the kidney, and best of all, they'd be GUNGED! It'd be full of wacky craziness!
But most of all, George TV would have footage of the outside of the hospital where George stayed, and would have regular updates from his son and his doctor. I'd watch it. In fact, I'd buy two tvs and watch it on both AT THE SAME TIME, if just to raise the viewing figures and to give myself double the Best-fix.

But thats not to say that regular TV isn't doing it's bit to maintain the image of the George Best we all knew and loved. Pretty much every channel has had a documentary on the life and times of this great great man. I don't think this is enough. Where are the throngs of mourners outside the hospital? The candlelit vigils? The religious cults trying to ressurect him? A bunch of crappy football shirts and memorials won't do SHIT to preserve the memory of this holy centurion of nature. In fact, I won't even begin to be satisfied until they've held a huge funeral march through the streets of London, complete with floats in the shape of whiskey bottles and footballs, huge funeral balloons looking like the great man's head, and best of all, a massive moving funeral pyre pulled by pygmies dressed up as dobermans. This would of course be watched by literally MILLIONS of onlookers, all dressed in pink-mauve and indigo-green (George's favourite colours), and would attract billions of viewers on televamision and the intermanet.

There should also be a feature long film made about his life. It'd be called simply George the BEST. It'd detail this great man's childhood: fighting court cases for minority groups in the segragated society of Manchester, before progressing to his ascention to a figurehead of liberty, fighting against demonical British Government. Then it would detail the twenty seven years he spent in a prison, oppressed by the harshness of the government, while his wife Winnie Mandela-Best had an affair with a local blacksmith and his children died in car accidents. It would then detail his final years, his endless work for the community and the way in which George Best truly made the world a better place and thus deserves all the praise and adulation he gets.
The wife would be played, of course, by Jennifer Lopez, as I don't think that she's in enough movies. As for George... well, I don't think that ANYBODY would be able to properly play the role of George Best, to live up to the heroism of this AMAZING man, so instead I reckon that they should just fully computer-animate his body and have him voiced by James Earl Jones. Now, if you don't think that's possible, I've created a computer mock-up of what George Best looks like right now. As you can see, the results are PRETTY impressive:



Well, OK, perhaps I'm being a little sarky with that picture. That isn't what GB looks like now. In this picture, his skin appears to be sort of normal colour, whereas in real life/death it's probably more of a 'bannana' or 'week old bruise' colour. Also his arms and legs appear to be moving in that picture, whereas in real life, they most certainly aren't. Because he's dead.

I just can't type any more. I'm just too wrought with emoticons. I fear that soon I shall cry, and my tears of grief will drip onto this paint-by-numbers George Best picture I have in front of me, and the yellow watercolour shall drip onto my suede shoes. And I just don't think that I'd be able to stand that sort of pain. So, for all of you, farewell. My life with George Best is over. Forever. I'll just have to accept that and get on with things. Sniff.

Oh, and in other news, Pat Morita, best known for his role as the Karate Man in Karate Kid: Part 2 AND Karate Kid 3: Part 3, has also died:



So all in all, this has been a sad day for fans of alcoholic ex-footballers and old wise karate masters everywhere.

If you don't like irony, don't know who George Best was, or are female, this post was probably not an enjoyable experience for you.

Nat, she's all yours. I have decided to break up with Lucia

Yep, bombshell there.
Ready for another?
I've decided to buy myself a Russian Mail-Order bride.
Yep.
I really have.
I've thought long and hard, and I've decided that it's the only thing for me to do. I mean, I know that I already HAVE a girlfriend, and she's lovely and all that, but if I'm going to be brutally honest, having seen off my first romantic rival and thus marking her as my property (if we were dogs, lions or germans, this would be by urinating on her legs), I've kind of lost interest. So, I've decided that the only possible thing to do is to order myself a NEW bride in secret, then just kind of get HER to dump my girlfriend. It'll be like 'Yeah, sorry babe, but I've married Helga Svletlankarskiantarska. She's adept in killing wolverines, bears and, uh, wolverbears (a new form of predator that loves sweet sweet honey, but is deadly allergic to silver) with her bare hands, so I wouldn't try and get me back, if I were you. Toodles!'. And I'd be texting her. Or even better, telling her OVER MSN so then she can't keep the message and show it to all her friends. Oh yeah, I'm the machine. The heartbreaking machine. And I'd be sure to dump her on New Year's Eve, the most romantic night of the year, which is (hilariously), just a few days before her birthday! Oh yeah, I'm harsh.
So with that in mind, I've searched out the most reputable Russian Mail-Order Bride (herefore shortened to RMOB) site on the internet, so I can hurry this up and get the future Mrs Thomas sent over here before Chrimbo.

I came up with this site.

Well, it seems pretty reputable. There's a nice graphic of some red hot glowing lava-people exchanging rings, being watched by a crowd of fellows. Wow, so that's what kind of wedding I'll get when I ship in my russian bride? Cool, man. They appear to support Anti-Spam. Which is good. Shows character. I've lost count of the RMOB sites I've seen that fully support internet spam. And would I feel comfortable buying a woman from a site like that? Why I THINK NOT. Those RMOB sites just seem to be lacking the essential integrity that I require for all my lady-purchasing needs. BUT NOT THIS SITE: they have offices in not one, not two, but FOUR former Soviet Union countries: Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan and Latvia. If Kyrgystan doesn't spell LOVE, then I really don't know what does.

But of course, I couldn't just rely on the amazing site design. If I'm going to spend my hard earned dosh, I have to be SURE that I'm gonna get quantity. So I then checked out the 'clients opinions' to make sure that their previous movers-and-shakers were satisfied with the service. Here's some of the more touching stories:

Brian and... Tina

Wow. It's not often you see a man with arms that are longer than his legs. Look, they're so in love. He's bought her a giant blue flower and everything. If you look carefully, you'll notice that 'Tina' is actually wearing typical Russian marriage-clogs. The Russians only wear THOSE then they're really in love. I can see that this would have been be a long and happy relationship. If only that black car behind them hadn't accelerated out of the garage and crushed them both like small squishable bugs.

Gary and Marina

You can tell that he's saying 'tee-hee'. He just looks like the kind of guy who says 'tee-hee' a lot. Or perhaps he's more of a 'tee-hee-hee' man. Actually, hes probably saying 'Golly, I might get to kiss a GIRL tonight'. She already has the glazed, vacant expression of the dead. I bet that she's actually a robot. That would explain A LOT.

Guy and some chick in a purple dress

How ol' Gazza wasn't married off before, I'll never know. Just look at his nice moustache and the rakish angle of his chin. In fact, when I saw this picture, I was CONVINCED that there'd been some sort of miscategorisation and that purple woman'd actually ordered Gary from sort of Russian Mail-Order HUSBAND site. Or, as I'd call it 'MALE-order Husbands'! A HA! I'm onto a winner here.

Well, after reading many of the opinions, I was fully convinced. So now the next thing was to fill in the online application form. I had to choose all the details of my perfect ruskie bride. This was a section full of difficult decisions.

AGE
Ranges from 18-62. Hmm. Well I'll be wanting a woman with some experiance, not just some stupid 18 year old bimbo who'll run away with the first whale-hunting arab she sees. Perhaps I should go for exclusivity? I wasn't sure about this one, so I just went for '43-62'. A nice round number. And I bet the older brides are cheaper. Like at the supermarket when there's money off any bits of chicken that have visible fungi growing off of them. The shop just has to get rid of the old specimins before they're forced to destroy them in the industrial furnace. By the way, that last sentence wasn't a simile; I'm pretty sure that that is actually what they do with Mail-Order Brides.
Height
From 4ft3 to 7ft6. Well, I don't want a bride that's taller than me. But I don't want one that's miles shorter than me, either. Then we'll look like some comic, comic duo. Like, we'll be dancing along the street and people will yell "OI LAUREL AND HARDY!" Except that I'm not fat and she won't have a moustache (hopefully). And she won't speak English, so I'll have to translate the heckle and explain the cultural reference. And I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings like that. I'd better choose a bride who's the same height as me. But what if she wears heels? Then she'll be taller than me, and I'll be forced to cheesewire off her feet while she's asleep. And I'm sure that that'll be detrimental to the relationship. Better to be on the safe side, and go with four 4ft. She can always wear stilts and she gets to keep her feet. Win win situation.
Weight
80lbs-300lbs. Damn non-metric weight systems. How the hell am I supposed to know how much that is? Ah screw it, I'll just guess. I figure that 260lbs is about 60kg. A touch light for my tastes, but I guess that I'll be able to feed her up a bit.
Hair colour
Well, ideally I'd like a bald bride. Then I could draw penii and write 'Kick me' on the back of her head, and she wouldn't be able to do SHIT, because if she complained I'd just throw her into a canal. Or I could make her wear a variety of exotic French aristocracy wigs in the shape of fruit or wine bottles or two short people having a duel. But for some reason, 'bald' wasn't an option in the form. So I chose Brown-Silver, because then she'll be sort of like a robot tree. And robot trees are cool.
Education
Here are the options: College, Conservatory, I am sudent [sic], Secondary, Technical, University, Student. Well, THIS was a well translated web-page. I considered just going with a russian college babe. But following a long and deep thought process, I decided that I couldn't turn down the chance of a girl whose entire education had taken place in a glass-roofed side-room jutting out into the garden. So conservatory it was.
Martial Status
It'll have to be a widow. At least then I know that she works properly, and that there won't be a crazed russian ex-husband butcher chasing me down with a skidoo and a sharp pig-knife at any point in the future.
Location of girls
Wow. There are just so many choices. I'm just torn between Karaganda in Kasakhstan, or the beautifully named Lugansk, in Ukraine. So I just selected all of them.

It was with barelly controlled excitement that I clicked the button reading 'To find my lady'. Here's what came up:

Regrettably, data in base do not come to light.

What the fuck does that mean? You mean that there wasn't a single 44 year old grey haired midget in the entire bunch? What kind of people trading ring IS this? You lousy Russians. I mean, you could've at least tried to translate the message properly. Sods. So therefore, I was forced to search MANUALLY through all 10 pages of brides to find my ideal match.
It was a long and arduous trek, but finally I found true love, in the shape of 49 year old Tatyna from Kazakhstan:



Seriously, beauty, thou havest a name, and that name is TATYNA. If I had the expertise, I would photoshop a border of flowers and angels around that picture. But I can't. I want to have you shipped over here as quickly as possible. In fact, I'll pay extra for rush shipping, and I'll also pay for you to have an extra roomy travelling box, complete with air holes and a little bowl of food for you to snack on on the boat. But at the moment, I'm a little strapped for cash, having been sucked dry by my previous girlfriend, Lu "Gold-Digger" cia. So I decided, what would be the most awesome/affordable testimony to my love for my new russian bride? OF COURSE. I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER. There's a little button under her picture that says 'Write a letter to this lady now, one credit'. I wonder what a credit is? To the FAQ!

A credit is a method of payment provided for purchasing letters, gifts, and telephone calls. The more credits you purchase at one time, the cheaper the price.

SIX CREDITS FOR $36? Screw that, I could buy an entire Madonna album for that. Oh, Tatyana, I love you, but it seems that we can no longer be together, due to the cruel vaguaries of fate. I hope that you can find someone out there who will possibly love you as much as I will were I were to ever get the chance, because I never will. Someone like Erich here:



He's currently engaged to be married to a random russian chick, but come on, ladies, I'm sure if YOU write to him for a few weeks, he'll propose marriage to YOU, too.

Apology.

This is a message for Nat.

This is my apology to Nat. I know that, even though you tried to steal my girlfriend, I've been really harsh to you. I was angry and upset at the time, and the message was a horrible representation of a person that I'm trying not to be. It was wrong for me to write some of those nasty things about you. When I think about it, you are the wounded party in this entire thing. I mean, can you really help you fall truthfully and realistically in love with? I don't think so. So I'm sorry.


I really am sorry, man.


You didn't deserve such shabby treatment.


If you want to, I'll delete the previous post and we can forget that this horrible ordeal ever happened. I think that I've grown from this whole experiance as a person. I realise now that yes, I WAS taking my girlfriend for granted. I'll be sure to treat her better now. You've shown me the correct path. I owe you.










Thank you.










NOT REALLY.

This is a message for Nat

As apparently the first message for Nat wasn't enough to persuade him to stop being a bitch.

Listen, I know that you're offended that I made fun of you ON TEH INTERNETS. I know that you're probably much happier when you're bitching like a woman and making everyone feel sorry for you. Me making fun of you and thus popping your little balloon of misery probably spoilt it. Having attempted to steal my girlfriend, I bet that you're happily moping about, listening to My Chemical Romance, eating sugar and being the wronged party in this kerazy board-shuffle of bit parts and dramatic irony that we call life. Guilt trippery is fun, eh? And I'm fine with that. Do what you want to do.

But for crying out loud, what possessed you to come onto my blog and post a long comment calling me a 'little girl?'. I mean, seriously, what is this shit?

Seriously, you could have just taken it like a man. You could have manfully allowed me to cheekily prick your stupid self-image like the cheeky scamp I am. Then, there would only have been one "Let's make fun of Nat" post. But no. You HAD to try and trip-the-guilt. SO NOW THERE ARE TWO. You have kind of shot yourself in the foot.

Of course, I say 'kind of shot yourself in the foot'. What you have done in effect, is slightly worse. To be honest, you've basically gone out, bought a high calibre rifle, bullets, and a "How to kill stuff" aiming booklet. Then you've built a number of scale models of your feet out of plaster-of-Paris, and have positioned them on blocks at various distances (say, 10 metres, 50 metres, 100 metres) in an abandoned field somewhere in the Lake District. You've then spent the day practising your aiming skillz, until you can hit the feet blindfolded from any position in the dark of night. THEN, you've re-greased and re-loaded your rifle with the most penetrating, shattening, high velocity/explosive rounds you can legally buy... in ALABAMA. You've then carefully drawn an X on your foot with a solvent-free board marker, having perviously studied the Jones & Jones textbook to find the point which will result in maximum foot-damage. THEN you've pointed the rifle at your foot, taken careful aim, and finally FIRED.
THAT IS HOW MUCH YOU HAVE SHOT YOURSELF IN THE FOOT WITH THE FOLLOWING COMMENT:

Tom has a right to be angry at me, But his way of dealing with it, whith a post intended to mock, gloat at and humiliate me is what i would expect from a 10 year old girl, not a 17 year old male. Perhaps you should all judge me with less haste, as tom hardly gives anybody any facts to go on, instead spending a page bitching.
< Oh, and if you edit or remove this comment, it only further proves my point,
Heres some advice for you: Next time someone treats you bad, like I clearly have, go punch them like a man, instead of bitching to your and their friends like a little girl.


Ah, the omg dog makes a triumphant return to form.

First thing I'd like to say is that there were TWELVE grammatical/syntactical/spelling/writing errors in that. And I do English Language AND Literature AS levels, so I KNOW what I'm talking about. That's not to mention the hideous amount of sexism. I'm known for my new-man femininst stance on life, and both me and my ho were OFFENDED by this comment, as you somehow imply that ten year old girls are less sophisticated than seventeen year old males.

But to be honest, have you ever met a ten year old girl? They're pretty stupid. Would a ten year old girl have used such complicated language as was in the previous post? Why I think NOT. And I have experience in such matters. I have a tennish year old sister, and she's still using stupid words like 'da' as in 'da boy' and 'sooooooo' in a non-ironic way. And she also says 'lol' and 'omg' a lot. She doesn't make any pseudo-intelligent satirical comments about the current overuse and weaknesses of airline security, while simultaneously referencing Shakespeare and using the foulest of the foul language. And she doesn't even KNOW how to use Photoshop. In fact, her artwork consists of just these really crappy crayon doodles of cats and flowers and shit. She's just retarded. My picture had a border and everything. Therefore that post could NOT have been made by a 10 year old girl. So you've embarassed yourself there.

In fact, the only thing that I can remember my 10 year old sister doing is wearing pink clothes, sending a lot of moronic and pointless text messages, and whingeing a lot in a rather bitchish way.

Hey, wait a second. Pink clothes? Text messages? Whingeing a lot when one don't get one's way? That sounds FAMILIAR. OMG IT'S YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG OMG OMG SO THAT MUST MEAN THAT YOU ARE TEH LITTLE GIRL!!!!!!2211!!!!ONE11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
But seriously, tip for the future: Cut back on the incessant texting. Nobody appreciates being texted fifteen times being told to 'go online' then being phoned because they don't go online. Then being bitched at because they took too long to get online. Then being made to feel guilty.

Anyway, now I'm going to drop the bombshell. Prepare yourself for this baby.

At no point during this entire exciting episode was I ever pissed off with you for even half a second.

That's right. The entire thing has been a source of endless comic value to me. So why did I bother blogging about this, and thus humiliating you? Hey, you offered me a target. I had to take it.

I have really nothing else to add, so here's a nice picture of some hobbits for you to look at while you consider how much I have SUCKER PUNCHED YOU. Literally. And no, I'm not going to go and find you and punch you in the face. What are you, stupid? With my adamantine-strengthened arm muscles, I'd take off your fucking head, then I'd have to go on the run for another fifteen years.



GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOBBITS!

Harsh, man, harsh

Well, I've owned a girlfriend for only three (ish... I dunno, I wasn't counting) months, and ALREADY I've seen off my first love rival. To protect his dignity, I've decided not to name him. His name is Nat. He's commented on this blog quite a few times. He was a fairly worthy rival to the fair damsel's love. And can I tell you, persuading her to choose me over him was a hard and difficult slog. At one point, I thought that I might not make it. My girlfriend was literally SECONDS from dropping everything, dumping me, then running away with him to Rio, starting a counterstrike/music video/counterstrike music video making company, then retiring rich and fat at the age of twenty one to lie on a beach and drink banana daquiris for the rest of her life. In fact, she was just boarding the plane when I came running into the airport. I sprinted past fifteen security guards when one stopped me at the security checkpoint. A huge black afro-wearing ex-bodybuilding wrestler with a heart of gold, he was.

"Sorry sir, but we'll have to search you," he said in a rumbling baritone voice.
"I've got no time for that, my good sir," I replied in dulcet tones. "My love rival is about to steal away my girlfriend. Just take my word for it that I'm not a terrorist and let me run blithely through the security checkpoint without being searched or detained in any way."
The huge black afro-wearing ex-bodybuilding wrestler with a heart of gold thought for a second. Finally, he replied. "Well, you don't look THAT arabic. It's fine by me. Just promise not to blow anything up."
I thought for a brief second. My fight with my love rival might end up with something being blown up. I decided to be honest. "I'm sorry, Pedro, but that's just a promise that I just can't make."
"Oh well. Through you go."

I pointlessly dived through the checkpoint and ran to the boarding gate. A gaggle of Air Stewardesses (or as they prefer to be known, Air Stewardessi) got in my way, so I was forced to garotte them out of the way, but I finally reached the gate. Just in time, may I add. My love rival and my girlfriend were JUST boarding the plane. I stepped in the way and blocked their entrance.

"I'm sorry, Lucia, I can't let you do this." I said firmly. My rival scowled and drew his sword. In turn, I unsheathed my long, sticky, manly blade.
"Get out of the way, thou clouted beetle-headed haggard!" he cried theatrically.
"Never, you loggerheaded onion-eyed maggot-pie!" I replied flippantly.
"She is coming with me, currish full-gorged flax-wench, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" he retorted belligerantly.
"I won't allow it, you rump-fed ronyon... you'll have to kill me first," I responded courageously.
"Very well, o lumpish toad-spotted joithead. I shall strike you down where you stand," he hissed scurvily.
"Do your best, you fucking cunt."

We had a long and exciting fight in which, sadly, several things WERE blown up and a good deal of innocent civilians were killed. But fortunately, a terrorist was also beheaded in the melee, so I guess it all evened out in the end. Eventually, though, I forced him to his knees, and cut off his earlobes. I then stripped him naked, suspended him from the ceiling with hooks, stuck pins through his jawbone and poured hot oil on him. He ran screaming from the airport. Wuss.
"Hey baby," I said to my girlfriend. "I have seen off my rival. You are mine again. Now gimme some sugar."
Then we pashed like Joe Mangrel and Lynne Scully on heat, and I slung her up on my horse and we rode off into the sunset together. It was jolly exciting.

Ok, so that account may not have been 100% factual. In fact, it may not have been 10% factual. In fact, only the names of the characters were factual. So that's like, what, 3%? It doesn't matter. I think the important message of the day is that I SAW OFF A LOVE RIVAL. Well, I didn't actually SEE HIM OFF, per se, as I didn't actually know he WAS a love rival until he had been TURNED DOWN by my girlfriend, (nobody told me because apparently the general consensus was that I'd find it hilarious and would be insulting... moi?) but I like to think that my spirit was somehow hovering above her computer when she said "Uh babe, I don't love you back. NO, NEVER, not in a MILLION YEARS, I can't BELIEVE YOU WOULD EVEN ASK THAT, WHAT ARE YOU, STUPID?". Or something similar. Actually, it would be with more typos.

For me, the great thing about this situation is that, for once, I am the wounded party. Memo to Nat: I don't care how much you think you were in love with her, she was still MY girlfriend. Therefore, MY property. You're not allowed to steal somebody else's property. That's like petty theft. You are totally in the wrong here. There is no way that you possibly deserve sympathy, no matter how much you try to guilt trip everybody (my girlfriend's kind of slow, so she falls for that kind of thing. Meanwhile, I'm as sharp as a tack, and your powers of guilt-trippery will not work on me, young padawan). So that basically means that I insult/make fun of you as much as I like, and you can't say SHIT. I'll be happily sitting here and typing away, and you'll be sitting in your room in the dark being depressed, contemplating a depressing suicide with an OD of viagra pills, and listening to Linkin Park. The Linkin-Parksters will make it all better. And I've said this before, but I'll say it again: if this was Eastenders, I'd have driven you down with my car, kicked the crap out of you, set fire to your dog and then peed on your mother. So count yourself lucky that all I'm doing is insulting you on my blog.

By the way, notice that I say 'Insulting' and not 'humiliating'. Because I guess that you've been humiliated enough. I mean, just IMAGINE it. Telling a girl that you're in love with her then being TOTALLY REJECTED. She didn't even CONSIDER IT as a VIABLE OPTION. I mean, that must have hurt. Did it hurt, to have been SHOT DOWN THAT BADLY? I mean, wow, your entire world must have collapsed around you as you realised what a total FOOL you'd made of yourself. Really, did you not notice that you two have literally NOTHING IN COMMON? Did the fact that she already had a boyfriend tip you off to the fact that NO, SHE WASN'T GONNA GO OUT WITH YOU? That must have been embarrassing. CHRIST, man, how can you stand the humiliation of having the entire school year know that you asked out another guy's girlfriend, then got turned DOWN? And not just turned down. Turned down is too nice a word, I think that I'd rather say BLOWN OUT OF THE WATER LIKE A CHEAP BRITISH BATTLESHIP IN THE EARLY DAYS OF WORLD WAR ONE. I can't imagine just how awful it must have felt with the sudden realisation of how totally, utterly, fully and incomprehensibly 100% WRONG you were. That must have hurt.

Because of this, I've decided that I'm not going to humiliate or make fun of you any more. There's no point in rubbing your nose in it, is there?



HA HA RINSED.

God, I'm such a smart arse.

Things that make my soul die a little bit

In no particular order.

1: Going onto my blog, scrolling down, and reading the words: 0 comments.
2: When I've been writing a blog for like five minutes, then I accidentally hit the tab button and go onto fark.com, and then when I go back it won't refresh what I've written, so I try to reproduce it but it's just not as good.
3: Looking at my iPod. It's just... so... scratched. This depresses me an enourmous amount, but I'll be fucked if I'm paying Apple thirty quid for a travel case.
4: When I come to the double doors that lead into our common room and I push them to open and I ALWAYS PUSH THE LOCKED ONE. Like, every time, without fail. I swear to god they swap them around, just to annoy me.
5: Getting sassed by the younger children at my school. I'm sure that I was never that fucking cheeky when I was a third year. But now, I'm walking down the road, holding my amazing piece of artwork, and this four foot tall, gel-haired, squeaky voiced little shit just randomly comes up to me and insults it. I mean, what do you do? Accept the insults with gentle good grace? Start crying? Slap the little sod silly? Because I'm pretty sure that I could take him. I mean, I do weights and everything, and his testicles haven't even descended. But then I don't slap him silly because then I'd end up getting in shit for beating up an eleven year old. And even deeper, lodged in my subconscious, is the worry that he might end up beating me in a straight fight.
6: When I'm watching a film on tv, and quite enjoying it, so I decide to look it up on imdb.com. I look at the computer for literally two minutes, then when I return to the film, all the characters have changed, they're all sitting in an air raid bunker somewhere discussing politics, and I have no idea what the hell's going on.
7: Ben Affleck's face:

Ewwwwww.
8: The realisation that, despite all the rowing training I do, my arms are still kind of small and wimpish.
9: The fact that, as soon as I get a girlfriend, the entire rest of my school year does too, which kind of ruins the entire exclusive point.
10: Accidentally tripping over the carpet when I'm walking along the corridor.
11: Mowing the lawn and driving over a dog turd.
12: Being punched in the eye by my dog.
13: Trying to imagine what kind of mood the songwriter of Placebo was in when he wrote, well, most of their songs.
14: Anybody other than me swearing violently. I'm the only one allowed to do it.
13: Realising that I will NEVER be as rock and roll rebellious as Linkin Park. Those guys rock so hard, there's no point in me even trying.
15: The other day, I was watching a documentary on Channel 4 about the pyramids or something, and at the end, they used IT'S incorrectly. I wasn't dreaming it, it actually happened. This was NATIONAL TELEVISION. And I've also seen this mistake on packets of fruit-stix, gift catalogues and even cereal boxes. Does nobody hold strongly to the sacred laws of grammar any more? I mean, I think that I already blogged about this aaaaages ago, but just for a quick lesson, here's the ONE RULE YOU NEED TO REMEMBER:

THAT'S IT. NOTE BENE.
16: Huge traffic jams. And then my mum gets pissed off when I start randomly swearing at the traffic in front of me. Is there no decency left in the world?
17: The fact that I'm sitting here flexing my back, and each time I flex my back, my shoulderblade kind of pops out of place, and it really hurts each time I do it, and I CAN'T STOP DOING IT.
18: The plot of The Godfather part 2, and the way that everybody says it's really good, but I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT. I watched it like four times and I still have no idea who that old guy with the cake was.
19: When my driving instructor gasps and grabs the steering wheel out of my grasp to save us from collision with something obvious.
20: My bed. I don't know what's wrong with it, but it creaks like a bastard. And theres a huge dip in the middle. And when I try and sleep on the sides to correct the dip, I just roll into the dip. Damn you, gravity.
21: Waking up in the middle of the night and kind of needing the toilet, but not being sure whether I need it enough to get up, so getting up and going downstairs anyway because I'm awake and I won't be able to get back to sleep until this issue is resolved, and then discovering that no, there was no urine in my bladder after all.
22: Being outwitted by stupid people.
23: Green Day. They suck.
24: Coming 17th in things.
25: Settling down to doing a good lot of homework, then coming to and realising that it's 10:30, I'm sitting in front of the computer and I have achieved absolutely nothing. Then turning off the computer and trying to go to bed.
26: Imagining how much Tyler Durden would hate me if I ever met him.
27: Remembering that Tyler Durden is a fictional character. And he didn't even really exist in the film. And then he died anyway. And I don't quite understand why he died, which kind of ruins the entire point of Fight Club.
28: When my computer randomly dies for no reason.
29: Having absolutely nothing to say.
30: Which is kind of the situation that I have reached with this post. Maybe I should end this list here. Thirty. That's a good number to end on. It's soul affirming.
30.5: Hip-hop music and the obscene amount of money that those cunts make every day.
30.9: Getting a stitch half a mile into a four mile run.
31: Watching Diagnosis Murder, then proclaiming loudly that I know who the murderer is, I know, I know, I'm so smart, then it turns out the murderer is a random woman who appears in the very last scene. Then they all have a party.
32: That episode of CSI:NY when it turns out that the guy was actually killed by a piece of ice that fell off a plane and hit him on the head, thus rendering the rest of the episode pointless.
33: We have a late submission: When I click 'publish post' and then it informs me that I have an HTML error SOMEWHERE in the post. And the post contains like, fifty bits of HTML. Thanks a lot, you twat.

Well, that was depressing. I'm now going to have to listen to the Divine Comedy's Come Home Billy Bird four times on repeat until the final verse has returned my soul to health.

JUST KIDDING, I'M ACTUALLY A VERY HAPPY PERSON.

Fun Fact: The Village of Berwick upon Trent was technically at war with Russia for 113 years, until a peace treaty was formally signed in 1966. At the signing, the mayor of Berwick was heard to remark "Well, tell the Russian people that they can sleep well in their beds". FUNNY.

Q: What do cows saw when they explode? A: Kablamoo.

I nearly died on Saturday.
Yes, again. I've been having quite a few near-death experiences lately. It's almost as though Death, having missed the boat with his Death-Range-Rover the other day, has been pulling out all the stops to wipe me off this mortal coil. Like in that film Final Destination, except much less successfully. And less hilariously.
Let me set the scene. It's bonfire night, the most exciting night of the year. People are setting off fireworks left right and center. It's like the fucking Blitz, except with fewer Germans. My dog is quivering under the table somewhere. We are ignoring her. Being far too tired to bother walking into Walton to spend £6.50 on a 45 minute long firework show and freezing off my ass, I'm standing in the garden, enjoying other people's fireworks like the cheap mooch I am. Then it happened.
My near death experience. Just thinking about it scares me, even now. I was literally inches from death. Hell, it's a wonder that I wasn't scarred for life, at the very least. Because all of a sudden, there was a lit firework IN MY GARDEN. It just LANDED IN MY HAND. Literally 40cm away from my head, shooting around and spurting off sparks all over the place. I was unable to move. I just stared, transfixed, as the white hot bits of flame flew everywhere. It could have exploded at any point, and I WAS UNABLE TO MOVE OUT OF THE WAY. The firework had somehow attached itself to my hand and would NOT COME OFF.

That's right. I was playing with a sparkler... WITHOUT WEARING ADEQUATE HAND PROTECTION.

Shit, man.
Just thinking about it gives me the willies. Just imagine. That sparkler could have suddenly leapt out of my hand, buried itself into my eyeball, and then seared my brain. Or spontenously ignited and soldered through my skin, entered my bloodstream and become lodged in my heart where it frazzled my vena cava, resulting in massive haemorraging and an eventual slow, painful death. Or perhaps the sparkler could have been carrying some highly exotic disease which it spread to me through its sparks and resulted in my skin turning into bile and dripping off in a red/grey/green gooey mess of STINKING PHLEGM. Or perhaps the sparkler could've pushed me off a cliff, claimed the insurance money then run away to Rio. All these things were equally possible.
It was a near escape, I'll tell you that. As I was twirling it around, I did feel a bit of a kick in my arm, almost as though it was trying to jump free. Possibly it was heading towards the gun cabinet, or the laudinium cask. Fortunately, we'll never know what its plans were, as I recognised its evil intent and hurled it in the air, cackling as it sailed away, forming a cool light show. It then fizzled to a pauper's death on the lawn. Take THAT, you sparkly bastard.

TOP TIP: If you are unwilling or unable to afford a decent fireworks show, just buy some sparklers, and throw them directly into the air above you. The results are, I assure you, awesome. This works even better if the sparklers are lit.

But seriously, what was I thinking, to fool about with sparklers in such an irresponsible manner? I could have been killed! And it wasn't as if I hadn't had plenty of prior warning. I mean, tv adverts are on every hour of the sodding day. My personal favourite one is an oldie, but a goodie, and it gets its chilling message across well.

The first shot is of this guy walking down the road. We can't see his face, but we assume that he's totally non-deformed.
"When I was 16, all I wanted was for girls to notice me," he says. He walks past some girls. They both look at him. 'Hmm', we think, 'he surely must be an attractive and well groomed young man for these females to pay such attention to him. Perhaps he he has a nicely shaped beard, or perhaps he is part of to top Scottish rock group Travis. Whatever the reason, it sure must be good to be this fellow.'
CUT TO: Our hero as a young lad, playing with some fireworks, holding one in his hand and flinging it about. 'Hmm' we think. 'That certainly looks like it could have some sort of tragic outcome. But what could possibly happen? Playing with fireworks is a fun and totally riskless pastime.'
CUT TO: Our hero walking down the road.
"And now, they all do," he says. Then we see his face and OH MY GOD he's horribly scarred from the firework hitting him in the face. His eye is all white and crazy looking. He looks like that guy in Harry Potter with the one eye. One-Eye Pete, I think his name was. He wasn't a major character. Then we see the girls, and MY LORD, they're not looking at him with female lust, its with disgust and pity. Because every time you walk down the street and see a guy with a slightly burnt looking face, you respond with a horrified look. Instead of just ignoring it and getting on with your life.
'Wow,' we think 'His life has been totally ruined by fireworks. I certainly shaln't be playing with them any time soon. Thank you, television, for imparting this lesson!'
And then, in a totally amazing bit of lexical wordplay, the word COOL appears on the screen, but TRANSFORMS into the word FOOL. Because you THINK that you're cool, playing with fireworks, when you're actually a FOOL, and your life will be melted by the high explosives that you're holding in one mittened hand. Sheesh.

Actually, there's a poster of this advert somewhere on the internet. Like... HERE:



Its not the same guy (our hero from the advert has a gippy eye, this guy's cheek is fucked) but it has the same basic effect of SHOCKING YOU. And as the top English-speaker in the world, I have to say that this is an INCREDIBLY clever advert. You see, 'branded' means TWO things in different circumstances, and in this advert BOTH meanings are utilised to give a grisly idea. As this boy has literally been BRANDED A FOOL, as the fireworks have burnt their dark message into his white virginal skin. He's forever cursed with that hideous scar that will ruin his life. He'll die alone and unloved in a dark motorway service station, hunched over the cracked toilet bowl with three bottles of non-presription painkillers in his stomach and a bullet in his brain and he won't be discovered for two weeks because nobody cares enough to even look for him because of his hideous scar. And all because he was playing with fireworks as a child.

Except, sorry, what am I saying? That scar is AWESOME. I would love to have a big mofoing scar like that on one cheek. Not big enough to be offputting, but enough that people will go up to me in the street and ask if they can touch it for money. And if I get into a knife-fight, I can pretend that I got the scar in a previous fight and I'm in no way afraid of death. And if I wanted a job, and they didn't give it to me, I could sue them, claiming that I was being discriminated against and then I'd be really rich. And for Halloween, I wouldn't need a costume, I'd just go as a zombie. A zombie who'd died in a fireworks related accident. I'm not joking, it'd be AWESOME. Getting a big fucking scar is one of my goals in life. Like being hit by a car. Or falling down a really big flight of stairs. So, to be honest, the poster should look something like this:



Actually, this poster could be used for a whole HOST of other charities and worthwhile causes. The charity for those who have suddenly turned grey, for example. Greygivitis. Or, like, a Christian charity that patronises young people who've had mishaps with superglue and have managed to permanently attach themselves to metal sheets.
Or perhaps its an awareness poster for the charity for boys who have large grey bits of cardboard instead of jawbones.
Or maybe a recruiting poster for the new James Bond films. "We need sinister henchmen with cool looking scars. Extra credit will be given to those with metal arms, cool appendages, or the ability to breathe fire."
Maybe its for people without thumbs? Who knows? It could be anything.

Personally, I think that this is a highly controversial poster. I mean, if you just change a few letters and add a colon, it becomes the most blatantly ageist thing that I've ever seen:



Shocking. Just shocking.

Hoppy Hollowoon

Well, another Halloween has gone by, and this year I've really gone all out to celebrate this pointless American tradition. I carved possibly the world's most wussy pumpkin (it has this big round smile and some big round eyes and is basically begging to be baseball batted), I bought a nice bunny mask and went to a fascinating social event or, as I believe the young people of today refer to them, a 'party' (I then got hammered on cheap wine and lost two hours of my life, my phone, and my mother's special sunglasses). Hell, I even had some "trick or treaters" coming to my house, whom I ignored. But most of all, I celebrated Halloween in the most traditional way I could: by attempting to watch every shitty horror film that came on TV in an attempt to be in any way scared. This is difficult, as I only have five channels and, uh, a life, so I was unable to catch all of them. On the other hand, I also managed to watch a random DVD from my collection, a docu-drama about the perils of drinking, an advert for a documentary that I do not intend seeing, and a West-End musical. In my book, these still count as 'shitty horror movies on TV'. The following contains spoilers, so if you don't want the end of The Producers (they go to jail and get killed and eaten by the inmates... its a bit of a downer, really) I advise you not to read this.

Evil Dead III: Army of Darkness
This I watched on DVD because it is far too cool to be shown with ad breaks. The first thing I noticed is that the DVD made a really nasty grinding whirling sound when I inserted it into my computer. It still played fine, so I was forced to turn up the sound really high to overcome the problem. This means that my entire house was literally shaking with the bass of the various chainsaw revs, screams of the undead, and the creaks of catapaults.
The plot is simple enough to understand, and you don't really need to see the first two films to get it. Basically, there's this guy (Ash). And he fights zombies. Except they're not exactly 'zombies', per se, but more like possessed humans who go all crazy and start mutating madly. When the undead want to possess you, you get chased by the camera. Fortunately, the undead force is unable to break through doors. Or go through the tiny cracks in doors. And can be outrun on foot. There's not much you really need to know to understand the plot. Oh yeah, Ash has a chainsaw for a hand, because in the previous film his hand got possessed by a demonic force and he was compelled to cut it off and replace it with a handy chainsaw. And also, he's been transported into the Middle Ages by an evil book thats bound in human skin, and he's seen as a chosen one for the many villagepeople. But other than that, no, you don't really need to know anything.
This film is so awesome. Seriously, thats the ONLY word that fully describes the amazingness of this film. But I'll try, using a badly thought out analogy. Right, imagine you need to pee really badly, yeah? And your bladder is really full. Except, instead of PEE in your bladder, you have IMAGINATION. Pure imagination-juice. And when you pee, instead of a toilet, you pee into a MOVIE CAMERA, and all your imagination turns into IMAGES ON A SCREEN and it's just amazing.
Basically, the moviemakers take the concept of 'well, it's magic so anything can happen' to ludicriously, deliriously bizarre extremes. The best sequence in the film involves our hero running into a windmill then accidentally breaking a mirror. Then all his little lilliputian-like reflections jump OUT of the glass and start to beat him up. One jumps into his mouth, so he decides "I know, I'll drink a kettle full of scalding hot water and boil him to death", which he does. Then he marches about singing "London Bridge is falling down!" and stepping on them. Then his evil twin randomly grows out of his shoulder and beats him up. So Ash shoots his twin in the face with a shotgun, chops him into pieces, then buries him. He then goes on to getting beaten up by three books and a bunch of skeletons. More plot twists come later with Ash's amazing steam powered tank-car (in a lucky twist of fate, he managed to bring a book on "How to build a steam engine" back in time with him), a giant army of claymation skeletons that beat the shit out of the skeletons in Pirates of the Carribean, and Ash sleeping for 600 years and growing a huge beard.
I don't want to damn this film with faint praise, so I'll say that Evil Dead 3 is possibly the best film ever. And if they think that they can remake Evil Dead with Ashton Kutcher, I will personally be somewhat miffed and possibly express my disappointment with their choice of actor on an internet message forum of some kind.
Scary? Hell no, I spent most of this film pissing myself with laughter, mostly at the sheer lunacy of the plot. This was intended by the film-makers. Evil Dead 3 is NOT a serious horror. I realised this pretty early on (at about the point when they throw a random peasant into a pit and a massive geyser of technicolour blood spurts out).
Best bit? The little men. And I also liked the bit when Ash says "You ain't leading nothing but Jack and shit, and Jack just left town," to some random soldier.
Body count: Lots and lots of random soldiers. Nobody important, though.

Ed Gein
Christ. Right, this film is about a guy named Arnold Unklebutter (NO, JUST KIDDING, HIS NAME IS ED GEIN*) who spends his time digging up and killing women for their tasty flesh and their attractive skin. Apparently the characters of Leatherface and Buffallo Bill were both based on Gein. Which is odd, because he is one boring motherfucker. Basically, he spends his time buying antifreeze, going to dinner with old ladies, and talking to his dead mother. Perhaps Norman Bates was based on him too. I dunno. I guess that the Texas Chainsaw Massacre guys did a very loose interpretation of Gein's life, in which he runs around with a chainsaw killing people and bellowing. NB: Ed Gein doesn't kill ANYONE with a chainsaw. He uses a crappy gun which fails to immediately kill the women BOTH TIMES. I mean, christ, Gein, you have a perfect shot at their backs and you manage to hit the non-fatal place TWICE. You stupid hillybilly. Then he whinges a lot. "Momma, momma" he says. SHUT UP, GEIN, AND KILL SOMEONE PROPERLY.
I reckon with this film, the director said to himself "You know what, Billy, I'm going to totally de-sensationalise this story and try to avoid excessive gore and excitement". The problem with this tactic is that Ed Gein isn't the most exciting of people, so taking away the excitement puts this film on an excitement level comparable to X-Treme Paint Drying X-Treme Exolution X.
This was a crappy film. They cut every damn corner. I mean, they even had CGI FLAMES for God's sake. Surely they could've afforded to set fire to some grass? But nooooo, they had to get some programmer to draw in some flames around the brother's body. Oh yeah, Ed Gein also kills his brother, in possibly the least shocking murder scene in cinema history. What. A. Gay.
Scary? Hell no. It's hard to be scared of some retard hillybilly who stammers every word, only eats Pork n Beans, and asks old ladies out on dates. But on the other hand, there was ONE scene, of Ed randomly dancing about in a suit made entirely of woman-skin, that gave me the shivers. But then there was another bit when the mother's head randomly appears on a talking bush that made me choke on my sourkraut with laughter. So overall, no, it wasn't scary.
Best bit? Well the bit with him in the skin suit, duh. But there was also another funny bit. Ed kills this woman and cuts up her body. Cut to: Ed having dinner with a random family. "Ed, this meat that you brought for dinner is extra tender," says the woman. THEY ARE EATING OLD LADY. I dunno, it made me snigger.
Body count in this film: 6 old people. No great loss there.

Halloween H20: 20 years later
Halloween water? The name is stupid. There is no water in this film. Quite a lot of blood, though. Basically, in this film, Micheal Myers (annoying, not the comedian but a crazy person wearing a gay white mask) tries to kill Jamie Lee Curtis. I don't blame him, after watching Virus I think we've all felt that compulsion. He also kills some random teenagers and tries to kill Ashton Kutcher (perhaps he's trying to stop the possible Evil Dead remake? GO MICHEAL!).
Unfortunately, this film ends with a bit of an anticlimax. The entire first three quarters are people talking about Micheal's return ("Micheal might return!" "That was 20 years ago!" "Could Micheal Myers come back?" "Look, isn't that Micheal Myers?" "There is absolutely no way that he could possibly come back"), then when he actually DOES come back, he lasts like twenty minutes before being beheaded by some skanky 40 year old Jamie-Lee. Yes, Myers dies at the end of this film (I haven't seen Halloween Ressurection and so am going to ignore it). I guess he wasn't that much of a surprise... he had it coming. Haven't these teen masked killers ever realised that, no matter how many times they return, they ALWAYS LOSE? Surely that'd stop em. But nooooooooo. They KEEP RETURNING. So, fuck it. Mike is a bit of a pussy in this film too, only killing 54% of his possible victims (I worked this out using a calculator and a bit of paper). On the other hand, this film gains points for having a 'really really fucked character', in this case, some random teen. "I'll be right back" he says, then gets into a dark, broken looking Dumb Waiter and travels up to the kitchen alone to find himself a corkscrew. SCREWED.
Scary? No, seeing as Myers looks retarded in his mask with his fluffy hair. And he keeps falling off things. Dipshit.
Best bit? A girl also climbs into the Dumb Waiter, and gets stabbed in the leg. She then tries to climb out of the Dumb Waiter and BAM the rope gets cut and it breaks her leg in two. She's then crawling along the floor when BLAM in comes Myers with his big knife o'doom.
Body count: 6, not including Jamie-Lee or Ashton, so it loses some points.

The last half of Silence of the Lambs
This film is about this Ed Gein ripoff loser called Buffallo Bill, and The Only Man Who Can Stop Him, a crazy cannibal psycopath called Antony Hopkins/Hannibal Lector. This film features possible the most fucked character of all time, the FBI director who's been teasing Hannibal the entire film. And suddenly, BLAMMO**, there's Hannibal, wearing a nice white hat, walking down the road behind him. LIKE ARGH. That's what'd I'd say if I was that FBI director. And also those cops who go into Hannibal's cage are pretty screwed, really.
"Ok Mr Hannibal we're coming in, please don't break out by stealing a pen and picking the lock on your handcuffs whatever you do."
"Fine with me... AHA! I LIED! THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I DID DO! NOW YOU'RE IN TROUBLE!"
"Oh, BLAST. Now you're eating my face off!"
Hah, rinsed. Serves you right for BOTH going into the cage.
Scary? I'd forgotten how totally non-scary this film is. The only unnerving thing was when Hannibal finally escaped. You'd seen this guy behind bars for the entire film and suddenly... OH NO! He's suddenly free to eat our faces. But Buffallo Bill is a worthless pussy (the bit when he ducks behind the door to escape Clarice is actually hysterical) and his victim is annoying. "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again"... do we ever see the hose? I don't know, I can't remember, I didn't see the first half of the film.
Best bit? Hannibal kills two people gorily then continues to air-conduct to classical music. What a guy.
Body count: At least five, with many more referenced and about to happen. Mmm, gore.

Legless
This wasn't really a horror film, per se. More like an informative and relevant docu-drama (what the fuck is a docu-drama?) about the current drinking situation in Britain today. I don't like informative and relevant things on tv. It reminds me too much of watching episodes of Grange Hill which were about 'relevant and informative issues that affect the youth of today', and featured The Internet and Drugs and Mobile Phones. You can't set out to make something relevant. It's impossible. Relevancy ususally happens as an afterthought. If relevancy becomes the whole purpose of the fucking film, then there's NO BLOODY POINT, IS THERE?
This film was about alcohol. Apparently it was meant to give a totally unbiased and balanced view of the British drinking culture. Here were some of my high-points:

• An evil drinks promoter dancing about a stage talking about his new ULTRA VODKA-EY alcohol and cackling manaically.


• The young innocent boy having his first sip of alcohol and suddenly turning into a raving lunatic. No, really.


• References to the nice paramedic lady being beaten up by the VIOLENT DRUNKEN YOUTHS OF TODAY.


• The innocent girl who says 'I shalln't be drinking tonight' being mocked by her friends and treated as an outcast.


• Many many people getting pissed then collapsing in pools of their own vomit.


• A hospital waiting room filled with victims of the ongoing alcohol warzone of our fair streets.


• A guy with half a pint-glass sticking out of his head after a brawl.


• A drunk girl turning into an evil, violent psycopath and threatening to kill a paramedic.


• You know the young innocent boy mentioned earlier? Well he gets drunk and then PUNCHES HIS FRIEND. WHO FALLS INTO A COMA. So young innocent boy has the rest of his life ruined by the evil evil booze.


• The innocent girl being sexually attacked by two drunkards.


• My slow realisation that the only people to not have their lives ruined by the night were the ones that chose not to drink any alcohol.

Yeah, so really subtle stuff there, lads. And just in case we've missed your implied point, (alcohol is evil and should never be drunk under any circumstances whatsoever) there's always the closing shot, in which a logo for an alcoholic drink is framed by a picture of THE DEVIL. Yes, THE DEVIL. Woah man, there's some sort of religious imagery going on here, some sort of subtle point being made, but I can't quite make it out. Shakespeare would be amazed at your brilliant metaphorical skills there.

Wanted: New Mum and Dad
I didn't watch this. But it was an advert for some show about orphans, with this little kid playing football by himself. Then he goes to the camera "Please adopt me, I'm bored of doing this on my own". Retard, get some friends. Loser. That advert made me want to make my OWN documentary, entitled "I have a family and a stable home and parents who love me. Suck it, orphans." The entire show would be me having awesome fun. They could play it at orphanages, then at the end big red letters appear on the screen saying THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN TO YOU. NOW SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, AND EAT YOUR GRUEL, OR IT'S BACK INTO THE PIT WITH YOU.

Austin Powers 3: Goldmember.
Its not hard to describe this film. Just imagine the first one, except without any of the funny bits.

Audition
I don't quite think that I'm ready to talk about this film yet. I still can't quite conceive what the hell was going on, what the plot was, or whether I actually just had a really bad acid trip. I just don't know. Was the entire thing just one long dream sequence? Or a dream sequence within a dream sequence within a fantasy? Was it a nightmare? Is it an allegory for modern life? I don't know. But it all ends with one mother FUCKER of a nasty torture sequence, and features yet another 'most screwed character' - Japanese man has pissed off japanese woman, so she poisons his whiskey so he becomes paralysed. He wakes up and sees her standing over him, wearing thick rubber gloves and a thick apron, holding a bag full of needles and cheesewire. Yeesh.
Those crazy japs.
Scary? Yes. I wake up at night with my mind filled with terrible questions. Questions that I want no answers to. What the hell was up with the sack? What was she spraying at the son? Why does the son like dinosaurs so much? How did she figure out what was going on wtih the Audition? WHAT WAS UP WITH THE GUY IN THE WHEELCHAIR? HOW MUCH OF IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED?
Best bit? I don't think any of it was really 'best', to be honest. But the biggest jump was the scene in japanese lady's appartment when we first see the sack, next to the telephone. There's this random sack in her appartment, by the way. The moment I saw the sack, I said to myself "There's some guy in that sack, you know". THEN THE PHONE RINGS AND THE SACK JUMPS IN THE AIR AND I NEARLY HAD A HEART ATTACK!
Those crazy japs.
Body count: Only two, surprisingly. With a possibility of three if he bleeds to death.

The Producers
This isn't a horror film. It's a MUSICAL. About some producers who want to exploit a legal loophole to make the worst show in history, so instead of just not hiring any actors and performing really badly themselves, they make a show about Hitler and fill the audience with Jews. Well, this was a HIGHLY sexy show and was actually rather epic. Unfortunately, my shit little brother decided that he'd get drunk the night before, so started threatening to throw up up mid-performance and fucked it up. He also vomited all over the theatre at the end of the show... twat. So if you go see The Producers in London, go sniff the carpet. That's my little brother's vomit, there.

Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Wererabbit.
I saw this in Walton Cinema, which is possibly the shittiest cinema ever made. I think I drew a picture of it once. Oh yeah, here it is:



The cinema was nearly empty, but this dipshit old lady and her two loud grandchildren decided to sit next to me anyway. So I was quite glad when I realised that they were in the wrong film and were wasting their time and missing their actual film. I realised this ten minutes before they did. Did I tell them? No. I waited until our film started then cackled internally as they were forced to leave. Losers. Why did I do this? Because I'm filled with spite and a deep black rage, that's why.
This was a classic film. I especially liked the Angry Boy reference (Check out the pictures on Wallace's wall... actually, fuck it, nobody knows who Angry Boy is anyway. Even I don't know. I just get the reference 'cos I'm great) as well as the King Kong/literary references.***
SPOILER
And oh yeah, I am the king of narrative structure. Who realised that Wallace was the wererabbit before anybody else? Me, baby, me. The trick is to recognise the narrative tricks to HIDE the true secret, as opposed to the clues to reveal it. And I can do that. Easily. My mother and sister were like "OH MY GOD HE'S THE WERERABBIT!" and I was all "Shup, I knew that fifteen minutes ago, losers" and thats why I'm the best.
Scary? It's Wallace and Gromit. So no.
Best bit? All the risque adult/boob references. Melons... tee hee. AND THERE WAS A CHAINSAW.
Body count: Many many innocent vegetables.

So that's my countdown of the top 10 scary films to watch this Halloween. Except that four of those weren't scary films. And three of THOSE weren't films. And I didn't even watch one of the remaining few.

And another thing... apparently the kid in H20 was actually played by Josh Harnett, not Ashton Kutcher. Well imagine that. Two people I would like to see knifed both playing the same character.

And another thing... I don't care how you spell 'Micheal'. And yes, I knew that his mask was based on a Shatner mask. Originally, it was going to be a clown mask. A clue to this is in the first "Halloween" when, as a child, he kills his little sister wearing a clown mask: THE MORE YOU KNOW.

And another thing... if anybody is sad enough to point out any other spelling errors, mistakes, then, well, I don't care and I hate you. Who the hell reads blogs for their grammatical/factual accuracy, anyway?

*Homosexually, this is pronounced like 'guy'...'n', as opposed to 'gene', which I think sounds far cooler.
**I seem to be using a lot of pointless onomatopoeic words today that actually don't mean anything.
***Talking of literature, I won the year prize for English Literature this year. And a rather tasty £20 in book vouchers. I am THAT good, baby. Hail to the king.