God, you females irritate me

I have the receptive abilities of a golf ball.
Encased in concrete.
In a metal room.
In a bunker.
Five stories underground.
Underwater.

So don't expect me to pick up any eerie feminine messages, ok?

In fact, I will go out of my way to ignore them.

So wouldn't it be easier not to broadcast them across the land, polluting our fair air?

Wouldn't it?

It would.

So either tell me what's up.

Or shut up.

Oh yeah, feel that serious, esoteric blog feeling.

Beer Blog: See the world through the eyes of a drunk

Now, I know it's generally seen as bad taste to discuss alcoholism in a blog, especially when relating the events of a party. I should know, I pioneered the 'don't tell' blogging method. And it makes sense. You start off talking about your level of drunkeness, then progress onto an esoteric ramble about something exciting that happened yesterday in maths lesson, and before long you're alone and unloved, sitting in a pool of your own urine writing a 5000 word essay about the crap you just took. Then Channel 4 film you and give you your own reality TV show.

Normally, I wouldn't blog about drunkeness.

This having been made clear, I only have one thing to say, and I will do so in bold. Man, I was totally freakin' wasted at Mario's house last night!

I know, I know, I should be ashamed of myself. But, come on, I had a good reason. National School's regatta, the boatie race that I'd spent most of the term training hard (and not drinking at all) had been cancelled at THE VERY LAST MOMENT. I mean, shit, there goes a year's worth of training. Sometimes I think God is testing me, for the time when I take his place. But... anyway. I was drowning my sorrows. With Budweiser: KING OF BEERS. I'm not going to give you the blow by blow account (basically, 3 solid hours of constant pouring of Budweiser: KING OF BEERS down throat, and nobody really wants to read that), but instead, here's a description of how the world looks when you're me and you're hammered:

1: Basically, the main problem is that you lose your sense of balance. That's it. I'm a boatie, right? I didn't have much balance when I'm sober. But I have to say, I'm still a damn sight smarter drunk than most of the females in the room are when they're sober. I could have pretty easily answered ANY GCSE question, and amazingly I recited the quadratic formula, flawlessly, while standing on one foot. Now if that's not fully in control of my brain I don't know what is. Well, I guess the ability to not throw up would be a plus, but you can't have everything, can you? No.

2: The fact that you're fully aware of everything going on means that everyone else seems like a bunch of patronising gits. Just because I'm (hilariously) under the influence (of Budweiser: KING OF BEERS) doesn't mean that I'm not fully aware of you acting like my mother, Mr "come on Tom just sit down SIT DOWN" Younis. And Pete's girlfriend... no matter how drunk I am, and no matter how much dried vomit (apparently somebody threw up on me. In fact, it might have been me. In fact, it was, but shh) there is on my trousers, I'm not going to let you take the buggers off me. Sheesh.

3: Everything seems like a good idea. Hiding all the plates of party snacks? Yep. Throwing bottles (that had previously contained Budweiser: KING OF BEERS) in the pool? Yep. The plate, I admit, was probably not a good idea, but hey, it didn' break. And I didn't throw the damn chairs in the pool, stop saying it was me.
Everything also makes sense at the time.

4: Everything seems hilarious. But a lot of the stuff WAS hilarious. Like that wall of pictures in Mario's corridor. Now I like Mario's parents (from what I've seen of them, they're lovely), but they do have a few flaws. Firstly, a lack of imagination when it comes to names (naming their children Marios and Maria, and the dog Mercedes. Who names a dog Mercedes? I don't like that dog, it tried to bite me), and secondly, a rather cruel, yet HILARIOUS, sense of humour. Basically, Mario was -how shall I put this?- a bit of a tub when young, and his folks decided rather cruelly to dress him up in a load of silly costumes and photograph him. Then stick the photos on the wall.

Honestly.

I particulary liked one CHARMING shot of him in purple spandex bodysuit dealie with a little gold waistcoat and a bow tie. Abi even took a photo of it with her camera and sent it to everyone, but for Mario's sake, I refuse to stick it up here.

5: You only remember the good stuff. Which is a good thing, because I can then just say that everyone was making up the bad stuff. Ah, denial, the cornerstone of my moral fabric. Where would I be without you? Probably in a pool of my own urine, typing up a 5000 word essay on the crap I just took. Probably.

6: And most importantly, you can be assured that you will wake up the next morning after 5 hours of sleep totally none the worse for wear. Yes, the drunkest I have ever been in my life, AND NO HANGOVER. Take that, you fuckin' Budweiser: KING OF BEERS. King of Beers my ass.

So, yeah, I think that was a good party, Mario. Well, you never know.

I just changed my mind. Sorry, but LIFE IS TOO SHORT.



What else can you say, really?

Ah, grammar. We meet again.

There are too many superheroes around nowadays. We have the ol' favourites... Superman, Spiderman, Batman, X-Men... the ol' not-so-favourites... Elektra, Blade, Daredevil (ol' condom head), the Hulk, the ol' nobody's-heard-of-em... Rorschach, V, Swamp Beast, Namoor, Man-Thing, Green Archer... and, of course, the ol' I-just-made-these-up-but-you-never-know-they-might-be-reals... Girl-man, Bat-wolf, The Incredible Pebble, the oyster, Jonas the Poofter, Steve-beast of 1000 teeth, and even my personal favourite, Gay Man. I actually have an action figure of Gay Man. Well, I guess when they made him, he wasn't called gay man, but this is like an OLD action figure that my dad used to own and boy, if it isn't the gayest thing I've ever seen...

There are a few things to remember when you consider the path of a superhero:

Most of these super-heroes have enemies. Pah, who am I kidding, they all have enemies. And you know what? These enemies are always trying to destroy the super-hero, for some reason. Either by gassing the entire town, kidnapping the girlfriend, luring the super-hero up into a mausoleum, throwing him off a high tower, shooting him with the world's longest gun, killing the parents, spraying acid in his face, setting the goons on him, or just CACKLING MADLY.
These villains always lose. ALWAYS. Just remember that. There's always some tiny flaw in the plan (usually, hiring bodyguards with jaws made of glass) that our brave or punch-happy hero can exploit to save the day and look manly. You never see the super-hero losing, do you? Never see Spiderman being shot by the one guard with a good aim, plummeting to a wet death on the streets of NY. Well, perhaps in the new comic-books you do. The new comic books (the Dark Ones) think that the way to give these superheroes credibility is to have them being beaten up, raped, and murdered. Real good one there, lads. Except for one problem: SUPERHEROES ARE HUMAN BEINGS WHO CAN (usually) FLY. YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE PROBLEMS ESTABLISHING CREDIBLITY ANYWAY.

Secondly, these superheroes usually sort of base themselves on animals. Why? I don't get it... what the hell have animals ever done for us? I mean, when you think about it, nothing. Sure, we can test out new types of acid on their eyes, but really, are the animals actually DOING anything? Or are they just lying there on a comfy bench, having acid poured on them? Exactly. I don't see why these superheroes don't base themselves on other humans. Hell, I'd cheer for Stephen Hawking Man, with his wheelchair of magic and his electronic voice of doom. Or, hell yeah, Jeff Brazier man, a superhero who doesn't do much except star in celebrity versions of shows. I don't know.

But, after all this, there's one superhero who has been sadly ignored by the comic book writers. A hero who is, at this moment, being destroyed and worn down by his enemies (of whom there are millions). A hero who is not based on an animal. Or a plant (its not Daisy-Man). Or, indeed, another person. No, this is far more sophisticated than that.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you:



Like, wow. The apostrophe is the most misunderstood and mis-used characters in the English Language. Why can you dipshits not see that you DON'T NEED AN APOSTROPHE WHEN YOU ARE WRITING IN THE PLURAL? I mean, it's not hard. You just... argh. I don't see what's so hard about not misusing apostrophes, yet everyone does it. Hell, I bet I've done it (in my younger years, before I was advanced enough to know of the grammatical holocaust that I was causing). But nowadays, every time I see the misuse of an apostrophe, I literally WINCE and want to cry.

Buy some fresh rose's!
Its time to order a new round of drink's!
Isnt it nice to see all my friend's sitting around and eating their plate's of french fry's?

Christ, that physically hurt to write. Here are The Apostrophe's Three Unwritten Rules... Written Down:

1: If it's a plural (that means there is MORE THAN ONE, sweetcheeks), NO APOSTROPHE.
2: If it's a shortening of two words (Isn't, don't, etc) then you INCLUDE THE APOSTROPHE.
3: If it's possessive, ie BELONGING TO CHARLIE, you put the 's AFTER THE PERSON IT BELONGS TO. ie. charlie's.
4: When using it, remember this:

a: If you are using a contraction of 'It is', then use 'it's'.
b: If you want to say 'belonging to it', then you say 'its'. It's the only time that an apostrophe is not used for a possessive. Yes, I realise that that's an irregularity in the language, but tough luck. It's like ONE irregularity in the entire language. If you don't like it, go cry in the corner at the difficulties of remembering ONE GRAMMATICAL POINT. I mean, what the hell else are you going to use the brain cells for? Exactly, nothing. Therefore, I win.

5: If you break any of these rules, I will kill you.

Of course, I won't. I wouldn't have time to travel the world looking for people who use apostrophes (notice, no apostrophe there, because IT'S A PLURAL). So instead, I created The Apostrophe (yes, I know it's upside down, shut up) to do that for me. The Apostrophe (I call him Apo, but that's just cos he's my friend) walks the globe, six-shooter at his side, looking for dastardly users of bad grammar (we call them in the apostrophe correction business "Grammevils") and then killing them nastily. Here's an example of a particulary exciting episode that Apo went through when walking through the mean streets of Brixton.

The Apostrophe: Episode One of Whatever

The Apostrophe strode along the streets of Brixton, his stetsons whirling, his fez, attached to the top of his head by some sort of eerie grammatical magnetism, glinting in the sun. He was close. He could smell it. It was the smell that drove him forward. The reek of bad grammar. Despite that fact that The Apostrophe had no nose, eyes, ears or, for that matter, third dimension, he knew exactly what was going on. To his left, a child, chasing a hoop along a dirt road with a stick. To his right, a woman was talking on her phone.

Woman: When we go to the party on Saturday, let's bring a bottle of wine.

The Apostrophe shuddered inwardly at the woman't incorrect use of grammar, viewing the event from the point of arrival, and even considered stopping and shooting off her kneecaps. However, he had no time to stop and admonish her. That was the job of his lesser-liked cousin, The BringvsTake Grammatical Oddity, and he knew that he had little time to lose.

He slowly cracked his knuckles and withdrew his magnum. After eating it, he withdrew his gun, a gleaming silver sidearm that had got him through many a battle in the past. He recalled briefly the time he'd broken into a GCSE English mock. Man, that had been a long, bloody battle, and the number of incorrectly written plurals had very nearly overcome him. He fingered briefly the scar on his right arm, then slowly re-loaded his pistol, before sneaking forward.

Suddenly he saw it. Rather he sensed it. A sign, mounted to the front of a sleazy fast-food restaurant. Painted in a lurid red, with gold lettering. And a picture of a lamb.

A lamb with a bow tie mounted to its head.

The sign read:

Ricoes Curry's! Its the place to go for the best curry's!

Snarling, The Apostrophe broke into a run and fired, sending the sign through the glass window of the restaurant. He leapt through the broken and stood over the sign, before unleashing the rest of his magazine into the unfortunate bit of chip-board. After blowing the smoke off the barrel of the gun, he span it a few times round his finger before holstering it and striking a cool pose. Immediately, the street full of people stopped dead. All 400 of them. Even a little deaf, dumb and blind boy who hadn't seen the gunshots and was standing seventy metres away stopped what he was doing and looked in the general direction. Suddenly, they all disappeared, running into shops, leaping over fences and hiding under tables. A man who was driving by on his moped took one look at the gun-toting punctuation, parked, locked the bike to a street lamp, took off his helmet, then leapt head first into a water-trough. The street was deserted.

"Hey, 'Senor, what do you think youre doing, 'shattering my brand new window?"

The Apostrophe glanced to the side, and saw Rico. A grizzly mexican, who for some reason was running a curry shop, Rico looked like the human equivalent a bag of pipe-cleaners glued together with vomit. Partially bald, he had a huge mustache, and was wearing a blood-stained apron. Also, he had a superfluous third nipple that plays absolutely no part in his story. The Apostrophe quickly reloaded his gun. Rico's eyes widened.
"Oh, 'shit! Hey, Joey... its the apo'strophe! Hes come for u's at la'st!"
Joey, a huge muscly beefcake of a woman, appeared at the front of the restaurant, wielding a shotgun.

"Oh know you dont, you 'stupid grammatical point! Your way's are over now... its time for a new world order!" she cried in a manly voice that reminded many of the hiding passers-by of Steve.

She fired point blank at the Apostrophe, who only just manged to dodge, before leaping behind a barrel of fish-guts. Joey chased after him, firing madly into the air. Behind her, Rico drew a semi-automatic from his apron and followed, wooping madly. A stream of Mexicans brandishing siege weapons (and one moron who'd brought along a samurai sword) followed out of the restaurant.

"Hey, 'senor, you gonna DIE man, then were gonna kill you and 'shoot you to bits! Tee-hee-hee!"

This was serious. The apostrophe was trapped. Fortunately, he managed to kill all of them after some really exciting stunt-work, and ended up marrying the damsel. Unfortunately, he then divorced her after she had an affair with a full stop. Bastard. He returned to his life of vigilante correction of grammar, alone... forever.

Do you know what I could have been doing instead of writing this? Yes, that's right, revising for my History GCSE. But no, I had to sit and write about apostrophes for a good hour. God, I hate you people. Now comment. VALIDATE ME.

I hate ITV

For those not in the know (yeah, both of you), there are two categories of TV users in Britain. There are the rich bastards, and there are the cheapskates.

The rich bastards have Sky, Freeview, Tivo, whatever, satellite dishes mounted on the sides of their houses, cables into the tv, all manner of black boxes covered in buttons on their televisions, and about 6 remote controls. This is important. You must have one control for every different black box, then another fancy one to control all of them, then another miscellaneous one for the stereo in the kitchen that's somehow made its way into the living room.

When you turn on the tv of a rich bastard, you don't get a program. Instead, you get a purple box showing you a list of programs that you've pre-selected, a schedule of lists for the next four decades of programming, and also a full list of the one hundred and twenty thousand different channels that you may wish to view. And, to be honest, they usually end up watching MTV. Thus is the lot of the rich bastards.

Then you get the cheapskates. The cheapskates have the standard, bottom of the barrel selection of programming, that which is zoomed through the air as opposed to being pumped through the ground, beamed from space, or carried by pixies. What does this mean? Five channels. Five bloody channels. Cheapskates habitually only have one, battered remote control, with the buttons for 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 worn down and broken, with the remaining five (and the rest of the assorted buttons... seriously... is there anybody out there who uses every button on their remote control?) totally spotless.

For future reference, I am a cheapskate. And very happy I am with my cheapskatedness.

The standard of programming on the Cheapskate method, however, is pretty good. If you flick around, you're bound to find at least something that's good. Here's a rundown of the stations, in decending order of how much I like them:

4: Yes, controversial, the new boy on the block manages to beat both BBC Channels, just through the honour of holding the all important 'cool' tag. Yes, if there's anything important going on in the world (Pope's dead, tall building in America falling over, Dalai Lama catching fire) you'll wanna watch the Beeb (meaning the BBC... the Beeb is not a currents event program), but, come on, 4 has The Simpsons. Also has wicked films.
BBC 1: The Big Daddy. BBC 1 is where the quality, high brow stuff pops up. Also has the most expensive films and some pretty sickhead news coverage, if you like that sort of thing.
BBC 2: Now they've lost The Simpsons, not as good as BBC1, but still a dumping ground for quality...
Channel 5: Unlike Channel 5. The most recent channel, this entire station has a reek of church jumble sale tackyness to it, and no matter how cool the subject matter they present, it always looks a bit seedy. They used to show really lame softcore porn 'thrillers' (usually involving a beautiful woman looking worried about her husband's death and then having sex with the lawyer who, amazingly, has a log fireplace with a bearskin rug in front of it) and really shitty reality TV. Still, they now have CSI, which drags it up a few points. Not that it was ever in any danger of being eclipsed in quality by...
ITV: Like a wannabe BBC, but without enough money/quality/love. Like God decided to make a new sort of baby that was even better than a human, but instead made a retard with teeth growing out of its eyelids and a rat's tail cos, you know, they look good.

And now I get onto the point of this post: I Hate ITV
So much. Here's why:

7 Reasons why I hate ITV

7: Drama
Christ. Literally all they show is drama, interspersed with crap (I'll get to the crap presently). And the drama is always some attempt at some really cool, dark issue, usually involving:

a: A sexy police(wo)man with a gritty voice in long gritty trenchcoat (trenchcoats are always cool) solving a gritty crime with the help of a junior officer of the opposite sex or
b: A bunch of women going through some sort of crisis (more on ITV's obsession with women later), probably caused by men or
c: Chavs doing chavvish things or
d: A mother/father going through some sort of crisis involving their fit (but not really) teenage daughter or
e: Somebody going through a 'real issue' of the day

They usually have really COOL nonsensical names like "The Secret" or "The Dark" or "Burning Shield," especially if the drama has nothing to do with burning shields. Well done ITV, now if some visionary actually makes a story about a shield that's on fire they'll have to give it some lame non-related title like 'The Dove' and then when somebody makes a drama about a dove... you get my point.
These dramas (usually two parts) usually star James Nesbitt or Ray Winstone. And they are always marketed with the tagline of being 'gritty'. Seriously, how gritty can you get? They should just advertise a drama as being 'the most gritty ever' then just have a half hour shot of a beach. Ha, that'll teach you. And you know what the sad thing is? People will watch it just the same, assuming that its some sort of establishing shot.

6: Accents
Every female on ITV has a stupid country accent. Now I don't mind cool accents (like that crazy guy on FAQ U or, uh, a russian, or pakistan females) but country accents make me want to hurt things. It's as though, to be allowed to work for ITV, you must be a Cilla Black impersonator. Chuck. Eugh. This disgusts me so much, I can't even write any more.

5: The Format
Sheesh. Who told the guys at ITV that blue and yellow was a good format idea? Not me. Why didn't I? Because IT ISN'T. Every time I turn onto ITV (admittedly, this is roughly once every two weeks) that fucking blue/yellow (a colour which I have now named yelue, just to speed up the typing) box is bouncing about, telling me what's on and what's going on. Its rediculous. Here's an example (the box doesn't actually speak, this is just what's written on it... moron)

A program is progressing
Suddenly, a yelue box slides onscreen from the right, blocking out half the screen
Yelue box: Tune in next for Celebrity Housewives from Hell 8!
Advert
Yelue box flashes on screen for a quarter of a second
Advert
Yelue box flashes on screen for a quarter of a second
Advert
Yelue box flashes on screen for a quarter of a second
Advert
Yelue box slides down from the top
Yelue box: Now its time for Celebrity Housewives from Hell 8!
Program starts
Yelue box slides in from the right
Yelue box: Next on ITV
Yelue box slides in from the left
Yelue box: The News

And it continues. I was watching a football match yesterday. Well, not really, I sort of passed it as I pressed the 'channel up' button on the clicker (yes, I still call the remote a 'clicker', I realise this makes me sound like Dot Cotton from Eastenders, shut up) and the amount of yelue boxes zooming around the screen... christ. ITV is more over-formatted than the European Song Contest. That wasn't a joke; I geniuinely think that the Eurovision Song Contest is over-formatted. Bloody Eurotrash.

4: Reality TV
Reality TV sucks. But it sucks especially on ITV. You know why? Because they just rip off ideas from everyone else. As soon as something becomes popular on another station, ITV produce a crappy homegrown stupid accented version of it. They usually insert some shit celebs and then BAM we have the latest hit. Or not, as the case may be.
Do you know the best news I've heard ALL MONTH? That the most recent ITV show, Celebrity Orgy Love Fest Island or whatever, sank like a stone. A STONE. You faiiiiiiled, ITV. You suckkkkk. Go and cry to yo mamaaaaaaa.

Celebrity Love Island... what a fucking travesty of an idea that was. The only thing you can really say is that hey, at least ITV realised what pigs their audience are and realised, hey, if we shoot for the lowest common demonimator we have SOME guaranteed audience. But seriously, who comes up with this stuff? Christ, I could make up a better reality tv show than placing some celebrities on an island and then, like, hoping they have sex. Ok, off the top of my head, here goes:

Celebrity Lesbian Chosing of Death
Ok, so you have these, uh, 18 people all locked in a castle. Right, they're all beautiful women except for this one really pug-ugly man. Right, and one of the women is straight and the others are gay and he has to choose the straight one. BUT BUT BUT he's been told that half of them are gay and the other half straight and then he has to choose the one that's actually a man in drag, while the rest of the women are told that if he chooses them they DIE so they all have to act as lesbian as possible (wearing hiking boots, not shaving, not being fit, that sort of thing...) to win the grand high prize... LIFE. Did I say that anybody who lost (and losing would be a totally random occurence, but nobody would know this because nobody would have a clue of how the rules work) would be thrown off the tallest tower? Well, I did now. The aim of my show is that its so confusing, nobody knows what the hell is going on. And random yelue boxes would appear and give magic pills to people whenever I felt like it. That show would rule, man.

3: Ad Breaks
I don't really have anything against ad breaks. Both 4 and Channel 5 have them, and they provide a good oppurtunity to go and have a piss. In fact, the lack of ad breaks is a major downer on watching films on the BBC. Does that make me shallow? Oh well, I don't care.
But for some reason, ad breaks are just so much more annoying on ITV. Perhaps because everything is just a lot more annoying on ITV. ITV is like the mecca of annoying. Annoying prays to ITV and makes pilgrimiges there every year and build holy walls there. Or perhaps the reason they're so annoying is because they happen at a rate of like 20 an hour. Or perhaps the reason they are so irritating is that THEY PLAY THAT DAMN CRAZY FROG RINGTONE THING TWICE... EVERY... BREAK. Why do I know this? I don't watch ITV. I hate ITV. But yet, ITV has managed to annoy the hell out of me. I think its crapness has finally manage to diffuse across the boundary between channels and poison my mind from over on BBC2 and Channel 4. ITV diffuses. Like a turd. Yes, that's a good description of ITV. The worlds biggest turd in the a paddling pool of televisual programming.

2: Celebrities
Too many F-List celebs. And, like annoying, they sort of magnetise towards ITV. Like flies to the aforementioned excrement. Then ITV pretend that they're interesting and make shows about them. Why? Is there anyone who actively likes these people? Is there somebody out where who turns on the tv HOPING to see Quentin Wilson?
The latest amazing ITV celebrity idea is this dumbass show called 'Have I been here Before?' in which they get the worlds most annoying woman to hypnotise F-Listers and then get them to talk about their past lives. And AMAZINGLY, they've all had fascinating past lives. Now, a few things to take into account with this show:

a: Nobody Cares. Double capital. Remember that, it's my number 1 rule of everything. Nobody Cares.
b: All this past life stuff is bullshit. As well as psycics, ghosts, pixies, and Uri Gellar.
c: How come all these celebs have had really fascinating past lives? Is this just to make up for the fact that they've got such godawful boring present ones? Or could it be that hypnosis is rubbish, as is past lives, and the only reason this show is on tv is to give that fat breakfast DJ something to do? And anyway, how come everyone always has a past life in which something interesting happens... why don't we ever hear stories about somebody going to church every day then dying of the clap at the age of 32? I don't know.

1: Women's Issues
Seriously, ITV should rename itself FTV, and have the title font in pink handwrity stuff. Everything on that channel is so blatantly marketed at women. But not young fit single women. Old fat ugly women. You know the sort. Those chavvish old ladies who are now slightly past their prime, smoking ciggies, doing the latest fad diet which they'll fail, dying their hair to try and keep some essence of youth and avoiding the fact that they are rapidly going off by drinking massively and referring to themselves as 'girls'. Ugh, you make me sick. And ITV SUCKS UP TO THESE PEOPLE AND oh my god that put such a horrid image in my head.

EUGH.

So this basically means that we have programs about old ladies going through the menopause, women's chat shows, and, my personal favourite, programs about fat women trying to lose weight. These women are always whingeing about being fat, while doing nothing about it, and what does ITV do? Nothing. In fact they make these Moby Dicks look like heros for being fat. Newsflash: Nobody cares. Second Newsflash: You're not 'a real person', you're not 'yourself', you're a big fatso. Thin people aren't 'imaginary' - stop pretending that people with a decent level of fitness are make believe.
If I see one more ITV drama about fat women going through the menopause, possibly with endless male-bashing, I swear I'm going to eat something really sharp.

Basically, ITV is a giant vagina of a station that spends its time sucking up to women and selling tampons. Anybody who watches it deserves a slap.

Bloody ITV.

Lets just do an experiment. I am going to press the button '3' on the remote, and we'll see whats on. I BET YOU it breaks one of these rules. WELL OH LOOK. Celebrity Love Island. I think that breaks rules numbers 6, 4, and 2. And as it has highly oiled men arm wrestling, and I can't see men enjoying that, I vote that 1 is broken. And if I watch long enough, a box will pop up. There we go. And we just had an ad break. So thats pretty much ALL OF THEM.
Go on, turn on ITV. See how many rules it breaks. Then turn off again, quick, lest you be corrupted by its tackyness.And now, time for a hilarious pun.

ITV? shITV more like! Mwaha. And we laughed so hard. Look, it works if you take out the V, ok? I've been typing this for an hour, give me a break.

Screw this, my hands are starting to lock up.

The saga continues to continue...

Previously in the GCSE Saga
Having destroyed Senor Orallo, Sir Me travelled to an inn in the midst of a deep forest, where he discovered that a demon named Harris was responsible for kidnapping and performing hideous mathematical procedures on the townspeople. Having decided to slay this beast, Sir Me travelled to its lair, a mineshaft, guarded by the rather crap Senor Listenor, demon of Spanish orals. Having slain this demon, Sir Me entered the mine, and came face to face with Harris...

The GCSE Saga part 2.5: Harris continues to enter

For those too lazy to scroll down the screen, here's the terrifying sight that greeted our brave hero:



Sir Me's manly eyes bulged out of their manly sockets. His manly mouth fell open to reveal his manly tongue. The demon in front of him was one composed of pure NUMBERS. Yes, thats right, numbers, floating in the shape of a bodybuilder, with only a nice tie and some very groovy glasses to provide something to look at. He'd met this demon before, in the Land of Mocks. Last time he'd barely escaped with his life (36% in the exam, thankyouverymuch). He withdrew his sword.

Sir Me: Oh, beep. (NB: He actually said beep. This was a common swear word in medieval days that has been carried on by the BBC and other censorship boards, who believed that whenever ancient texts read 'beep' they were actually censoring out the swear words. This is incorrect; beep is actually far worse a word than any of the more traditional curses and this is why it gives me such pleasure every time they beep out a cuss-word on tv)
So, we meet again.

Then Harris spoke in a rasping metallic voice that caused a pigeon flying past the entrace of the mine to spontaneously form a tangent to itself and explode in a burst of bloody feathers and commas.

Harris: 00000101 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110010 01110010 01101001 01110011 !

At this terrifying cry, Sir Me (who was fluent in binary) fell to his knees, his resolve weakened. Harris pointed his numerical hands at him and began to state equations, sort of like a scary version of the emperor in Star Wars. A curve (equation: x squared + 5x + 4) of pure Y-energy struck our hero in the chest, and began to cause his armour to tangent away, slowly at first, but increasing in speed at an exponential rate.

Harris: 01101101 01110111 01100001 01101000 01100001 01101000 01100001 01101000 01100001! (roughly translated: Mwahhahahaha!)
Sir Me: Oh, piss off.

Being athletic and manly, Sir Me backflipped over the demon's head to avoid the beam ray. This is difficult to do when wearing a full scale suit of armour, so he fell on his back and was unable to get up again. Harris floated over to him (being a demon and thus made up by the author of this piece, he didn't need to bother with such minute worries as 'walking' or 'Physics'... and anyway, whenever his feet touched the ground it formed equations in x which was obviously very irritating, especially if you're trying to find the co-ordinates of A). Harris raised his leg and cacked evilly. Well, actually, he cackled in binary, so it sounded more like a series of 0s and 1s run together in quick succession, but it was still pretty evil sounding. Like a high pitched Darth Vadar, with a bit of Tony Blair thrown in. Sped up 4x then mixed with a Telletubby.

Sir Me threw his sword at the head of the demon. Bad idea... the sword, as soon as it touched the unnatural skin, was rearranged and cancelled down into a small blob of metal and a lump of wood, and fell with a thump into a pile of corpses. Watching it land, Sir Me felt his hopes melt away. But then... it hit him.
The piles of corpses... they were in an arithmetic progression! Not geometric! Harris was only a demon of C1 maths, the weakest of the mathematics disciplines! That meant...

There was only one chance left. He withdrew his dagger of C1 Formulae and stabbed the beast in the foot. Bellowing, Harris fell backwards. Sir Me stood up and stabbed the beast through the chest. Harris screamed and bit him with his fangs of misreadingthequestion, but Sir Me's armour of checking-his-answer held strong, and he bitch-slapped the demon with his gauntlet of N, before driving his lance of workingout through the evil exam's first heart.

Harris fell backwards with a girlish squeal, not unlike a basketball player, then pointed one fluctuating digit (a-ha) at the brave knight.

Harris: You may have destroyed my first heart, puny meat-equation, but soon I shall return, and my next form shall be more inpenetrable than anything you could ever have imagined! Mwahhaha!
Sir Me: Hey, how come you're not talking in binary?
Harris: What? Oh... 01110011011010000110100101110100.
Sir Me: Now begone, you big penis.

Harris scowled, (quite how he managed to scowl when he didn't have any features is besides the point... he's magic, you see) then simply cancelled down into y, and squirmed off into the darkness. Sir Me sighed, then wiped the sweat from his eyes with his hankie. His battle with the C1 demon had been long and hard, and he was now really tired. He decided to return to the Inn and seek sustenance. But it seemed that when Senor Listenor had died, he'd caused a big-ass rockslide that had blocked the entrance totally.

At the sight of this obvious plot point, Sir Me fell to the ground and wept like a little girl for a good twenty minutes.

Will Sir Me ever escape from the cave? Well, it would be a pretty dull saga if he doesn't, so you can probably assume that he will... but HOW? Find out next week or whenever.

Have we had enough Core Mathematics 'jokes'? I think so.

The Saga continues

Previously in the GCSE Saga:
After a long quest, our brave hero, Sir Me, entered the cave of the wicked demon of Spanish Orals, Senor Orallo. After fighting it for a bit, the beast was fatally wounded and it fell into a pit. Sir Me drove off on his motorbike into the sunset. But little did he know, his quest had just begun...

The GCSE Saga Episode Two: Enter Harris

Tired after his battle with Senor Orallo, and running low on petrol for his Harley Davidson (ok, so we're not being 100% historically accurate here, but who cares?) Sir Me decided to stop at an inn for the night. After travelling through the dark woods of Practisepapers for what seemed like days, he came upon an inn known only as Thar Trayvelle Inne, run by a strange old woman. This old woman's name was Charleen (it said on her little pin-badge), but she refused to serve him. Here's how the conversation went:

Sir Me: Hello, old woman... Charleen... I am a Knight of King Arthur, Sir Me, and I require bed and sustenance for the night. I can pay you in gold tokens.
Charleen: Sorry, we don't take your sort here.
Sir Me: What?
Charleen: Knights. We don't take your sort here. Keep away
Sir Me: What? Surely that's discrimination. I demand to speak to your manager.
Charleen: Sorry, but it's company policy. Ever since all the attacks, we've got a ban on Knights.
Sir Me: Attacks?
Charleen: You mean you don't know? The townspeople are scared. Ever since that Black Knight rode through town three weeks ago, people have been stolen away by a demon.
Sir Me: A demon?
Charleen: Yes, a demon.
Sir Me: Really?
Charleen: Yes. And, you didn't hear this from me, but when they found the corpses, down by the old mine, they were unrecognisable.
Sir Me: Unrecognisable... in what way?
Charleen: The policeman said that they'd been... differentiated.
*Vaudenville music*
Sir Me: Good God... differentiated.
Charleen: Sometimes twice. Seemed like the demon wanted to see if they were the maximum or minimum point of the curve. But anyway, ever since the attacks, we've had a no-Knights policy. Sorry.
Sir Me: Intriguing. What do they call this demon?
Charleen: There are some who call him Az-Mac-Ma-Sheem-A-Rama-Lama-Ding-Dong-Azkamapheba, the beast of the 1000 numbers, the monster of the night of one thousand knives, the three-hearted demon of eternal plague, the...
Sir Me: Skip to the end...
Charleen: But I call it... Harris.
Sir Me: Well, you have nothing to fear now I'm here. I'll find this Harris. And then I'll kill it, differentiation or no differentiation.
*Sir Me leaves, wooping*
Charleen: Sir! You forgot your shield! Oh well. Perhaps I should've told him that all the victims were also repeatedly analy raped with surds... and that other poor guy was taken to the power of -3/2. Christ, there was nothing left at the end of that. Oh well. Tra-la-la.

Armed with this information, Sir Me progressed to the entrance of the old mine, right in the middle of the forest. The ancient trees tugged at his armour, so he stabbed one in the head. He was forced to abandon the Harley early on when he crashed it into a tree and it exploded. But finally he came to the mineshaft, a dark vaginal-like pit in the earth. There was sign next to the mineshaft, painted IN BLOOD. Or paint, as blood doesn't stay that red for long. Unless it's FRESH BLOOD. No, paint after all.

The sign read: Danger, Mineshaft. Demons, man. While Sir Me was reading this and wandering upon the implications, he heard something in the distance. The devastating scream of Senor Listenor, demon of Spanish listening! Sir Me raised up his shield to block the sound-waves of death, but to his surprise, he'd left it back at the inn. Fortunately, the Listening beast was a bit shit looking...



... so Sir Me was able to dodge its first scream, but the beast swooped down and shrieked again, waving it's foul flag of Randomspanishvocabulary. Sir Me fell to the ground, his sense of understandingthequestion wounded, but in a last ditch effort, he withdrew his sword of thetestiseasyanyways and flung it, piercing the beast through the head.
Senor Listenor didn't like this very much, and spat the sword back at Sir Me, who caught it efforletlessly, being the manly man he is, before leaping head first into the mineshaft. Behind him, Senor Listenor, being the easy motherfucker he was, exploded in a mass of blood, guts, and positive/negative opinions about school, leaving a crater that was 40 minutes (+5 minutes reading time) wide.

Inside the mineshaft, it was dark and damp. Water dripped from the roof. Lighting his holy torch of learntequations, Sir Me looked around, only to see several huge piles of corpses, each higher than the last. Sir Me couldn't guess the number of corpses, but assuming that the number of corpses in each pile grew by an arithmetic progression, and the first pile (a) = 2, the difference between each pile (d) was 1.5 (there were always a few legs in each pile), and there were 8 piles in all, the total number of corpses (Sn) = 8/2( 2x2 + 1.5 x (8-1)), resulting in a predicted total of 58 corpses. Solve for x.

Feeling ill, Sir Me turned one of the corpses over with a stick, and was horrified at what he saw. This corpse hadn't just been differentiated. No, that was too simple. She's been fucking integrated. Her head was where her knees had used to be, her spleen was two metres across, all her blood was concentrated in her left eyeball (now the size of a tennis ball) and there was a huge C sitting next to her like some sort of blooding letter of evil. But what really chilled Sir Me's manly bones was what he saw lying next to the body. His shield. And next to that, a name-tag. One word was written upon it in cheery font: Charleen.
Here's a transcript of the conversation that happened next:

Sir Me: NOOOOO!

But suddenly, he felt something. Something in the air. It was the smell. The smell of surds, a sticky smell reminiscent of quadratic formulae. Sir Me span, raised his shield of revision JUST IN TIME to block the concentrated blast of pure inequalities that was fired at him from the darkenss of the mine. He fell to the ground, and looked. And saw. And wet himself. Just a little.

This was the sight that greeted our hero:



And at the sight of this non-shit bit of photoshop, Sir Me knew that he was in serious trouble.

TO BE CONTINUED

Boy oh boy, Star Wars is a funny film

I saw SWE3:ROTS (and if the damn thing's got a name thats that stupid in bloody abbreviations, how the hell do they think they're gonna market the name? The only good thing about calling it Revenge of the Sith is that it gives a lot of scope for calling it 'Revenge of the Shit' if its bad... all you do is move the last letter to the second place and then you're cooking) last night.

And man, that is one funny mother of a film.

They should have marketed it as a comedy. I'm not joking. I don't know why, but I was just giggling the entire way through. It's just the sight of all these people in stupid stupid costumes with silly shaped heads saying moronic things and taking everything deadly seriously. And the ACCENTS! Oh man, the first time I heard Ewan 'hello there my name's Ewan McGregor'
McGregor speak in his quasi-Alex Guiness voice, I swear to God I nearly ruptured something. He's in his spaceship, fighting alien robots (this is cool), and then suddenly he opens his mouth and over-pronounces every damn word. He said 'lets go fight the alien robots' in the same tone of voice that he'd use to say 'I saw old chap, lets drink some pimms and watch the henley royal regatta'. Also, he had this dumb beard which he stroked at every damn oppurtunity. 'Hmm'.

I guess that my quest to take this film seriously was somewhat hampered by the fact that every damn building/piece of furniture was either shaped like a penis or a pair of boobies. If you haven't seen the film yet, watch out for the scene in the Evil Old Man's Appartment with Anakin and the Evil Old Man near the beginning. There's a design on the sofa that's shaped like boobs. Not joking.

Actually, now I come to think about it, there were a couple of reasons why I found this film so giggleworthy. The League of Gentlemen. I recently became addicted to this show (I watched the entire of season 2 in one sitting, sue me) and the idea of Edward and Tubbs wandering onto set throughout the film and asking the aliens whether or not they were local was quite amusing. And of course, when we entered the lava planet, Disco Inferno started playing in my head.

Yeah, here's a list of problems with this film and bits I found amusing:

The baddies were all shit. All 500,000 of them. Why did Lucas choose to have so many bloody bad guys in this film? There was that old guy, then that other old guy, then that robot, then... they should have just stick with one guy throughout the entire trilogy. That Darth Maul would have been a cool mofo to keep going throughout all three films. He gets cut in half in the first one, really badly re-made as a robot in the second, then cut in half again. But in the third, he has four arms, just like that robot mofo. The four arms were COOL man.

The accents were silly. Hahaha, oh man, I just got reminded of the bit in the League of Gentlemen with the audition for the orange juice commercial. I realise that that was a very esoteric sentence, but shut up. Obi-Wan-Kenobi should have just shut up and let his eyebrows do the talking. Also, Lucas's HILARIOUS approach to the droid's voices, oh my god, it was so funny. I just laughed SO hard. Cos, you know, the droids are really lame, and one says 'uh, oh'. Pah. It would have been much funnier if all the robots had really lame fake voices like the Macintosh voices (push me, then touch me, til I can get my satisfaction) . That would be really funny. Well I think so, and I'm always right.

The dialogue was crap. Sorry, Lucas, you're a great... uh... but you can't write for shit. Here's my favourite exchange between two characters:

A: You're so beautiful.
B: You only think I'm so beautiful.
A: I only think your so beautiful because I'm so in love with you.
B: But you're only in love with me because your so beautiful.
A: So beautiful, even if I'm not in love with you.
B: So love has blinded you?
A: Love... beautiful. Lovely.

Well it wasn't exactly like that, but yeah. Pretty lame. Another epic quote:

A: You're bad!
B: Yeah, but from my point of view, you're the one who's bad.

No shit, sherlock.

There's this silly scene when Darth Vadar goes "NOOOOOO!". It was really funny... I dunno if it was intentional.

There weren't enough boobs in it.

Anakin was referred to as 'Annie'. ie that small ugly ginger bitch in "Annie". Wouldn't it be great if it actually turned out that she was Darth Vadar? Now that would have been a plot twist.

There was this big fat blue fuck that sat in the corner of the screen for one scene and was really offputting/funny.

Yoda was cool though. But halfway through I realised that he sounded like Papa Lazarou, and couldn't get the image of him saying 'My wife you are now Dave' out of my head. Kind of ruined it. But him saying 'not if anything to say about it I have' was good.

Yep, that's all I have, really. But you should go and see it. It's really funny.

Anakin, I'm pregnant. The baby's that blue guy's. I think they'll be smurfs.

News flash: 11Q has STILL split up. And what's that? Oh, just the sound of nobody caring!

Do you know that old saying, 'There are no boring things, just boring people'? Me neither... I think it fits more under the title of corporate bullshit than old saying. Old saying are wise. Old sayings are awe-inspiring (that 'tree in the forest falling down' one makes my sphincter tremble uncomfortably). But most importantly, old sayings are correct. Or at least thought provoking.

To date, 'There are no boring things, just boring people' is not correct. There are plenty of boring things. Lots of boring people too, but the boring things outweight the boring people (just through sheer mass. A single grain of sand is boring. Billions on a beach outnumber the billions of human beings on earth by quite a lot and therefore the things outweigh the people, purely in terms of sand. I haven't even gotten on to Art Film, Core Mathematics or Lost in Translation, possibly one of the most boring things ever). And top of today's list of boredom is Study Leave.

I don't believe it... study leave, the sacred nirvana towards which I have been striving to reach for the past four weeks, is not such a lush garden of earthly pleasures. In fact, 'tis a boring, dead, grey, dried up, Milton Keynes (or 1970's Get Carta-era Newcastle) of a place. Study Leave Is Shit. I realised this fact roughly three hours in.

I got up a bit late, watched my siblings go to school, waved them off, drank coffee: good.
I sort of wandered upstairs, did a Maths paper: Still good, feeling good about myself for the work I'm putting in.
Mother brings up a coffee/muffin: this is great! I'm enjoying myself immensely.
Mother leaves. I mark my maths paper. Final result: 56%. Feeling less good about myself.
I lose interest and surf the internet. You must undestand, I don't really surf properly. Actually, I just sort of flit between Maddox.xmission.com (to see if he's updated it yet), Fark.com, Aintitcool.com, toothpastefordinner.com (to see if any new cartoons have been posted yet), every blog on my favourite's list (to see if any of them have updated yet), and then my own blog... to see if there are any comments. Then I just start cycle through them again. God, I'm boring.
After 40 minutes of this, I sort of pick up the maths book and read through the stuff I don't get. I still don't get it: losing interest now.
I surf the internet some more. No updates on anything: interest lost.
I start doing sudoku puzzles, looked up from the internet: interest rises slightly, then falls when I realise that I just spent half an hour filling pointless numbers into pointless squares. I screw up the completed puzzle and throw it down the stairs, as my bin has disappeared.
I search the house for stamps. No stamps to be found.

And then other stuff happened, but I'm boring myself as I speak. Boring, boring, boring. Perhaps I am a boring person. But no... I can't be boring. I'm wearing a fisherman hat and I was wearing desert survival sunglasses. Those glasses were cool man, they made me look like an evil, evil fish.

AND I HAVE LIKE ANOTHER MONTH OF THIS. Fucking hell, I was bored out of my oh so manly skull within the first three hours. How am I gonna last day after day of this? Christ, I even began to lose interest in listening to Tears for Fears. Tears for Fears. In a weeks time the voices will start. I'll see strange, ugly little twins following me around. A random beaver/dog thing will appear and appear to fellatiate another man for a really brief and quite disturbing scene. Blood will pour from the elevator. The token black guy will get killed. There will be loud clashing music ever few days and the name of the day will appear in large lettering. I'll be in my car in the mountains and I'll see a helicopter chasing me.

THEN I'LL GO STARK RAVING MAD AND RUN THROUGH THE HALLS OF MY HOUSE WITH AN AXE, BASHING DOWN DOORS AND CACKLING LIKE A MADMAN!

Then I'll get out-brained by a moronic 9 year old with a retarded talking finger who looks like Anakin Skywalker with a stupider haircut and I'll end freezing to death in an endlessly-mocked jump shot. Then we'll see a picture of me in the hall that will leave the entire audience wondering what the hell happened.

Damnit.

The theme tune from the beginning of Pulp Fiction has two records to its name: its the coolest music ever and it's the most impossible tune to whistle. Just try it.

Spanish oral... the final battle

I had my GCSE Spanish Oral yesterday. This raised an interesting moral question in my mind. How does one blog about a Spanish oral that went quite well without posting the world's most boring piece of donkeysemen ever? Well, the obvious answer would be don't, which I realised after thinking about this for an hour. But at that point I'd already made the damn pictures, and I'll be fucked if I'm going to put in the effort to make TWO amazing Photoshop piccies and then not stick em up on the blog for my HUGE fanbase to enjoy.

So, with no further ado I present My GCSE Spanish Oral, told in terms of an Arthurian Battle to the death

Our brave hero, Sir Me, saddled up his horse, Dogfood, and climbed up for the final time. His quest had been long and arduous. Having traversed the Marshes of Endless Revision Sheets, the Gorge of General Conversation Questions, the Forest of Tenses and even the Unholy Desert of Failed Mock, he was understandably exhausted, his manly faced criss crossed with scars of Revision, his muscles weaked from his battles with the forces of Practise Roleplays, his strength sapped by the Demons of Pre-Examination Nerves (a particulary nasty subset of demons who live in the pit of the stomach and cause havoc by hacking away at it with sharpened daggers).

But still, his Armour of General-Conversation-Repetition gleamed sparkily, his big fuckoff shield of Having-Done-The-Fucking-Presentation-4-Times-Before (made by the master craftsmen of Pointless-Names, coming from a small town in the middle of Are-My-Metaphors-Really-Obvious, on the mountains of I-Hope-This-Is-Funny-Cos-I'm-Already-Losing-Interest) was as strong as ever, and his horse, Dogfood, wasn't dead. He still had hope. In case you are unable to picture me as a knight, here's a picture I made:



(Not pictured: the horse. Neigh.)

Finally, he had reached his destination. The unholy den of the beast of Spanish Orals, known only as Senor Orallo (imagine that the N has a squiggly thing above it because I can't be fished to find out how to do it), a beast with the body of a matador (cleverly tieing it in with Spain), but the head of a fish (I don't like fish). A fire-breathing fish. And instead of hands, it had crab's claws. As personally, I think that crabs are fucking terrifying. Eugh. To make it even more evil, it also voted for the UKIP party and used to be Kilroy's lover, until Kilroy broke up with it for being too evil. So, yeah, evil.
Here's a picture:



The den of this beast? That room thats just down the corridor from the language resource centre. Dunno what it's called... yeah. On the way to this room, Dogfood died, so brave Sir Me sold it to a glue factory and had to carry on alone into the den. Ah, t'was a foul place, full of dead corpses and stationary. The reek of fear was rife, matched equally with the reek of paper. Sir Me's blood ran cold when he saw the stapler on the desk.
Suddenly, BAM. Senor Orallo attacked with a devastating blow, known to the mortals as the Roleplay Fist of Doom, that could have destroyed a lesser opponent. Brilliantly, Sir Me managed to use his gauntlets of magic to block this attack, and stabbed the beast with the Sword of Prior-Topic-Revision. The creature fell back with a squealing, so Sir Me, using the ancient swordplay technique of 'Remembering-The-Presentation', charged and scythed the beast, taking off its hat.
Suddenly, however, Sir Me missed his attack and the beast sank its teeth of Misunderstandingthequestion into his weak spot. Screaming with pain, the brave knight managed to fight back.
Despite a few more desperate attacks from the beast, in which Sir Me was wounded (especially in his TalkingFrenchByAccident arm), the beast was finally killed. As it died, it fell backwards and plummeted into a pit with a cry of 'Areyousureyou'renottakingspanishforAlevel!!???!??!?!?'
Sir Me readjusted his armour and rode off into the sunset.

The bold bit marks the point at which I got tired of making a repetitive metaphor, and realised that writing combat scenes is both hard and boring. Kind of like Joe's penis. Ooh, rinsed. Oh well.

In other news: I went on study leave today. Apparently we should all be heartbroken and hugging each other and crying our eyes out; we'll never be in the same class again! Fuck that, I hate my class. You can all go to hell.

And in other news: 11Q suck and we're all glad that they're gone. Please go onto www.nearly-there.blogspot.com and pass on my sentiments.

How to blog about a party

So, exam time is rolling around again, and you all know what that means: Every cunt on the planet is going to decide to throw an incredible party that I won't be able to go to. Damn revision/rowing/parents/bondage chains/whatever. And therefore, I'm going to have to learn about how these parties progressed from the contents of everyone's blogs. And judging from the current quality of party-bloggage going down at the present time, I'm not going to learn much. Or, worse, I'm going to learn just enough to make me interested but then the blogger in question is going to go onto another inane point about nothing in particular.

So, with my own well-being in mind, here are my 5 rules for writing a good blog about a party:

1: Just remember, nobody cares.
2: Also remember, not everybody knows who everyone is and the detailed backstory behind every tiny instance that happened in the party. For example, I have no Fucking Clue who the hell Tom Scott is, or why everyone says his name and cackles. I don't have an intimate knowledge of the entire Tom Scott/Abi backstory, babes, so please don't tell me that he's here and look all excited as though I should have a clue of what's going on. See what I just did there? I just went into an esoteric story of something that happened on a party while complaining about blogs consisting of esoteric ramblings about things that happened at parties that only you went onto. While I untangle the mental elasticband ball I've just created, here's a picture of a kitten for you to look at:



3: Right. So bearing the essence of the previous point in mind, just give everyone an invitation and, if something funny happened, please relate using enough detail as necessary. Not too much detail. Hearing the intricities of how somebody thew up all over the kitchen (what colour the vomit was, the consistency, how many bits of half-digested lemon) isn't good. But on the other hand, reading OMG JUSTIN U LEGE!!!!!!!!!OGMOGM!!! YU NO WAT UD ID! LEGEDNFG! OGM LOLSZZZ makes me want to burn things, so that's probably not a good idea either.

So yes, for a good party blog, relate all the funny stuff, and then sort of cut out the chaff inbetween.
But bear in mind: if you need to spend more than three sentences explaining why it's funny, then it's not funny enough for me. It is then just a pointless ramblage.

4: Actually, that deserves its own point: a decent party blog is not a description of everything that happened at the party. You squish all the non eventful stuff (nobody, least of all me, and I'm the only one who counts, wants to hear about you hanging around waiting for somebody to arrive) and stretch out the interesting bits. It's a blog about a party, not a Literature essay in which you compare how conflict is depicted in The Red Ball and One Other Story - be as unbalanced as you like.

5: This point is the most important one of all, and is just here because 5 is a better number of points than 4.

So, with these rules in place, here is My Review of Abi's Party

Took place at Abi's house, which is in Walton, peadophiles. I chose to wear my fisherman hat there. Now this may seem like an insignificant point, but that hat became major player in proceedings later on in the evening. So, looking like a cross between James Bond and a bohemian pot smoking hippie drugflowermaid, I made my way to Aborahs and presented her with her present: a flask. It was the most obnoxiously ugly flask that I could lay my hands on being, as it was, yellow and emblazened with the 'Allsports' logo. But a tale of a flask? This isn't interesting! I hear you cry. But NO, you are wrong....

Abi, who is a spaced out chick who always seems to be slightly drunk/stoned, and she was DELIGHTED with the gift, having admired my own flask from afar for many years.

We quickly got to work with drinking, me and Joe (a tall american git who is going out with Kris, a small russian git) and, of course, Oli G (the manliest man around, who really needs no introduction if you've been reading this thing for long). But then Alex, who was going by the name of Wakeem, or Juakeem, or Wakim, or however you pronounce it, for the evening, decided that he just wanted to get as drunk as he could as quicly as he could. Now Alex/Wackeem is stick thin... you'd think that he'd be knocked unconcious by a lemon shandy without any alcohol, but apparently not, as it transpired. We needed to get him drunk, and thus hilarious, quickly! But how? But then an idea stuck me.

We took the flask, me and my short fat ugly cohort Cassandra 'blowjob' Ho-man (because she is both a ho and a man) and wandered about, telling people to contribute bits of their drinks into the concoction. This 'Jesus Juice', as I named it (thank you Micheal Jackson) ended up containing bacardi breezer, beer, white stuff, beer, coke, lemonade to give it a punch, and a decent splash of Jack Daniels, and resulted in Whackeem's swift and beautiful inebriation. Hell, it resulted in Wackeam, me, Cossie, Oli G, and pretty much anyone else who drank it being pretty cheery, loud spoken, dizzy and in the case of the Ho-Man, a total anal-whore-skank.

At this point, The Main Man Mike Y (who is black, often has an afro and plays basketball, so is thus a walking cliche) decided to prove his comic prowess by STEALING MY HAT and WEARING IT. Because, yeah, nobody saw THAT gem coming. Wew. Stealing my hat when I'm not looking... man I didn't see that coming. Wow, George Carlin step down, cos somebody's come up with a sort of comedy that's even longer lasting than your own brand of genius. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I usher in a new age of comedy... the HAT STEALING AGE.

I'm sure some really great stuff happened between then and me sitting on a bench having my neck kissed by Whore-man but I'll be damned if I can remember it. Oh yeah, the following stuff also happened:

Oli G ran off. Then he came back and asked if he could go for a ride on my bike.
I made about 3 more flaskfuls of Jesus-Juice, using the dregs from bottles found lying on the floor.
I made peace with Georgie (a girl who resembles a boy and just can't admit it), who hated me after I said she resembles a boy... by totally retracting my statement about her boyish looks and smiling sweetly.
I saw FOUR BREASTS. Well, they were encased in bras, but come on. And Roxy (a pair of boobs attached to a person) I didn't mean to look down your top, but if your going to lean across to me then get the aforementioned top stuck on my button then have it pull totally down WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO LOOK? AT MY SHOES. By the way, I was wearing the same shoes this year as I did last year.

So after all that, and me performing what could best be described as a half-joking-rather-tipsy-attempted-rape-on-HoMan-who-was-really-asking-for-it, I punched her in the boobs and rode home on my bike. Here's a list of the safety laws I broke while riding home:

Don't cycle semi drunk (Well, it's not in my little sister's High Way Code Cycling Profiency booklet, but if they thought that 11 year olds got drunk on really crazy mix of alcoholic beverages, they'd put it in)
Wear a helmet (I was wearing my hat, which should have protected me against all injuries. It's a magic hat after all... did I say?)
Always lock your bike up when leaving it anywhere (I just left it in the front garden as I couldn't be arsed to open the gate)
When riding at night, wear bright clothing/luminescent yellow (Black shoes... black trousers... black jacket... black hat. I was actually wearing more black than that twat from Splinter Cell)
And there were probably thousands more, especially with me veering all over the place and cycling on the total wrong side of the road for ages.

So yeah, that was Abi's party. Good party, babe.

And most importantly, on the ride home, a pikey said he liked my hat!

Big yo to all my readers in Australia!

Yeah, both of you. An especially big yo to the one who's apparently ok-looking by Australian standards (read: a fox by the English rating system). Hope the weather's nice in Toowoomba. Please tell all your friends about this blog. Soon I hope to increase my readership into the double figures and spread into the fair towns of Wagga Wagga, Goombunjee, Cunnamulla, and even Mooloolaba. Yes, you heard me. Mooloolaba.

Honestly, I don't know very much about Australia. Hell, I was surprised that you guys had computers over here. I was under the (apparently erroneous) idea that you communicated by carving things onto pebbles, attaching the pebbles to boomerangs and hurling the 'rangs as far as you could, running to where they landed, picking up and throwing them again until finally they reached their destination. This would still probably be faster than the British postal system.

But, apparently, Australia is as technologically advanced as ANY of the good countries and, in some cases, even more so. I mean, would any of the European inventors have ever dreamed of Wine in a Can? Too late, the wizards of Oz have been there, got drunk and had a fistfight on that: http://www.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/getarticle.pl5?nn20050513f1.htm.
They even have progressed as far as the Crazy Frog ringtone! I mean, wow. Just wow. You wouldn't have thought it, would you? Phones in Australia. Man I hate that fucking frog.

In case anybody wandered where Australia is and what it looks like, just have a look at the world map for the big island shaped thing near the bottom. No, that's Africa. Its a bit like Australia but with more rhinos. There! See it? It's the place with all the silly names. If you wanted a decent close up of Oz, please refer to the map below:



All you need to know, right there.

I once saw an Australian in the street. He was drinking Fosters while arm wrestling an alligator with a big knife, barbequeuing, and repeatedly hit a kangaroo/koala bear in the throat with his didgereedoo/corked hat and wow there are a lot of Australian stereotypes about nowadays.

The Ultimate King of Cool

I have been pondering for the past few days who is my ultimate king of cool. Is it an actor? Is it a gangster? A librarian (unlikely). A murderer? An author? A celebrity? A normal guy? A singer? Someone living? Someone dead? Someone fictional? Someone not yet born? Myself? Who could it be? Who? WHO? WHO?

AND HOW DOES ONE DECIDE?

The answer is... simple. To be a King of Cool, I decided that a few ground rules need to be set:

1: This person has to be male. Well, duh, you can't be a female King of Cool, can you? That would just be SILLY. So that cuts out all those silly women who are cool... of which I can think of precisely none. Women: you are not cool, you are just good to look at. No wait, there's that indian bird who does all the writing for the BBC. Meera Syal or whatever. She's quite cool, in a 'fat indian intelligent' way. Yeah.

2: This person has to have some sort of long lasting celebrity, as what's cool today may not be cool tomorrow. I mean, half a decade ago (and now if they came back) I'd probably have voted The Cartoons as the number one top cool band of all time. But where are they now? I'll tell you - all dead. Ooh-ee-oo-la-la-ting-tang-walla-walla-plane-crash. So yeah, novelty cool (rap music, long hair, boheminum style clothing, organic food, retro styling, that fucking annoying 'Don't Phunk with my Heart' song, bands with more than 3 people, basketball) doesn't qualify.
In order to rate on my Ultimate King of Cool, you're gonna have to have done something/been something SO cool, you'll still be remembered in at least 400 years time (and counting).

3: Normal people (ie non celebrities) don't qualify for 'King of Cool' status. I mean, if you're normal, you're not a King, are you? You're a pleb. And Pleb of Cool isn't cool. Its stupid. Stupider than Paris Hilton after a lobotomy.

4: You must have blown something up, or at least tried to. I don't know, I think explosions are cool and hey, it's my list. You don't like it, you can fuck off and make your own blog and write your own list of ultimate coolness.

5: Gotta be dead. Cool people nowadays AREN'T gonna be cool for long. As soon as the public recognises them as 'cool', they usually lose their cool values, or sell out. I mean, lets just go down a list of previously cool dudes who shoulda died a bit earlier:

John Cleese: Used to be great, should have died just after making 'Fierce Creatures' (which, coincidentally, I used to wander the sets of... ah I like having a film business family). Now he's in the... Bond Films. The Bond franchise is, by the way, another previously cool thing that's lost the coolness by not dying during it's coolest hour - the groin laser in Goldfinger. If the film had just ended then, it WOULD NEVER have gone out of style. Oh well.
Quentin Tarantino: I want to, like, make this really loving homage to old chopsocky movies and, like, have really low quality film to capture the effect, man, and have everything badly dubbed because that's what those movies were like, and I'll also be directing some more episodes of CSI involving gory deaths and JUST DIE ALREADY QUENTIN OR MAKE SOME BLOODY CRIME FILMS.
Samuel L. Jackson: He was in XXX2 - The Next Level. Nuff said. Please, Sam, for the love of God put on a suit, grow some gerry curls and shoot some motherfuckers!
Christopher Walken: Well, he was in that film with... no, I lie. Walken is still inutterably cool, no matter how much shit he does. Hell, there should be a new ranking of coolness: Lame, Cool, Really Cool, Ice Cold, Christopher Walken. Still, he'd be even cooler if he was dead.

So, those are the stars who've not profited from being alive. But what about those who profit from being dead? Surely being dead is bad for your coolness? Surely you're cooler if you're still alive and breathing? Well, why don't you ask my good friends Che Guevara, Jimmy Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Jesus, Hunter S Thompson, James Dean... etc. They'll tell you; being ice cold is good for coolness.

6: Must be a rebel. Nothing says 'cool' more than rebelling against da man. Being a symbol of rebellion is always good for a King of Cool. Especially if it backfires. Being persecuted is another vital ingredient - it's not cool if you're being rebellious but nobody cares enough to do something. Case in point: Tattoos. It is no longer rebellious to have a tattoo with a picture of the devil on it, cos nobody's gonna throw you in jail for doing it. Want to be really rebellious? Go about dressed as a terrorist, look really suspicious, and place random bags all over the place, cackling 'Allah is with me, filthy infidel dogs!". So, yeah, to be a King of Cool, one must have rebelled against the system and been persecuted for doing so. Possibly jail time.

7: You gotta be a real person. No fictional characters. I mean, Darth Vadar would win every time, wouldn't he? Well, either him or the entire cast of Pulp Fiction. Or Homer Simpson.

8: No basketball players, or people who have ever worn Nike. My reasons for this? I just plain don't like basketball, or people who wear Nike. Simple.

9: They must be human. Yes, this is in a pretty random order, but this is the order in which things pop into my head and I'll be fucked if I can be bothered to rearrange all the numbers. I'm just too damn important for all that. But you can be assured that my King of Cool won't be a dog. Sorry, Lassie, we all know you're cool, but really, you're a dog. A dumb dumb dog. So piss off and help Jimmy out of that mineshaft. Why the hell haven't you people boarded up that mineshaft yet? Oh well.

10: A decent death. Gotta go down fighting, babe. On the back of a horse, barechested, machine gun in one hand, firing wildly into the sky, waving a scimitar and screaming a war chant at the hoard of Nazis about to invade London. Or divebombing a biplane, barechested, machine gun in one hand, firing wildly into the sky, waving a scimitar and screaming a war cry at the hoarde of Nazi airplanes about to bomb London. Or driving a train, barechested, machine gun in one hand, firing wildly into the sky, waving a scimitar and screaming a war chant at the hoard of Nazi trains about to choo-choo into London and flamethrow everybody. Basically, being barechested, holding a machine gun, firing wildly in the sky and kiling bad guys. As long as it's exciting.
Of course, a death under torture is always good. Or an execution. It's all good.

So then. Take all the possible Kings of Cool in this world, and minus every one who isn't a real long-lasting dead rebellious non-basketball-playing-or-Nike-wearing male celebrity who blew up a lot of shit and died a cool death.

And who do I have left?

Who is my ultimate King of Cool? You'll be surprised.

Step right up, Guy Fawkes.

Guy Fawkes? WFT? Yeah, you were expecting me to say Christopher Walken, whether or not he was dead. But no, Guy Fawkes is my King of Cool. Ah what a man.

Male? Check.
Long lasting celebrity? Well, he's been dead 400 odd years and you still know who he is, so, uh, YEAH.
Not a normal person? Well, you've heard of him.
Tried to blow something up? Hell yeah. This mean mofo nearly took down the Houses of Parliament. Like, wow, man.
Dead? Check.
Rebel? Ok, did you hear the bit in which he TRIED TO BLOW UP THE KING?
Real person? Check.
Non-basketball-player/Nike-wearer? Well, haha, it would've been pretty odd if the fawkster had been.
Human? Check.
Cool death? Hung, drawn AND quartered. That's like, three deaths in one. Its the fucking Super Size Big Mac Meal of deaths. And then he got his head stuck on a pole. If that isn't a groovy passing away, I don't know what is.

So basically, Guy Fawkes is my man of the moment. He has cool clothes, too. And a very groovy hat. And did I mention that HE TRIED TO BLOW UP THE KING? Man, he is like the coolest guy ever. And his name, too. Guy (Guido) Fawkes. When I have the first of my 12 sons (because I am just that virile), I'll call the little guy Guido. No, wait, then the kids at school will call him 'Gaydo'. And that won't do at all. Poor Gaydo. Its a good job he lived in the 17th century when gay people didn't exist.

Things were simpler then.

Did I mention that he tried to blow up the king? Ah, he was the terrorist of the past. Wicked.

Guy Fawkes: He'll blow up your monarchy, destroy your Parliament and break your heart. He also wants you to COMMENT your agreement at his ascension as the Ultimate King of Cool. Do it. NOW.

And now, some fashion advice

Now, before I start this, I just want to point out something: I am RUBBISH at fashion. Clothes. Hair. ANYTHING. I mean, at this very point in time, I'm wearing my little brother's fisherman hat so I look like the killer from I Know What you did Last Summer, some very fetching yellow rowing lycra, and a battered pair of A6 shoes with holes in them. Yes, I shall repeat that gem in bold: A6 Shoes. Shit, man, A6 shoes are shoes for either professional atheletes who don't care about looking stupid, or blind men with no feet who just want something for their dogs to chew. To date, I am neither, yet I wear A6 shoes.

Why do I do this? I guess that it will be one of the great unsolved mysteries of time. Why don't I wear Nike? Well, that one's a bit simpler to explain: I don't want to wear Nike after seeing the way that it has engulfed the soul of dear Ogg. I don't know what the main reason for his current spiritual ineptitude is: but it's a tossup between Steve (oh, how I rue that name) and Nike... bitch.

So, now you see my lack of fashion sense. I know nothing of this stuff. And yet, I am about to give some fashion advice. It is very simple. Even the most simple dullard will be able to understand it. And yet, I am going to write it out in bold. With capital letters. And italics. And, hey, fuckit, underlined too. Just to get my fucking point across. And here it is. The first, last, and ONLY non fleece related fasion point that you will ever see on this blog. Enjoy:

GIRLY HAIR ON MALES NEVER FUCKING WORKS. NEVER.

Christ. There's this stupid tit in my school, year above, who's grown his hair to shoulder length length. And it's long and silky and luxuriant. Probably from all the moisturiser and conditioner that he probably pours into it Every Day, and the 100 brushes with a comb he probably gives it each night before bedtime. Fuck, he probably STRAIGHTENS IT. And then he walks down the corridor, stroking his long silky hair (silky is the operative word here), flicking it gayly (emphasis on the gay) over his shoulders as he goes. And you know what? He looks like a poof. I mean, I'm not anti-gay. I once saw a gay person in the street. Well, I couldn't be sure, but he did look quite gay. I mean, he was wearing the 'I'm gay' t-shirt (for those not in the know, its a tshirt that all gay people wear. It says 'I'm gay in pink letters on the back. It's sort of like the 'Doc Martens and mullet' code for lesbians).
But, argh. This guy's hair was SO irritating. If I'd had a pair of scissors/a decent chainsaw to hand, I seriously would have considered taking out a hunk, then decided against it and looked sad.

What is the current trend of males growing their hair really long? I mean, is it to make some sort of statement? Ooh, look at me, I'm anti-authority, I grow my hair long to BREAK ALL YOUR RULEZ. And I spelt rules with a z to indicate my bad boy status. But if everybody's growing their hair long and The Man hasn't thrown you all in jail, how is it a symbol of anti-authoritarism? It seems to me to bit a bit more pro-sheepism. And ANYWAY, what sort of retarded political statement is your hairstyle? Hair is, by definition, a heap of dead genetic material on top of your head. Get that... dead genetic material. It has no purpose. And the first person who can give me a good example of a famous figure who managed to shake up the political system with his haircut, please come to the front. Oh yeah, I'm sure Ghandi would have done SO much better if he'd just had a nice mullet. And Martin Luthor King? A nice set of dreadlocks would REALLY have set off his look.

Dipshits.

In fact, while I'm on the subject of hair, here are a few more things that are worthy of being cricket-batted:
Bleach... if you want to be a blonde (like me, mwahaha)... go back in time and fuck with your own genes. If not, shut up, be brunette, and be boring.
Curly hair... I don't know, its just annoying.
Red hair... like really coppery... there's some twat in the year below who wanders around as though his hair isn't the most offensively annoying thing ever. I don't know what the solution is that doesn't break the 'bleach' rule. I dunno... drink a bottle of the stuff?

Yeah, but back to my main point: Long hair is stupid. Just stop trying to set some pointless political message, get a fucking haircut and find a different way to be interesting. You are NOT a hippie, your hair is not groovy, anti-authoritarian or shaking up of systemy. The only good case of long hair is the Gillster, and that's just cos he's black and his hair has managed to find a way of breaking the laws of gravity, like some sort of magical ball of black... hair.

And so, in conclusion, here are two of the manliest men around who will say the final words on this subject:



I win... as usual.

Reasons why I am better than Jesus

1: I dont have a stupid beard. Seriously, what's with Jesus's beard? The only good beard-wearers are Santa Claus and that guy who used to be in all those films. You know, he had a beard. A black one. I don't know. It might have been a porno. I dunno, I wasn't looking at the hair on his chin. Uh, yeah.

2: He's only 2005 years old, and I've had a pretty bloody impressive 2,491 visitors to my blog. So therefore, I WIN. Fuck you, you big beard wearing tit.

3: The Roman's/Jewish/Whatever don't wanna kill ME. In fact, I went to Rome the other year, and you know what? They didn't even laugh at my hat. Now THAT is service to you.

4: Jesus would have taken the effort to finish this stupid post.

Yawn

The wheel by the Thames goes round and round...

Round and round, round and round...
The wheel by the Thames goes round and round...
But nobody went to the Dome.

I went to The London Eye today. And man, it was as incredible as last time. I mean, WOW. I could see ALL of London. It was literally, INCREDIBLE. Like, ALL OF IT. ALL OF LONDON. I SAW ALL OF LONDON. FROM A POD. IN a huge ferris wheel. Seriously, I took one look at all those buildings and I swear to God, I nearly wet myself.

Ok, FINE. I was bored. Here is a list of the fun you can have in a London Eye pod:
Look up at the pod above and hope that there's a fit girl wearing a skirt
Lean heavily on the door marked Do Not lean on this door
Take photos of other people's children
Leave your bag on the bench in the middle, safe in the knowledge that someone is unlikely to steal it and run off
Look down at the pod below and hope that there's a fit girl wearing a low cut top
Film Ogg running and jumping at the door marked Do Not lean on this door
Take photos of the back of Ogg's head with buildings sticking out of his head
Make loud exclamations of the signs of rusting/cracks/wires breaking in the arms of the pod

Yeah, so most of it involves winding people up and ignoring important security advice.
But this brings me quite smoothly to my next point. They checked our bags on the way in. Hear me? THEY CHECKED OUR BAGS. Just in case I had, uh, a nuclear bomb that I wanted to set off. So yeah, they had a look inside, then scanned it with their little metal detectors, then asked me if I had anything sharp. I said no. Actually, here were the contents of my bag, and ways that I could have used them to murder someone:

A hoodie (throttle someone, douse in petrol and set fire to self, conceal garotte wire in the hood, use the cords to throttle someone)
My pencil case (containing a very sharp compass that could be used for stabbing, a real slashy metal ruler, about four metal pencils that were hypodermic needle sharp and a pretty heavy calculator that I could probably have nailed someone in the nuts with)
My wallet (keys could be sharpened to lethal blades)
A revision book (uh, paper cuts? I could probably have secreted something dangerous in there)
Some bottles of water (store petrol in there, set fire to someone, combine with hoodie, make a molotov cocktail)
Some chocolate bars (containing C4 explosive? We terrorists are very crafty you know)

So yeah, even with the EXHAUSTIVE security checks I work out sixteen different ways of taking off some wussy member of the British Public. And even if I'd taken a bomb in, if I'd really wanted to kill a lot of people, I'm not going to set the fucker off in A POD MADE OF BULLETPROOF GLASS SUSPENDED FAR ABOVE THE STREETS OF LONDON. I mean, at best, you're only gonna take out twenty-odd people anyway. Why not do it at the base of the Eye? Wipe out the queue of people, take out a leg on the wanker, knock it over, take out Houses of Parliament. But NO, they're more worried about a moron taking out a pod in the middle of the air and a bunch of tourists, most of whom don't even come from this country (read: expendable).

The only possible reason I can see for this is the old 'Hostage' angle. A guy takes the entire pod hostage with his pencil case, demand money/a train to canada/the release of Saddam Hussein. But then, this theory falls apart. How the fuck do they contact ground control? The pod will just go round again, and everyone will get off very politely, leaving the terrorist.

And anyway, fuck it, I'm a kind of weedy looking white teenager with two french guys. What am I going to do? Hijack the fucking pod?



Mwahahaha.

I just have to mention: we also convinced the French that the London Train System is plagued by constant bear attacks. And the Shepperton area is prone to sudden savage wolf murders. Yes, wolf murders.
Also, if anyone knows the answers to these two questions, please comment and tell me:
a: What does poulos mean? (It's French, dipshit)
b: How much did the London Eye cost to build?

This was a good post. Now comment on it. Are you commmenting? Are you? Come on, comment for me, babes. Thanks for NOTHING.

My one sentence description of everyone, in alphamabetical order:

Abi: Dreary but a jolly good bean!
Cassandra: Lovely and amusing in a highly depressing way
Emma: A delicate little duck who's heart doesn't really work but is still fun to wind up.
Fatemah: Crazy and confusing, but in a sort of psychadelic mushroom good way.
Joe: Big, occasionally irritating, loves Kris with a jealous fury that occasionally matches the woman in Misery.
Kris: A totally lovely little imp from la-la land; she's the most lovely thing ever... matched only by Abi.
Marios: Annoying, sometimes funny, with a whispy little beard and a silly haircut.
Mike: We love him in a way that cannot be described; he has an afro!
Ogg: Hilarious, in an occasionally infuriating way.
Oli G: THE MANLIEST MAN AROUND... funny in both a 'laughing at' and 'laughing with' way... simultaneously; he is so crazy to describe he gets a semicolon
Paul: He's pretty short, isn't he... ocassionally violently creepy, but still a sweet little muffin... emphasis on little.
Roxxxay: Mysterious, pink, dangerous in a 'Cassie will kill me' way.
Simon: A git who throws up, whinges a lot, and is glared at a lot by me.
Steve: Terrifying in the way she's corrupted dear Oliver, but still very nice.
Xavier: A totally brilliant guy who, in my personal opinion, would be a perfect match for Cassie, Emma, Kris, Roxxxay, and, indeed, ANYBODY!!!!!!

What a fucking waste of time this was.

10 Rules for Writing a Good Blog

Actually, that title is misleading. It should actually be 10 Rules for not Writing the Blog equivalent of the contents of a Chemical Toilet.
Damn blogspot and most importantly, damn that little 'Next Blog' button. Do you know how long I have spent just clicking that button, hoping above all hope that perhaps there might be some worthwhile blogs out there? How many HOURS I have wasted staring at nearly identical screens full of NOTHING? Man, it must be AT THE VERY LEAST a good twenty, twenty five minutes. And, for God's sake, that's far to bloody long to be reading page after page of people whingeing about things I don't care about. So, I have taken the liberty to produce this list of the top 10 rules for blogging, that I reckon the bastards at blogger.com can include in their list of rules when Mr Johnny-Come-Lately decides to start up his blog for pictures of his cat. Anyone who breaks these rules, gets punished, possibly with removal of their blog from the database/removal of every other fingernail.

Right, here goes.

10: Lyrics
I know I've said this before. And I'm sure that I'll say it again (probably when I run out of ideas and do a repeat version of this post in a few months time). But I can't say it enough. Posting lyrics on blogs is moronic. It's not clever. It's not witty. It doesn't show off your amazing knowledge of popular knowledge. It just shows off the drool hanging from your lower lip and the way your knuckles drag on the ground.

Here's a quick lesson in music. There are TWO things you need for a song. You need the lyrics. And you need the MELODY. Right, without the lyrics, the melody would probably be shit. I mean, have you heard Handel's Water Music without the Tom Jones accompanyment? Pretty shittum. And without the Melody, the Lyrics make no sense. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't work. Its just a bunch of words that don't go together very well on a flat screen. They don't work that well knowing the melody. But without prior knowledge of the music? Uh, no. Just NO.

And for one final example of how retarded lyrics are without knowing the music, here are the words for a certain song:

Karma police, arrest this man, he talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge, he's like a detuned radio
Karma police, arrest this girl, her hitler hairdo, is making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party
This is what you get, this is what you get
This is what you get, when you mess with us
Karma police, I've given all I can, it's not enough
I've given all I can, but we're still on the payroll
This is what you get, this is what you get
This is what you get, when you mess with us
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself

Man, he really lost himself for a moment there. See? Retarded. Thank you very much. Case closed, I win.

9: Rants and ramblings
Now, rants are good. But only when THEY ARE NOT INTENTIONAL. When somebody is purposefully deciding to go into a rant, its obvious and annoying and very, uh, irritating. Ahem. Same with verbal wanderings... somebody purposefully going off the point. 'Cos, hahaha, they're going on a long tangent, and, aha, I'm so unique and DIFFERENT from everyone else who stays on the POINT. Then I can *Hysterically* go right back onto the point, and act all surprised how off the point I've gone, and like WOW it will all be so hilarious. FUNNY. I'm LAUGHING SO HARD.
Man, I am so BITINGLY witty.

One more thing: If I see one more blog with a title along the lines of 'This blog is just for my rants, rambles and general meanderings and anything else I feel like posting here' I am going to hurt something small and cute, possibly with big eyes. Just scroll through the blogs and see how many free spirits do that. Idiots.

8: Crazy Cursors
Seriously. This should technically fall under the 'html' heading, but it is just so fucking annoying it deserves its own heading. Note to everyone: No matter how good you are at html, how amazingly brilliant your goddamn blog is, never... and I mean never... NEVER be tempted to stick in a bit of code to change the mouse cursor into anything other than what it's supposed to be.
Do I want a crosshair? No. I don't. So don't give me one. If I'd wanted a crosshair, I would have painstakingly searched the internet for 'mac mouse crosshair cursors', downloaded a program from somewhere, installed it, then cackled happily with my new found crosshairyness. Do you know why I didn't do that? Do you? Huh? It's because I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE A CROSSHAIR AS MY MOUSE CURSOR. I want my little arrow. So, just, don't. Ever.

And believe you me, I KNOW about pointless cosmetic alterations to a computer. I have a Mac. Hell, I once downloaded a program that made my keyboard make clacky sounds like a typewriter. Everytime I pressed enter, it went TING. Man, that was a short, loud, and annoying few hours.

7: Foreign language blogs
It's not that I have anything particulary AGAINST people who speak foreign, but... surely they should have their own site and stop annoying me with their inane foreign verbs. Just clicking 'Next blog', I was greeted by a plethora of mediocrity, but after only EIGHT clicks, I was hit by some Spanish broad talking about Fight Club. Well, it might have been Fight Club, there was a picture of the DVD. Hell, it might have been about bloody Tapas for I know.

But, yeah. The foreigners should have their own site. Somewhere near the back of the internet, so us proper Blog users don't have to look at them. See, if you've voted for me today (polling stations just closed), then this sort of measure would already be put in place. Hell, one of my main campaign points was 'get rid of the foreigners and Kilroy-Silk'. Man, I hate Kilroy. Him and his stupid orange face and his blue-tacked hair can go eat pennies.

See? That's what a proper tangent sounds like. So yeah, if you're not going to annoy me, you're going to talk English, beeyatch.

6: Thinking that anybody gives a damn
First universal truth: Dude, its a blog. A piece of pointless webspace floating in the endless abyss we call The Internet. It doesn't exist. All your work could - and will - just VANISH in an instant if a tiny computer chip in a room somewhere suddenly overheats and breaks. Right? Got that? Ok? Now, once you understand the fact that Your Blog Means Nothing, you can undestand the second fundamental truth: Nobody Cares.

Seriously. Here's a list of things I don't care about:
The fact that you have recently become less funny than you were a few years ago.
The fact that you can't think of anything to blog about.
When you got up this morning.
What you ate.
Where you went.
What you think about ANYTHING.
A HILARIOUS story about something that happened today that was probably funny if you were there but just sounds inane and pointless when written out in actual words, possibly involving jumpers.
Your boyfriend.
Your dog.
Your girlfriend.
Your dog's girlfriend.
Your pointless waste of time list of things that make blogs crap.
The fact that you love McFly.
You.

I could go on. I won't, as nobody cares anyway.

Right? Everyone on blogs seems to feel the need to spew out their personal life as though It Actually Matters. Case in point, this lovely lady/man/horse from a blog I just floated past on my way to an early brain haemmorage:

Tdy we had our staff lunch @ Sukura International Buffet located @ Downtown East.. I think I ate too fast or something.. was full within a short while! I like the claypot soup where we can choose the items to put into the soup.. also love the mango ice-cream, I had 2 helpings with lots of toppings.. heh.. I'm so full I didn't eat dinner but ate some fruits instead.. I always feel like I over eat whenever I go for buffet...

THIS BLOG HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR TWO FUCKING YEARS. ARGH. Great, you love the Claypot Soup. Whoopedy frickin' do. Christ.

And one more thing: Never EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER TO THE POWER OF 5000000 say something along the lines of "Wow, last night was great, you know what I'm talkin about Jason ;););)"
Its an internet blog. On the internet. You start blogs in order to share information. Not to post a half finished story directed at somebody else. If you want to tell Jason that last night was great, write him a note, put it in an envelope, affix a stamp to said envelope, enscribe the adress of said Jason to said envelope, post said envelope with said letter into a postbox and leave the rest to fate. Don't waste the internet. Its a precious resource that is fast running out*.

5: Whinges
This is almost, but not quite, the same as telling us all about your life. Except whinges are, by definition, annoying and, at their most pathetic, depressing. Ooh, you're feeling low? Please re-read number 6 for a definition of how much I care.

You have to understand, I am not a very sympathetic person. When Simon started madly throwing up, retching and had to be taken to an ambulance last Sunday, did I give him any sympathy? Did I ever care? No. In fact, I sort of smiled grimly to myself and muttered the word 'wuss', oh so gently, under my breath. Hell, can't think of a good finish to this sentence so I'll leave it at this.

Especially these buggers who go on about cutting themselves, like its not their fault.
"OOh, I started cutting myself again, I feel so low, boohoohoohoohoo."
No. You do not get my sympathy. Never. Ever. If you cut yourself, you are a fuckwit. If you want to stop, then stop. It isn't that hard to not go downstairs, pick up a potato-peeler, then stab yourself in the arm with it. Hey, I'd say that it was a pretty easy thing NOT TO DO. So quit whingeing about it.

If you were really in a dire situation, would you be able to blog about it on a computer? Odds are: no. What about that British mountaineer who got his arm stuck under a rock and was unable to escape? Did he complain incessantly about it on his blog, then cut a hole in his arm with a sharp knife? No, he didn't complain... he cut off his own fuckin' hand with a blunt butter knife. Then used his phone to take some photos of the bleeding appendage before making his escape. Now THAT is a real man. He doesn't deserve sympathy, he deserves respect. Now if he had a blog, I would read it. Hell yeah. Well, he probably wouldn't have a blog. He only has one hand, and he'd take a long time to type it up. And anyway, what would he write?
'Day 67: I still don't have a hand.'
Hmm.

4: Stuff that makes my computer do stuff I don't want it to
Several sections to this category.

Firstly, those annoying little windows that pop up that you have to press 'ok' to get through or else you can't do anything. I don't want those windows. I don't want to validate their pointless message by hitting 'ok'. Why do I have to take the effort to move my mouse an inch so that the smart prick who put the webpage together gets the satisfaction of knowing that some nameless person was forced to click 'ok' to an annoying popup box on his lame website? I don't know, I don't want to. Those boxes are shit.
God, this one is retarded.
Some Star Wars Moron who likes boxes

Secondly: Blogs that play music. No, just... no. No. NO. NO NO NO NO. NEVER... EVER... EEEVER. I don't... argh. Words have actually failed me. I can think of nothing worse than that sinking feeling you get when you hit a blog and suddenly a bad bleepy version of 'Its a small world after all' starts blaring at you. Argh. Just... argh. I am literally speechless. Here is a picture of Brad Pitt for Cassie to look at, as too much text makes her eyes hurt. Isn't his little mouth nice?



Thirdly: Blogs that make me download stuff. Please don't do this. It is annoying. If I suddenly had a hankering for a Marroon 5 song downloaded onto my hard drive, I'd go downstairs, punch my sister in the spine, then steal her copy of Marroon 5 and stick it on my computer. Actually, if I suddenly grew a hankering for a Marroon 5 song, I'd probably sand off my own nose. On purpose.

3: Philosphy
There is too much philosophy on blogs. Everybody thinks that their blog gets validated by posting some half baked piece of ancient chinese bullshit on the top of their blogs. This then gives them a free reign to post whatever inane chitchat they feel like. You think that the journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step? Intriguing. Its a pity that I've just been hit by a truck carrying 500 tonnes of I DON'T CARE.
The same goes for poetry. Sorry, but nobody wants to read your poetry. Its not clever, its not relevant, its just lame. That is why its being posted on an internet blog and not being read across the world. Now be quiet and write another fascinating poem about trees. Just make sure it doesn't rhyme and have lots of sexual references. Good day to you, sir.

2: HTML
Two types of HTML: A stupid amount of bad HTML, and a stupid amount of good HTML. Both are equally annoying in their own special ways.

Bad HTML: Somebody who's decided that including as many pictures, background wallpaper, bouncing Jesuses, site counters, clocks, flashing buttons, stock countdowns, HILARIOUS quotes, advertisements, surveys, interactive messageboards, tags, google boxes, makepovertyhistory boxes, clashing pictures, charity logos, scrolling text boxes and obnoxious logos as possible makes their blog look 'really neat'.

This is all, of course, stuck in wherever, so there's lots of annoying lapping over, text going wherever the hell it wants, freezing up of computers, and acres of free space/space crammed to the brim with annoying boxes. To replicate the experience to a mild degree, go onto the template section of the Settings, then just arbitrarily delete a couple of huge swathes and see what it looks like. I tell you, its bad. Very bad.

For an excellent demonstration of the brilliance of Bad HTML, check this:
Steph's Retarded Blog
For some real fun, try scrolling all the way to the bottom. Ugh.

Good HTML: Some bright spark is obviously a bit nifty with the ol' HTML, and is bound by law to show off to the rest of us mere mortals. Perhaps just a page with some crazy text, or a giant picture of a cat. Or some anime. Or, I dunno, flashy buttons all fancy like. Look, I don't care, really, but there are always tits who spend hours carefully tweaking their blogs to produce a piece of art that I'm not going to read anyway.
Like this
Great. You make a nice format for your blog. But still, all the format is is the box. And if the box contains dog shit, its not that great a present is it? AMAZING metaphor there. Also, if you check that blog, you'll see a case of 'crazy changing cursor' - is it a crosshair? Is it a question mark? NO! It's an ARROW.

And another piece of HTML shit that should never be allowed: on no accounts do you ever EVER remove the 'next blog' button. That button is our ticket out of your crummy blog onto a possibly good one. Removing it breaks the flow, hell, ruins the blogsurfing experiance. Which is usually, at best, shit. So yeah, no matter how good you think your blog is, don't remove that button. Or else, you get slapped.

And now we come onto the final point. The big daddy-o. The one. The only. You knew it was coming...

1: Spelling and punctuation
AARGH. Why are there so many fucking retards on the web? Why? WHY? WHY? The English language has been good to you... it has allowed you to speak to your compatriots, allowed you to get a computer, to live, to communicate, to exist... why must you slaughter it so? WHY?

aNd AnOTHer ThInG... WhAt IS ThE PoINt In TYpIng LiKE thIs? I mean, surely most sorts of wankish internet shorthand are just there to make life easier... saving the precious 0.2 seconds it would take to include the yo on your by just saying ur so you have more time to tell us about your interesting waste of a life... but tYpInG LIkE ThIS TaKEs AbOuT ThReE TiMes As LoNg. Is it meant to look cool? Is it meant to be groovy? To be honest, the first few times I saw this, I thought it was some sort of a secret code and started reading just the capital letters to see if there was a hidden message. After the fourth time of nothing, I started to hate this particular literature abortion with a passion.

Also, punctuation: Long lines of pointless punctuation are not cool. Why... why... do you chose to do something like this: ^p0 aka x|n`t0ng ? I swear to god that this was on a blog I found. Actually, this particular blog will appear later in this sordid tale. Just, please, stop, stop, STOP, butchering the English language.

Another example. Here's a quote from the aforementioned blog:

ab accept the fact.. ii hab wake up.. everyone of ma fwens.. except some lahs.. ish happily with their bf/gf(s) together.. gee`s.. sho sweet.. well.. guess its time fer mie to search fer ma prince again.. wakakas.. gonna crazy once more time..

Right, this goes on. For line upon line of text. As near as I can tell, there are roughly 42 words. And, oh god, an infinite number of spelling errors. Amongst my preferred personal best are the mispellings of 'I' (IT'S JUST ONE LETTER, DIPSHIT), spelling 'me' with three letters, therefore meaning it takes longer to type, and spelling 'friends' not only phonetically, but phonetically for somebody who can't pronounce their r's properly. Fucking unbelievable.

There are pages upon pages of blogs like this out there. Goddamn, people should be shot. The only good blog to totally disregard the English language is Oli G's (www.placid-oli.blogspot.com). It also features some hysterically bad HTML, but this is all evened out by the knowledge that he was obviously totally smashed when he made the damn thing. Drunkeness can get you off the hook for a lot; just being a lazy stupid sonofabitch will, to date, not.

And so, in conclusion, here it is. The perfect example of what I'm talking about. This baby breaks MOST of the rules on this list (9, 8, 7, 6, 4, 2 and oh so definitely 1). To fully appreciate this blog, possibly the most retarded I have ever wandered onto, please do the following:

Turn your speakers up to full volume.
Close all your other programs.
Promise yourself that you're gonna read a full page of it.
Maximise the window.
Now, click on the link below. God be on your Soul.

I am so sorry

But don't worry, its not all gloom and doom. Actually, it is.

I realise that there may have been some spelling and punctuation errors in this blog, but be assured, they were all fully intentional. So shut it, smartarse.

*No, its not. Unfortunately. I just can't wait for the day that they discover they can convert pointless websites into cheap affordable fuel, thus solving the world energy crisis, global warming, and stopping me being annoyed every time I'm on the internet.