Oh, fuckmonkeys...

What the devil is wrong with my blog? There's this massive mofoing gap between the title of the post and the main post itself. Shit, shittum, shitwank.

I hate this gap. Ever since the gap has appeared, I've had NO comments on any of my posts. No feedback. No visits. This gap is a SHIT. It's a leech. It's attached itself to the life-artery of my blog (its aorta, if you will) and has proceeded to suck happily at the sweet plasmatic fluids. This gap MOCKS ME. I sit here and stare at it angrily, wondering what this gap has planned next for me. I consider blogging, writing something, but, somehow, the words don't come. And it's the fault of those many lines of blank white space. I just get the feeling that, whatever happens, this fucking gap is going to seperate my no doubt HILARIOUS and WITTY post title from the rest of my HILARIOUS and WITTY post. I can't blog properly about anything. Except, it seems, this gap.

But I can't just sit here and write an essay everyday about how much I hate that fucking gap.
Can I?
I mean, I could, but I guess it would get boring. Quite quickly.

So far, I've come up with THREE possible reasons for the current gappyness in the blog:

1: Some Sort of Curse. I don't know, I've spent a lot of time digging in that indian burial ground and opening up ancient egyptian tombs recently. It's not my fault that I discovered an indian burial ground inside an ancient egyptian tomb the other day, and decided to jump around on it, peeing everywhere. And it's certainly not my fault that, in order to get into the tomb, I had to break seven mirrors, drive over a black cat, walk under Every Ladder Ever Made, throw salt at The Most Unlucky Man Ever, and do lots of stuff thats related to 13. Sleep with a 13 year old. A 13 year old whose mother was a witch. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm never going to sleep with anyway. Perhaps that's part of the curse too.
Damn curses. Well, I guess that I can count myself lucky that the worst curse somebody could think to put on me was to have a large gap between the title and the post body. At least I don't look like Bob Geldof.

2: The Template. This is all I can think of... the Holy Template. The template is something I fear, something that I dare only meddle with after having a stiff drink and carefully studying a dictionary of html for a period of no longer than 4 hours. Why do I fear the template? Because the template can turn my blog from a vision of beauty to a hellish pit of HTML DEATH in a matter of seconds. And this is why I fear it. Perhaps I have somehow angered The Template, and this gap is my just punishment.

O Temple, I beg forgiveness. Now remove that gap, you fucking bitch. Or I'll be forced to go in there myself and SORT YOU OUT. For I am one mean son of a bean. And I'm scared of going into the template. You never know what you'll find when you emerge, covered in those little triangles that plague the HTMLing world so. Probably a load of crazy lines and an even bigger gap.

And that's a risk that I'm not willing to take.

3: My computer is just being a bitch. I have a Mac. The internet hates Macs. This is because TEH INTERNET IS TEH SUX0R.


My computer. As you can see, cutting edge... you can see why Microsoft may wish to trip up my progress in the internet by adding random gaps into my computing algorithms. Fucking algorithms. Dijkstra my ass.

If anybody has any idea how to remove that DAMN GAP, please tell me, and I'll marry you. Do it please, for the goodness of the blog. Because this gap is seriously pissing me off. And when I get pissed off... people die. I also turn green and gain some magic stretching purple shorts.

Damn gaps...

The Start of Resident Evil 4

Yes, that's right, this game is SO manly, I'm going to give you a runthrough of what happened the first few times I played it. Because, I'm cool:

Well, you start in this car with these two Spanish guys called Santos and Pasqual. Well, we're never told that they're specifically NAMED Santos and Pasqual, but... come on. A pair of Spanish guys in nice uniforms? They're called Santos and Pasqual. And straight away, we know that these two are going to GET IT, because:

a: It's an American game (you can tell this, because they refer to Europe as a country... "I'm in this forest in the middle of Europe"... "she was spotted in Europe"), and thus any non-fit-female foreigners are going to be either comic relief or enemy fodder, and neither Santos NOR Pasqual are funny.
b: They are mean to our Hero, Manly Leon.
c: They refuse to get out of the car. Staying in the car is the number one cause of death in horror related films. Apparently it's always safer to get out and wander through the woods blindly, hoping that something exciting will happen.
d: They're wearing a uniform. Wearing a uniform is murder in the video-game universe. If a character's wearing a uniform, it means that the game designer hadn't been that bothered with the coding of them, as he knew that the character wasn't gonna be in the game for very long. If Santos and Pasqual had been wearing full size rainbow coloured diving suits with different indian headresses and had their own theme music, then I might have been more disposed to thinking that they survive. But a dull blue uniform? Sorry lads, no chance.

So, after crossing a bridge, you are dumped in the middle of the woods. Our Hero, Manly Leon, who despite having a gay emo haircut has a gun and a natty jacket, pulls out his gun and sets off on his mission. I immediately tried to have him run away towards civilisation, but apparently the game rules don't allow The Sensible Option. Leon also has a radio which allows him to talk nice lady who calls him up every twenty minutes, just to make sure he's ok. Yeah, nice one ma'am, keep radioing him. Don't, you know, send backup or anything. Just leave him in the middle of the enemy infested woods.


Artist's impression of Leon. Notice his thoughtful expression as he takes aim at the horde of brilliantly drawn zombies JUST out of shot. Also notice his rather fag-tastic hairdo. NB: Leon's skin is not pink. Yet. But you never know what could happen.

So, after wandering in circles for a bit while I figured out how to make Leon move in a straight line, we wandered down a path. Joe at this point was getting very overexcited, screaming RUN RUN RUN DOWN THE PATH YOU FOOL! at me, so I went out of my way to open the map every three paces and repeatedly change direction.

Eventually you end up in this house, where there's this angry mofo with an axe and a natty beard who decides that he's had enough of your pesky nosiness, and decides to chop you up good with his axe. Fortunately, this villager walks at, like two miles per hour and you're armed with a gun. I still managed to miss him with five of my shots, then wasted a good portion of the remained shooting him in the torso, which is apparently not full of vital organs in the Resident Evil world. BUT AFTER YOU KILL HIM, his buddies comes along. By the way, these guys AREN'T ZOMBIES. They are real, living humans. Fortunately, they speak a foreign language so you're allowed to kill them. Despite that his buddies also walk at, like two miles per hour and have little/no reasoning ability, I ran upstairs and threw myself out of a window, before missing both of them with well-aimed bullets. However, I then discovered the amazing 'kick' button, which allows you to do kung fu on the poor villagers. So, once they were dead, it was on with my investigation.

I sort of wandered down the road, walking into every booby trap on my way, wondering why, if the villagers were sophisticated enough to build lazer-powered boobie traps, they weren't smart enough to figure out guns. Or co-ordinating their attacks. Or, you know, running. EVENTUALLY, I reached the village, and discovered what those nasty, nasty villagers had done with Santos and Pasqual. Well, Santos anyway... Pasqual later turned up floating in a lake, before being eaten by a giant fish. Yes, you heard me, a giant fish. THEY HAD BURNT SANTOS ALIVE. ARGH. Well, possibly not alive.

That wasn't very nice. So then I decided that the straight attack on the village was what was necessay, so I ran in and shot lots of villagers. Then I went and hid inside a house and found A SHOTGUN. Then this guy with a bag on his head and a chainsaw came and cut off my head. Literally, the first time I heard the ROAR of the chainsaw I cried "WHOOPEE!". And my exact feelings when that guy first chainsawed off my head... wow. I was LITERALLY breathless. If you've seen Evil Dead 2, remember the first time Ash kitted up and said 'Groovy'. THAT was the level of amazed breathlessness that we're talking here. We're talking HEART IN MOUTH OPEN MOUTHED SHOCK.

"He... cut... off... my... HEAD!"

Lolz pwned!!!! LOLZ!!!!11!!!!ONE!!!!


Artist's Impression of Chainsaw Man. As you can see, very scary.

So, after that POOR excuse for a life, Ogg had a go. Chainsawed. Joe had a go. Chainsawed. We were having a difficult time cracking this, despite our very different tactics for surviving Village Run 1, as I've taken to calling it in the past half second.

My first tactic: Sneak around really sneakily, then lose it and run into a tiny room full of angry villagers and a chainsaw wielding freak. Get chainsawed.
Ogg's tactic: Run around really quickly, trying to do everything really cleverly. Climb up the tower. Climb down the tower. Get chainsawed.
Joe's tactic: Run around, trying to open every door in the village in a vain hope that one of them will lead somewhere useful. Fail. Get trapped in a corner. Chainsawed.
My second tactic: Give up trying to get anywhere, run amok in circles shooting anything that comes near... SURVIVE. For a bit. Then get blown up/eaten by something nasty. Or chainsawed. Yes, there is more chainsawing.

Did I mention that there was a guy with a chainsaw? And he survives EVERYTHING. I shot him with a shotgun, like, twelve times. All he does is fall down for a bit. He's even more invincible to gunfire than Lisa was in Resident Evil: Biohazard (man, that was a SCARY ass game).

But I must say, having survived the SCARY GIANT FISH (killed by throwing sticks into its mouth)


Random picture I found on google by typing in 'big fish'. NB: In the game, the fish is bigger. And probably less dangerous, seeing as all it does is swim in a circle and lose a swimming race with a fully dressed man wearing his shoes.

... the SCARY GIANT MAN (killed with the help of a cute passing dog)


Artist's (by the way, when I say 'artist', I really mean me, in ten seconds, with one hand) impression of giant. Pay attention to the mean expression on his face, and the relative sizes between the giant/a man. NB: Giant is neither green nor jolly.

... and THE SCARY MEN WHOSE HEADS EXPLODE TO REVEAL A HUGE BLOODY MASS OF EVIL WORMS (killed by running away. Fast.).


I quite like how I have delicately detailed the thought process that this fella is going through.

I thought that I'd seen it all. BUT I WASN'T PREPARED TO MEET MR CHAINSAW'S WIVES. BOTH OF THEM.

AT ONCE.

IN A PIT.

Chainsawlarity ensued.

Damn, that's one fuckoff good game. At the madcap rate I'm playing it, I think I'll have finished it by, uh, next week? Then I'll need a new ultraviolent game to play.

God Bless You, China!

Hello. Does anyone know why the top post is all fucked up? No? Oh well.

First things first: EXAMS ARE OVER! WAHOOO! YAY! WHOOPEE! WICKED! HUZZAH! DANCE PARTY TIME! YAY! LOLZ! etc.
I mean, now the exams are over, I can finally have some fun without the endless rigours of revision and parental pressure about revision, and, my god, the terrible EXAMS and the cold sweats at night and the...

Ok, I lie. At MOST, the GCSEs were a minor inconvenience to me. No, not even that. GCSEs made my life EVEN EASIER than they had been already. Study leave meant that we had days, weeks, even, off school. Getting up late, drinking vast amounts of coffee, sort of easing myself into my chair to read some incredibly easy revision book about the plague or whatever the fuck I was meant to be revising. You want my revision technique? Well, seeing as the exams are over now and nobody's gonna steal it, here goes:

1: Wander into room. Drink water. Look nervously at exercise books full of detailed examples of everything we need to know.
2: Push exercise books onto the floor. Look in the nice simplified GCP revision book, which breaks everything down to the bare essentials, with many brightly coloured pictures and diagrams.
3: Make a list of things I don't know. This is the core of my revision techniques: only revise the stuff that you're SURE you don't know. And when I say 'don't know', I mean 'if a question related to this came up in the exam, I would have no fucking clue how to even start doing it, in fact I would be so confused I would end up knocking myself unconscious by accident with my pen lid'.This cuts out much of the chaff, leaving you with the tricky stuff, which really boils down to not being that hard after all.
4: You have a list of things you don't know. Doodle on this list. Choose the top topic from the list.
5: Take a brand new sheet of paper. Write the title of the topic you don't know on the top of the sheet in highlighter. Then, using a black pen, slowly and oh-so-carefully trace around the outside of your writing. When the pen has dried, add a highlighter underline. Trace round this too. If you're really feeling artistic, add another. Whatever, it's your revision session, go mad.
6: Look up the topic in the GCP book. Typically, a three week subject is condensed into half a page. Read the page, then write, like, two related words under the sheet of paper. Doesn't matter about how neatly you write, you're gonna throw it into the bin anyway. I managed to go through more than 100 sheets of paper in three weeks with this method.
7: Wander around the table, loudly talking to yourself about the topic, but often letting your mind wander off to various unrelated topics eg. the puffy bit of paint where the wall's gone damp, Cassie's boobs, the lyrics to 'London underground', Lucia's fear of anybody being angry at her, the nice stain on the carpet, etc. Once I managed to perform three full laps of the table while ruminating on the plot for Batman Begins before noticing that I'd sort of lost the track of whatever I was meant to be revising.
8: Carry onto the next topic until you get bored. If you still haven't understood the current one, get bits of paper out of the bin and spend ten minutes throwing them back at it while repeating key topic details to yourself.
9: Lose interest, leave room.
10: Watch an Episode of the OC (yes, I know, I'm an addict, fuck off). Have lunch. Browse the internet for like twenty minutes. Re-read your own blog. Watch Trisha, then a re-run of Big Brother. Then slowly trudge back to the revision room, lamenting the explonential growth of your 20 minute break.

So, yeah, that was my revision. And that was my revision at its most brutal and ferocious. Didn't get much more intense than that. And that was all in the last two weeks. Ha ha ha, I just remembered; they wanted us to do three hours a night for the entire Easter holidays, then six hour a day for every day of study leave.

Ahahahhahahahhahaha.

I would be seriously fucked off if I'd put all that work in and I end up with the pissy bunch of papers we got for the exams. My laclustre revision methods got me safely through every damn exam they threw up, with the notable exception of Triple Chemistry and Core Maths 2, but does anyone care about those? No? Seriously? And damnit, I was so looking forward to my career as a plastic chemicalist. Or whatever.

So, yeah, I can't REALLY say that the end of the exams is heralding a massive positive improvement to my social life (ha! I have a blog... it's like the internet equivalent of having both aids AND leprosy AND involuntarily spitting out razor sharp blood soaked needles AND listening to U2) but still, uh... actually, the end of the exams is actually detrimental to my social life. I'm actually going to see and interact with less people than I do usually. And I can't pull the "sorry, I gotta revise" excuse every time my mother asks me to walk the dogs/accompany her walking the dogs/do anything dog related/clear the table/mow the lawn/tell her the time/do anything. I was such a satisfyingly poor son; now I no longer have an excuse.

However, the end of the exams does mean that I can, like, spend some more time with my homies. And GET A GIRLFRIEND! (HAH! I'm an impressively unsucessful boatie with a blog... that's the dating equivalent of being a queer scottish footballer... yes, I went there) But hey, at least you're not a queer CHINESE footballer, eh?

And that stunningly inept link brings me onto the main subject of this post, which will probably be, ironically, shorter than the introduction: CHINA. Yes, we all know China is there. We can all point it out on a black map of the world. Ha. I mean, it's over in Asia somewhere. And, I mean, china has given us some of the cultural milestones of the world. For example, Famed Author Amy Tan with her blistering piece of prose 'Two Kinds' (as not used in the GCSE English exam by me), huge pointless terracotta armies, tea, fireworks, and long pointless walls. But, does anyone know the REAL china? Well, me, Joeseph and the Oggster set out on a journey today to find out.

So, we started our cultural voyage of China by checking out Chinese Movie 'Kung Fu Hustle'. Man, this was a funny film. First of all, all the actors talked in a silly make-believe language and all the REAL words were written across the bottom. And also, it's full of the most insane violence and comic skillz ever. I mean, the guy who wrote this must have been totally munted/smashed/destroyed/stoned off his HEAD. I mean, it's the sort of film that you discuss with your buddies when drunk.

"Yo, I got... I got this really good IDEA for a film, man."
"Oh yeah dude?"
"Yeah, it's like, in CHINA, and, like, there are all these OLD people man. And there are all these lunatics with axes and they, like, DANCE their way through the opening credits."
"China, man?"
"Yeah, sweet man, and like, everyone talks silly languages. And there's this old lady who runs at, like, a billion miles an hour."
"Sweet! There could be, like, this lunatic whos actually an old man but is actually the kung fu king and HE CAN FLY."
"And, like, these old people who can, like, do kung fu. And, like this one guy flies in to the air and steps on a bird. Then he meets Buddha in the sky."
"Kung fu?"
"You know it!"
"HIGH FIVE!"

Man, that is one MANLY film, despite the lack of Christopher Walken. There isn't enough Christopher Walken in films nowadays. Or, come on, the woman who played Barbara in the Goode Life. Man, she was fit. She should have been in more porno. But that bit with the woman getting shotgunned was sweet. Pay attention: there will be more shotgun related banter later.

After getting wildly overexcited by the amazing show of typical Chinese life depicted in Kung Fu hustle, we decided on our next Chinese related adventure. Then it hit us. LUNCH. So we went to a Chinese buffet (it's pronounced 'buffey'). Now, when the sign says "All you can Eat", I honestly don't think that you're supposed to take that as a wager. But that's how we saw it. Man, I ate so much rice today. And typical Chinese deep fried chicken. But Joe and Oli managed to outdo themselves. Oliver by being the world's most SHIT vegetarian, and Joe by eating half a duck, in conjunction with his four plates of everything else. Joe managed a really impressive feat of keeping going, despite the waiters's insistence on stealing his plate. I remember one heartwarming occasion.

Waitress: You want me to take your plates?
Ogg: Yes.
Me: Yes.
Joe *Mouth full of delicious duck*: Mrrfhsh.
Me: Don't take his plate.
*The waitress takes Oli's plate. She then tries to take Joe's.*
Joe: Mrrlaraharhphh.
Me: No, don't take the plate.
*The waitress leaves with Oli's plate.*
Me: Hey!

Chinese food is a delicate, delicious selection of specially blended dishes. If you end up throwing up at the end of it, Oliver, I think that you've kind of missed the point of the whole affair. Anorexic bastard. Oh well, I managed to keep my end up by drinking my own bodyweight in tapwater. It was water IN A JUG, but it was FREE! WITH ICE! So, yeah, feeling all bloated and sloshy, we sort of wandered into HMV, where I purchased what is possibly the BEST GAME EVER... Resident Evil 4.

This is seriously the biggest mofo of a game ever. Basically, you're this guy in a forest full of evil hillybillies with pitchforks. The hillybillies try to kill you. You kill them back, with an assortment of shotguns etc. And there's this really evil wanker with a bag on his head and a chainsaw. Thankfully, you get given a shotgun fairly early on, and THEN you get to use it ON WOMEN. Yes, that's right. You can SHOOT WOMEN with a shotgun. FROM BEHIND. Here's a list of things I've killed in this game so far:

About fifteen thousand hillybillies.
Many hillybilly ladies, or as they like to be called, "hillyjillies".
A cow that was stupid enough to get in the way of my repeated slashings.
Some snakes.
A crow... he was asking for it.
Some chicken. I ate its delicious eggs, threw some more eggs at a hillybilly, then killed the bird.

And THEN there's this big scary guy with a nice beard and wild eyes who keeps showing up and cackling madly, before LETTING YOU GO.

Important Supervillain Rule Number One: Never, EVER, half throttle your enemy, tell him your no doubt evil and cunning plan, THEN let them go. This is bad practise, and will result in the imminent shotgunning of your SPINE. By me.

So basically, this is the most manly game ever. Even more manly than me. AND, it was made by the Chinese. Well, if we're going to be factually accurate here, it was made by the Japanese. But the disk was probably made in Taiwan, which was next to China, and they hate each other, so it might have been made by a chinaman. And thus concluded our comprehensive study of Chinese life and culture.

THANKS CHINA!

You made this culture ALL BY YOURSELF. Well DONE.

Yes, I pronounce it Ock. Sue me.

Hello.

My little brother got The OC season 1 on DVD, and I am ashamed to say that I like it.

Ah man, why do I like the OC (or as I say it, the Ock), so much? I mean, it's really stupid. There are plot holes bigger than KT's Vagina or, as we in 5D commonly call it, Joe's Fishy Glove. It makes no sense. Everyone is beautiful all the time, no matter how much they'd had to drink or how many nacotics they've taken the night before. Despite having massive cars and living next to huge cliffs, everybody tries to kill themselves by ODing on pills.
There's a major social event every day, and they are always perfect. Except for the fist fights that break out in every single one. I'd like to see a party in the Ock that's really shit. You know, crepe paper on the tables, disgusting party nibbles, all the food and drink running out, some twat hiding the party sausages in a cupboard, the floor covered in a thick paste of congealed food/booze/mud. But NO, all the parties are glittering affairs with loud music and crazy flaming torches. How come there are flaming torches? How come I never see flaming torches when I'm at a party? I'll tell you why - because with proper teenage parties, the flaming torches get knocked over and set fire to that drunk guy in the corner. Or people use them in sword fights. Or something. Normal teenagers cannot be trusted. The bunch in the OC are a bunch of rich cunts.
AND YET I LIKE THIS SHOW.

I was confused.

Then it hit me. Like a freight train of morbid inspiration. Screw my thesis on the relative values of the OC. I'll just do another list-related post that has nothing to do with the introductary paragraph, and fuck the rest of you! But this list will be subtely different. Firstly, everyone who reads this post is going to compose a long comment at the end of it to prove to me that I didn't just waste an hour typing this up. Secondly, this one has PICTURES. And I don't mean lame, ripped off the net shit. I mean ORIGINAL ARTWORK. This is AN ART BLOG!

How did I get this artwork? I showed an episode of the OC to my five year old cousin and told him to do a picture of each of the main characters using my fancy black solvent pen and an assortment of every colour in the world, providing that those colours were blue, yellow, red, orange or black as those were the only ones that were directly to hand. Thinking about it, was it a good idea to give a solvent pen to a five year old? Oh well, I guess we'll never know now.

And so, I now present:

My pictoral representation of the main characters from Season 1 of the OC, in alphamabetical order

Actually, before I start doing this, I have a confession to make. I don't have a five year old cousin. I drew these pictures with my own hands. I was just ashamed. I'm sorry for lieing. Lying. Liing? Lyeing? Fuck this. Enjoy.

Anna


Ah, Anna. Anna is one third of the Seth/Anna/Summer love triangle. Anna is 'the cooky hilarious one from Pittsburg', that Seth ends up choosing over Summer, who is generally regarded as 'the fit one' by pretty much everyone except me. The relationship between Anna and Seth seems to good to be true, but will it last? As she's not featured with the rest of the cast on the DVD box cover, I'd say the chances are FAIRLY slim.

Anna's main features are her spray-painted on cheekbones, blue eyes and her magic one hundred and eighty degree neck, which does a fair proportion of the acting.
If you spend your OC time watching Anna's neck, I assure you that you'll be getting a treat - every time she moves anywhere, her head remains in state for a good half a second before following the rest of the body. It's great. Also, she does a little r&b shiggle-wiggle (don't ask me what a shiggle-wiggle is, I have NO idea) every time she looks over at anything. Man, I look at Annas neck too much.
And don't ask me why she doesn't have a nose, you should have been my first attempt at drawing Anna. Yes, you heard me correctly. These pictures were actually the end result of several failed attempts and redraws. Yes, these WERE the best I could do.

Kirsten


I have no idea. Kirsten has absolutely no characteristics whatsoever. She might be really attractive, or a great personality, but I just Don't Know. She sort of blends in with the background. I think that Kirsten is the straight man to the comedy of the rest of the family, but I don't know. Straight man? You know what that says to me? Dead wood.
No, wait, I get it now. She provides the all important morals, ie:

Cool guy: Yeah, that was a great party.
Other cool guy: Yeah, man.
Kirsten (materialising from a dustbin): DON'T DO DRUGS!

She also has a good line in disapproving stares. She's basically the stick-in-the-mud of the OC universe. Or Ockville, as I call it. Although, I hear that she gets run over with a monster truck next season. So that's something to look forward to.

Luke


As you can see, Luke is the bad guy of the series. There are several clues to his 'bad boy' status:

He has glowing red eyes, apparently.
He stands at the very back of the rest of the cast on the DVD cover.
He looks mean on the cover.
His head is triangular.
He's also called Luke, which is a pretty evil name.
He's growling.
He spends his time looking angry at the camera and standing in front of it.
He calls people who disagree with his opinions 'bitch', proving just how hard he is.
He's also the boyfriend of Marissa, which we all know is rubbish because Ryan is the only guy for her and any other guy is just likely to be up to no good. Which it turns out he is.

Luke is the threat of, like, the first seven episodes, but then they turn him into comic relief. Being turned into comic relief is, I guess, a bit of a knock for any bad-guy. I wonder what the Darthvadster would have said if Lucas had told him to slip over a banana peel and be pelted by pies. I guess it would have been something like "NEVER PUNY FAT MORTAL! MWAHAHAHAHA! FEEL MY FORCE POWERS!", followed by some ass-kicking force maneuvres. Although, thinking about it, that bit he got both legs cut off and was set fire at the end of Episode 3 WAS pretty funny.

Prrrick.

Marissa


Marissa, as well as having the largest cheekbones known to man, also mispronounces many words in a way that can't be described but is intrinsically irritating. She sounds like the kind of person who says 'cuh' a lot. You know, that sound that you make when you rasp the back of your mouth with your tongue, while moving the said mouth muscle up and down. I don't know.

Marissa is also roughly nine feet tall and, despite being a child of (spoiler) divorce and (spoiler) trying to kill herself and (spoiler) having (spoiler) a drinking problem, AND being best friends with a crazy stalker called (spoiler) Oliver who isn't in this list because I didn't have enough space on my piece of paper, she has perfect skin and the body of a supermodel. Bitch.

She also has long, long kissing sessions with Ryan, who is about 2 feet tall. So she should have mouth ulcers too. But does she? No. Another example of how normal people get SCREWED by American teenage sitcoms.

Ryan aka The Manly One


Ryan is the luckiest boy in the world. Lets just get that straight. Oliver Twist? Little Lord Faulteroy? Charlie Bucket? Compared to Ryan, they were SHIT. Ryan comes from the mean streets of Chino. I don't see what's so mean about the streets of Chino. I mean, they're named after a type of trousers/shoes that my homosexual ex-priest art teacher used to wear. How mean can they be? He then gets rescued by a kindly lawyer and lives in total luxury for the rest of his life, just like the end of Annie, except with less singing and NO RED HAIRED LITTLE SHIT.

Ryan has it preeeeetty cushty, to be honest. And yet, is he happy? No, he bloody isn't. He just mopes around, using his two stock expressions - 'moody' and 'confused'. That's it. Moody and confused. I mean, you'd think that, having been told that you get to live a life of luxury for the rest of your days, you'd be happy. But no. He just looks confused when that particular bombshell is dropped. He also has a good skill at whispering all his lines. It's called 'acting', apparently.

But I must say, his moody looks ARE tingle-making. There's one episode that ends with a thirty second shot of him walking down a street in slow motion with his moody-vision set to 'Manly'. Any boy would lucky to be the bride of such a manly man. Did I say he was manly? He is manly. As well as having the squarest of square chins and looking suspiciously twenty-eight for a sixteen year old schoolboy, Ryan also has superpowers. Yes, he can run up an entire skyscraper of stairs to the tune of Finley Quaye's "Dice" in TEN SECONDS. If that's not manly, I don't know what is.

Sandy


Sandy has big eyebrows. He also looks a bit like a dog. Don't ask me why he has blue lips. I'm not a doctor.

Sandy is also the Kindest Man in the World, randomly deciding to take a street urchin into his house for no reason. But, of course, it's not his house, it's his wife Kirsten's. Kirsten is the daughter of the Richest Man in the World. So, really, he's a bit of a mooch. Mooch. Mooch. Did I mention that his eyebrows have their own postal code? Well, they do. Except in America, they call them Zip Codes, because in America, every word has to sound snappy and smart, even if it has nothing to do with the object it's associated with.

Sandy is also the Best Lawyer in the Kingdom, being able, as he is, to adopt a random 16 year old in less than two hours by asking social services, without talking to boy, the boy's mother, or, indeed, anyone, first. Wow, if adoption is that easy, I'm off to do it tomorrow. Sandy also goes surfing every day. And comes back with sexy tousled wet hair. Mmm. He truly is the Grooviest Lawyer Around. Man oh man. Sandy, if only you could sing and had a vagina, and then I'd marry you in a second.

Seth


Seriously, what a twat. Everyone loves Seth. Girls love him because they want to have sex with him. Women love him for the same reason. Gays love him because he has a nice tushie. Homophobes love him because he looks sort of like a woman. Jews love him because he's jewish. Palestinians love him because he doesn't mention this fact very often. Old people love him because he's respectful to his father. Blind people love him because they can hear his his reassuringly intelligent voice. Deaf people like to look at his ties, which are always in a bright display of colours and shapes. Teenage boys like him because he reads comic books, but only elitist ones that they haven't heard of them. Deaf/blind people like to stroke his silky white cheeks and run their hands through his curly black hair. Deaf/blind people with no limbs, well, to be honest they have enough to worry about. Mothers want to tuck him up in bed. Fathers want to teach him to not be such a pussy. Michael Jackson wants to bum him.

Even I love Seth. When I say his name, I say it in a very forlorn loving way. You can see my typing the (L)s (that's MSN speak for love hearts) around his name. To be honest, I want to take him home and mother him.

What a twat.

Summer


Yeah. Before anybody makes any assumptions, Summer is not an alcoholic prostitute who's beaten up by her boyfriend with a stick, no matter what my picture may make you believe. Summer is meant to be the other 'kooky' one (they're both kooky, don't ask me, I didn't write the fucking thing), which sort of comes across as 'slutty, obsessive material gimpetta'. By the way, gimpetta is the feminine form of 'gimp', for any language students out there. Use it well.
Everybody thinks that Summer is the fittest girl on the planet. I think she has a kind of fat neck. And her head is shaped like a pair. But what do I know? I've been romantically attached to Nearly. And I think that lava lamps are really nifty. And I did draw the preceding eight pictures. I probably shouldn't be trusted with fashion/beauty/design style. To be honest, I probably shouldn't be trusted with anything.

CALIFORNIA HERE WE COME! Etc. Comment, I didn't spent twenty seconds on those pictures for nothing.

Henman! The Musical

Well, the last post was pretty depressing. To be honest, it was a long lament about how much a loser I am at rowing. I was hot. I was sticky (eugh). I was feeling low about my loserishness. But then, today, something miraculous happened.

I saw Tim Henman playing tennis on tv.

Tim Henman, despite playing tennis for like 40 years or whatever, has not once won Wimbledon. He just sort of hangs around. He's not good enough to be brilliant, and yet, he's not crap enough to be forced out of tennis to persue a less humiliating carreer, like teacher, or that guy who stands on Picadilly Circus with the "Golf Sale" sign. Man, I wish that I had that job. But no. Tim enters Wimbledon every year, wins one match against the latest Swedo-Germanic 14 year old hotshot, looks really impressive, then goes out in the semis. I don't know why he never wins. He doesn't seem that bad at tennis.

I mean, he has the requisite tennis moves. He hits the ball over the net with his club whenever the occasion calls for it to be hit over the net. He moves about a bit. He waggles his arms theatrically. He sweats a bit. And then he has his special Henman victory move whenever he wins an important point. Actually, he has two. Greedy or what? He doesn't have just the ONE celebration move, he has TWO. I bet there are tennis players out there who don't even have ONE victory dance. You know, the retarded ones who never win. Like Stephen Hawking. I bet Stephen Hawking doesn't have a tennis victory dance. Or Christopher Reeve. Or that woman on tv with no arms. Or legs.

But yet, Tim HAS two victory maneuvers, the greedy twat:

1: The Fist Pump
Whenever a totally important point has been won, he does his very fancy little fist pumping action.
How to do a Henman Fist Pump
Stand up STRAIGHT, and hold your arm out straight in front of you. Then make a fist. This can be achieved by curving the four longer fingers down so that the finger nails are touching the edge of the palm. Not too far, dears, or you'll hurt yourself. Hands can be dangerous things. Just ask that guy in Evil Dead 2. Then fold the THUMB over the fingers, just below the knuckle of the index finger, so that the ball of your thumb is just touching the second finger.

Done that? Ok, you've made a fist. You just passed stage one of Mugging for Dummies.

Then, WITHOUT BREAKING THE FIST, move the fisted arm downwards so that it is parallel to the rest of your body. Now comes the tricky bit. BEND YOUR ELBOW, WITHOUT BREAKING THE FIST, so that your forearm, with fist attached, is as far bent towards your head as it can get. The fist should now be a few inches away from your chin, unless, of course, you have freakishly proportioned arms/are Cassie/are that stupid torso-woman I previously mentioned. Get out of here, you freaks. Back to Papa Lazarou. Your arm is now in position A.
Now comes the REALLY hard bit, that requires several distinct movements. Look down at your fist, so that you are nearly kissing it. THEN, slowly more your forearm, so that the fist has been taken away from the lips. Then, RAPIDLY swing the arm back into position A, as though you were going to punch yourself in the face.
Do not punch yourself in the face.
Instead, hiss the word "YES" really quietly and look intensely at your fist. You can repeat this action as many times as you like but, to be honest, 0 times is probably the most you'll ever need to do it.

Congratulations, you have sucessfully done The Fist Pump, Henman Move Number 1. Here's a picture of the great man in question, so you can see it being done by a pro:



See the form? See the angry scowl? Now that's a man who's not gonna punch himself in the face. Eye of the tiger, my son.

2: The Nothing
Just sort of gaze aimlessly into space. Look like you're about to cry. Sweat a lot. Now you might not think that this is a particular move, but Tim has managed make the intense scowl at nothing to an artform. My man. Here he is, in fine form:



That's a man with a burning stare. Miaow, pussycat. *Bites the air*

Why am I doing this? Why have I devoted a good twenty minutes taking the piss out of Tim Henman? I mean, he might be a loser, but, hey, at least he's a British Loser. Better than one of those fucking American losers. Or, even worse, christ, an eskimo loser. That reminds me, what do you call an eskimo cow? And eskimoo. God, I'm like, SO funny. He may be a loser, but, hey, he has a fan club and a hill named after him. I wish that I could get a fan club and a hill named after me, for failing to win a load of tennis matches.

Perhaps the name. Many of the great comic creations of history have been English, losers, and called Tim:

Tim from The Office
Tim from Spaced

Yeah, that's all I have. But perhaps it's just the Britishness of being a loser that makes our losers better than the rest of the world's:

The entire cast of The Office
Shaun (of the dead) Riley
Rodney Trotter
That guy who was in that tv show
The Royal Family are pretty lame, to be honest
Geoff Tipps from League of Gentlemen
The two guys who sing the 'London Underground' have been screwed by the London underground
Basil Fawlty
Arthur Dent from Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Those guys with the big hats who patrol Buckingham Palace are quite shit. Especially that one twat who yelled at me because I tried to walk around his horse. Cunt.
I'm sure that most of the Monty Python characters were pretty loserish
And lots more, I'm sure

But this proves my point: Being a loser is funny, as long as you're British. This is why the American version of The Office will FAIL. Or had better do, because I'll be damned if the Americans are ever beating the English on pathetic hilariousness. The thing is, the Americans have to give their losers redeeming characteristics. Like Seth from the OC, which I have recently become addicted to. Now Seth is beautiful (not hunky, he looks too much like a woman for that), he has two fittamarianly fit girls vying for his lovin', he's funny, he lives in a massive house, he has amusing hair, and his dad has MASSIVE eyebrows. He's basically me, except without the beautiful women, eyebrows, house, or the beautiful part. So basically I'm a funny, funny guy. With silly hair. So how does that make him a loser? Christ. Fucking America.

The inverse is true. Britains hate winners. If, by some amazing coincidence, Tim managed to win Wimbledon (I don't know, every other opponant is simultaneously hit by lightning, or the authorities take pity on him and create a 'Tim Henman Cup for People Whose Name is Tim Henman'), I guarantee that Henman Hill would be deserted next year. Man, we are such a mean spirited country. Brilliant.

And all this makes me feel better about my list of failures. I mean, at least they're funny, unlike Steph's, which was just depressing. "I failed to not hurt the people who deserved it the least". Wow, way to fail to not make me want to staple my own eyelids, babe. I've failed to care about you're list of failures. You're failed to comprehent the inherent comedy in typing up a list of your failures. Did you notice that I failed to get into the Third Eight a grand total of four times? FOUR TIMES. I'm so shit. Wow, that's lame. And, me being british, the list of failures means that I'm funny and amusing, as opposed to being pathetic and aids-ridden. THE FACT THAT I HAVEN'T WON ANY MEDALS UP TO TODAY MAKES ME A WINNER IN THE EYES OF THE BRITISH PEOPLE.

Which made it all the more depressing when I got THIS today:



Yes, that's right, I am the proud recipiant of a Marlow Regatta 150 Years medal. Made of solid porclean, partially glazed, with a lovely cheapo link and a scratchy red ribbon that doesn't even fit around my head, you can SMELL the effort that went into mass producing these as cheaply as possible. This truly is worth my four hundred hours of hard training. And I can certainly say that I worked hard for this medal, it being one of those 'Let's Just Give a Medal to Everyone who Made it into a Final, Including All the Crews that were in a Straight Final' medals. Like 'Everyone gets a Trophy' Day. So basically, I get a cheapo medal for just showing up. Now when that's your entire medal collection, it isn't good for the self esteem.

So not only does that make me feel a HEAP better about my utter failure at rowing, it also achieves the joint goal of ruining my excellent run of being a loser. Now, no longer can I say "I've been rowing for three years and I've won NOTHING!". Now I have to say "I've been rowing for three years and I've won NOTHING except that one medal which we got by default!"

Kind of ruins it.

So, basically, as soon as I realise that being unsuccessful at rowing is funny, God ruins it by giving me the most lame rowing accolade known to man. Nice one, God.

Fun Fact: My mother once babysat the infant Tim Henman. Which means that Tim Henman was, possibly, practise for me. Ooh.

Scoring at Marios's New Years Party,

Remembering to pick up the biology sheet from Joe the day after I asked for it,
Revising properly for the mocks,
Making the tree in my art picture look non crap,
Cheering Abi up at Emma's party,
Not fucking up my Spanish oral by speaking French,
Doing something really rebellious,
Getting into the Third Eight at the first selection,
Seat racing for the Third Eight,
Remembering Oli G's birthday,
Getting above 36% in the Core Maths Mock,
Seeing The Spongebob Squarepants Movie,
Saving Ogg from the claws of Steve,
Winning the Hampton Head,
Learning to play the guitar,
Getting my Lion essay done in time,
Writing an interview with Lucien Freud,
Getting a mumps innoculation,
Getting Ogg a birthday present,
Seat racing for the Third Eight,
Understanding what's so funny about Stella and Charlie in League of Gentlemen,
Making pancakes,
Visiting every museum in London,
Not falling over the stairs,
Getting a father's day present,
Making a decent tsunami poster,
Caring about the tsunami,
Giving money to hobos,
Perfecting my Papa Lazarou imitation,
Winning Worcester Head,
Learning to juggle,
Going to the zoo,
Winning Schools Head,
Going to a gig,
Remembering to finish my Art GCSE sketchbook on time,
Having a really great non-snail-related art idea... because snails would be a SHIT idea,
Going to a gig... what is a gig? Is it horse related?,
Be fascinating and really giving a shit at the HSBCA dinner,
Being adequately prepared for the French trip,
Talking French on the French trip,
Having a massive amount of fun on the French trip,
Not getting hyper on coffee and then falling into a Pixies singing fit,
Buying Resident Evil 4,
Not getting highly pissed off in Berlin at a poor person with a nice haircut who didn't deserve it, and a short fattie with stupid hair who probably did,
Talking German,
Finding a decent hoodie in a massive German department store,
Not having a near panic attack and going into a nervous swearing/sweating fit in the middle of a massive German crowd,
Accessing porn on the TVs in the hotel on the rowing trip,
Having a lot of fun on the rowing trip,
Not being sickened by the depravity of the rest of the boaties in our rowing trip,
Getting into the Third Eight for the rowing trip,
Going to London with my friends,
Going to the cinema,
Thinking up a better swear word than 'cunt',
Seeing my father the second time at the marathon,
Starting revision,
Going to the Originals Cinema Meeting,
Punching Brent in his teeth,
Understanding Core Maths,
Winning Wallingford Regatta,
Not getting pissed off at my frenchy,
Not taking advantage of my language skills for mean purposes while the french guy was staying,
Getting my little sister a decent birthday present,
Winning Basher Regatta,
Figuring out how to stop my computer crashing/freezing,
Getting a decent ergo time,
Revising properly for anything,
Remembering Paul's birthday,
Getting my grandad a birthday present,
Looking cool in a fisherman hat,
Looking where I'm going while cycling and not crashing into a car,
Keeping my rowing t-shirt clean and clear of sun tan lotion,
Owning up to crashing into a car and doing the right thing,
Getting upgraded to the 3rd Eight at the last second,
Starting a Georgie-Zaremba club that LASTED,
Winning National Schools,
Competing in National Schools,
Getting drunk successfully without making a moron of myself,
Seeing the League of Gentlemen film,
Keeping Cassie happy,
Selling Season 1 of League of Gentlemen,
Not annoying Fati,
Lifting the boat up,
Winning Reading Amateur Regatta,
Doing well in the D-Maths exam,
Not wasting 40 quid on DVDs I don't need,
Not peeing on my shoes in a portaloo,
Winning Marlow Regatta,
Getting a tan,
Remembering the way back to my house,
Winning Live 8 tickets after voting 5 times,
Saving my soap rack from a hideous death,
Finishing my biology revision,
Counting the number of items on this list.

If you bothered to, you have just read a list of the things I have tried and failed to do this year. I haven't counted (in fact, I've failed to) but there are well over fifty. That is incredibly depressing, for several reasons. Firstly, the amount of things I've failed at. Secondly, the fact that I was able to come up with a list that long off the top of my head. I can't give you an exact number of how many items there are because, even as I type this, I think of brand new ways that I've succeeded in failure, and am adding them in. Because, I'm cool, you see.

Hey, look how many things on the list are rowing related. I mean, wow. I am probably the world's worst boatie ever. And that's saying something. I mean, there are some real fuckups in our boat club. I mean, there's that guy who smells of baby-powder. And that ugly fat kid. And that guy who throws up every time anything exciting happens. But I think that I rise above these impressive ranks to take the number one spot of lead fuck up of the boaties this year.
After a lot of thinking, here's the total number of regattas (large boat and small boat), heads, and unoffical races that I have won in (when I say won, I mean coming first, second, or third) my entire rowing career:

0

Actually, here's the number of races that, this year, we've come above 4th place in:

0

There were these two birds, a duck and a swan. The duck kept making fun of the swan, and stole the swan's girlfriend (look, ignore the biological inconsistencies, you pedantic pricks, it's A JOKE). So the swan, being the jealous fellow he was, went to the Godfather, uh, Fish, who was this big mofo with cotton balls in his cheeks. He explained his problem and said that he wanted the duck killed. The Godfather Fish thought for a moment, then he said:
"This I will do, but for a price. After we kill this bastard, do you want the body?"
"No," said the swan, "Just send me the bill."

Hahahhaha. Oh man, I'm so shit at rowing. It actually is getting embarassing. Our boat is the loser boat. I'm not being mean to the rest of the crew, I love them all to bits in a way that's semi homoerotic, but, to be honest, if we don't win anything, or ever come above 4th, we're the loser crew. That's just how it goes. We lost the race that was for people that have yet to win anything this year. But I think that the entire crew has come to accept this. Well I have. Hell, I would be surprised if we won anything. It would seriously shake me up. I think that that's what my old english teacher meant when he said that I have "not really a killer instinct, probably more of a cuddle-me instinct". Thanks, Sir. Way to boost my fragile male ego there. But he was probably correct. Damn his tubby soul.

And, of course, our boat has the fan-club. Yes, mates, while the rest of the boat club gets fit boaties, we have the posse of mothers who follow us around every regatta, smiling happily as we limp in, bleeding and vomiting, in a hearty 5th place. God bless them and their attempts to make us seem less unworthy.

"Well DONE!" they say, for some reason.
"You did very well!" they say, somehow managing to sidestep the issue of us losing,
"Well, they were very big", they say. And, my own personal favourite:
"Well, they had home ground."

HOME GROUND? IT'S A RIVER! IT'S WATER. Do they honestly think that we lost everything, but that's ok, because every other crew in existence has home ground, no matter where the race is taking place? They probably do. If it's taking place on OUR home stretch, they usually mention something about the weather, and creep off. Re-reading this, I sound like a cynical git, so I've gone back and inserted a joke about river wildlife. Now I still sound cynical, just with an irrelevant joke my grandad told me in the middle. Who am I kidding? I'm a moody git. Fuckers.

"Cheer up," people tell me, "At least you have your health".
"At least you have a home to live in,"
"At least you didn't get hit by a tsunami,"
"At least you're not going out with Steve,"
"At least you're not going to fail all your GCSEs,"
"At least you have a loving family,"
"At least someone hasn't posted an embarassing picture of you in a gay purple leotard all over the internet,"
"At least you're not starving."
Etc.

All these people piss me off. You know the sort. Those pricks who have all the bad stuff having to them and then suck up all the sympathy that could be going towards me. And then they make me look bad for complaining about my neck hurting. WHICH IT DOES.

Or, even worse, those massive penii who talk FOR the poor pricks and then make you feel really bad for not caring and sending all your possessions to a village in Africa. I'm not going to donate my liver to the AIDS crisis, stop asking me already. Big Issue? No thanks. Giving money to the poor? I'm alright, actually. Texting in to get tickets for a concert to help the Africans. Ok, but just so long as I win the tickets. Because, at the end of the day, what have starving Africans ever done for me? Nothing, except providing me with many hours of quality TV. Why should I listen to Bob Geldof, who really isn't that much of a musician anyway? I shouldn't.



So you're really telling me that the only reasons that I could ever have to feel sorry for myself is if I was a triple amputee, starving, drug addicted moron with no family, no prospects and no food? Fuck off, Geldoff. Man, that is a RHYME.

And as of this moment, I start a new movement: Fuck off, Geldoff. To follow my many other successful movements, it's open to rich, middle class teenagers with no real cares in the world who are sick of being made to feel guilty, just for being rich and middle class. Not sure what this has to do with Geldoff, but I don't like him anyway. In this club, we whine about how bad we have it and we don't feel guilty for doing so. I think I'm on to a winner here.

Do you know, it's so hot in here, that this post has become an incoherent ramble? None of it is making sense to me. I'm hot. LISTEN UP PEOPLE: THIS IS WHAT A RAMBLE LOOKS LIKE, OK? Does anyone care? I don't care. Well, to be honest, I'm sitting here caring more about the fact that I'm melting hot and the end of my tongue hurts (I managed to get it caught in something earlier on... I think it was a stapler) than the fact that 3990202 housewives are committing suicide every day due to something or other, piss off, I'm too hot.

So... hot... where are the starving africans to fan you with palm leaves when you need them?

Ok, now I'm going to go thorugh this post again and correct it. whoopee I jsut spelt thorugh wrong. And again. oh well who craes I'm deleting this bit anyway when I edit it. Whooepeppepeeee. where is everyone? Fuckign Green Day.

And now, just because I'm in a bad mood and feel like a pickmeup:



This is Marios. His blog is http://spaces.msn.com/members/supermario89/PersonalSpace.aspx?_c= . Man, I hate MSN blogs, they have such STUPIDLY long names. "Yeah, my blog is ach-tee-tee-pee-colon-forward-slash-forward-slash-spaces-dot-msn-dot-com-forward-slash-members-forward-slash-supermario-eighty-nine-forward-slash-personal-space-dot-ai-ess-pee-ex-question-mark-bottom-line-thing-c-equals-sign." Microsoft just don't get it.

Yes, I'm a bitch.

HOLY SHIT IT'S ELEVEN ALREADY AND I HAVE MY C2 EXAM TOMORROW. FUCKMONKEYS.

Seeing as everyone is going to a Green Day concert, I have a message to impart:

And here it is:



Yep. I mean, look at that. What a fucking mess. Who wears ties? Nobody. Except schoolboys. And me at the upcoming prom. But I can pull it off, because:

a: I'm manly,
b: I have an amazing fashion sense. Anybody who's seen my manly desert survival sunglasses and fisherman hat, especially in conjunction with each other, will agree,
c: Cassie told me not to, and I'll be damned if I'm getting fashion advice from someone who has a bra with 390 straps, just so I'm unable to undo it with one hand in the dark as a prank. For shame.

I got nuffin, to be honest.
Although I do have a blog in mind about how much of a failure I am, and how much I hate homeless people.
So that'll be cheery then.
Fucking hobos, taking up my right to be miserable.

The Fear update: Ogg has now been struck by The Fear. It's spreading. But hey, I don't care. I can now do binomial expansions. And fuck you. But seriously, what is a radian? And why SHOULD I care?

It's finally happened.

Well, for the previous two months, I have had a, how shall we put this, RELAXED view to revision. Not as relaxed as some, I recognise... Roxy... but I've been taking it preeeeeetty easily.

The advised six hours a day?
More like three hours... a week. Ouch.

And it finally happened today. At around 1.56.34 today I was hit by... THE FEAR.

Yes. THE FEAR finally visited my soul. The horrible realisation that the equation of revision time to amount of revision that is vital to be done (to be perfect, it works out as having two days to do half a day's worth of work) has failed to exist. In fact, it looks more like, to me, that I have a weekend to learn a year's worth of work that I had no clue about in the first place.

Yes, ladies and gents, the Core Maths 2 paper is on Monday. And am I fucked? Hahaha, fucked is not the work. I am more fucked than Annabel Chong for that paper. (I wish that there was somebody out there who gets all my cultural references) There's a good THIRD of the paper that I literally have no clue for. I mean, NOTHING. I didn't get it in the lessons, I'm sure as hell not going to suddenly get it now. Here's me in the lesson:

Teacher: And after those fifteen minutes of complicated calculations... solve for y. See?
Me: Whataha? Hubbarah? Huh?
Joe *Who has already written a page and a half of workings* God, SORT IT OUT, you moron. All you do is...
*He talks. I immediately tune him out. I have gotten quite good at this.*
Teacher: Does everyone understand?
Me: Miss! Miss! *waves arm in air*
Teacher: Anyone?
Me: Ooh! Oooh! Over here!
Teacher: Nobody? So you all understand this perfectly? So I don't have to give out this sheet that explains everything really clearly with a series of brightly coloured drawings of naked women?
Me: OVER... HERE! BEHIND THE FAT KOREAN KID! YOU STUPID BINT!
Teacher: No? *Throws the sheets into the furnace*
Me: NOOOOO!
Teacher: Ok, then do Ex. 3 page 8584, questions 1-23 INCLUSIVE.
*I turn to the page and look at the first question*
Question: Work out the binomial radian expansion of (4+piY) squared between the axes and an integrated line of dy/dx cubed m, on the basis that all numbers are irrational and f'(x) = 27X!/84!y, mx inclusive.
Me: Wahaha?
Joe: Finished, Miss.
Me: Joe, can I see yours?
Joe: Sure, because you are the manliest man around. Guess what? Kris's name is Kris. And I can fit my entire hand in.
Me: Yeah, nice. *Looks at Joe's workings* Is that a two?
Joe: No, it's a quork. You do know that we're doing this in log-base twelve, right?
*I look at my workings, which consist of Maths neatly underlined at the top, and a doodle of Steve tearing the head off a hobo. I take another long look at Joe's.*
Joes workings: y= 453% quork binomial x, pascals pyramid 2Cr4= 38 THEREFORE x= 43^-383 and y=i43.
And then I die a little inside.

Oh man. And I also have to learn the entire physics syllabus (and I do mean the entire physics syllabus... damn you, Mr Clarke, you incompetent boob). And the extra Biology and I have NO IDEA what that is. And the extra Chemistry. Fuckwankers, I'm rather screwed.

Oh well, at least my eyes work properly.

What exactly is a radian, and why should I care?

Be warned: This post is possibly the most epic ever

Here's a picture I made ages ago:



Doesn't have much to do with the following post, but hey, I like it and I didn't waste ten minutes finding a decent lightsaber beam on the internet for the picture to languish in my hard drive for the rest of history.
Time for another top 10 list, I think, and if anybody doesn't agree with me, they can go kill themselves like mum did (ten points for whoever gets the reference... it's not hard).

So, with no further ado, here is The Top 15 Most Shit Villains in Popular Culture History

It's fifteen because I had too many good ones for a Top 10 countdown, and not enough for a Top 20. Does anyone care that I rank the guards in Mr and Mrs Smith higher in the shit-list than StarWolf in Lylat Wars? Even I don't care, and I was writing the damn thing. So it's 15. This is a list of villains that, I feel, have OUTCLASSED the rest of the villain world in being, just, really shit. Ineffectual, bumbling, pathetic. The best of this list make you CHEER for them, just on the strength of them being really crap. Of course, a couple of them *JIM CARREY I AM LOOKING AT YOU* just make you want to hurt them. But then, isn't that always the case with Jim Carrey? Twat.

15: The Penguins in Batman Returns

First things off: I love this damn film. Although I have a parent who worked on the original Batman (I was on the set as a baby, hah, suck on that) I think that this one is probably better. Mostly because it has clowns being blown up by everyone's favourite man of bat. But I think the script guy was probably smoking something strong when he came up with the last twenty minutes.

"I KNOW! I'LL HAVE A CLIMAX WHERE A LOAD OF PENGUINS WITH ROCKET LAUCHERS ON THEIR HEADS REMOTELY CONTROLLED BY A POODLE LADY SWIM THROUGH THE SEWERS TO BLOW UP THE WHOLE OF GOTHAM CITY!"

Ah man, I don't even do drugs, but I want some of that shit. I love how logic totally flies out of the window when the army of penguins enter. Where did the three hundred penguins come from? Where did all the missiles come from? What about the mind control devices? Do you mean to tell me that they suddenly invented penguin mind control hats and sent someone to personally fit them to every single penguin? Don't they know that they're just... penguins? And then The Penguin (who's not actually a penguin, but is in fact Danny Devito in costume) gives the penguins this long speech, and they all pay attention. What made the Penguin come up with this plan? Why did he think it would work? WHY?
That's the sort of INSPIRED plotting that I want to be able to pull off when I make it in whatever business that I chose to dominate with my own skills. Man oh man.

But the reason that these penguins are so ineffectual is just that... they're PENGUINS. PENGUINS! They're like the most retarded animals in the world. Other than, of course, the Panda. Fucking pandas. But penguins... they just waddle along and fall over and swim a bit. That's it. Penguins - rubbish.
I think that was probably the Penguin's big tactical mistake when he was planning on his terrorist attack. Damn, and he would have gotten away with it too if his plan wasn't hopelessly flawed. Penguins. Christ almighty.

14: The bad guy in Gone In 60 Seconds

This guy is so crap. It seems like the scriptwriter was trying to find a way of making this guy REALLY threatening, but couldn't make him unique. Right, so, let's make him, I dunno, have an english accent! Those are always evil. Now, I know, lets give him a unique skill. Perhaps he could be a butcher? You know, Butcher Bill? No, that's been done. Some sort of clown? No. A homocidal maniac? No. Uh, I dunno. A baker? No. Barber? No. I know, what about a CARPENTER? Oh yeah, that's good, he can be the first mob boss who's also a carpenter! BRILLIANT! I'm getting paid tonight!
Yes, you heard me. A carpenter. Oooh, scary. That's his selling point? That's what makes him so scary? He builds CHAIRS? Oooh, I'm terrified. This English guy truly is the most terrifying mofo in the world and fully worthy of everyone being scared of him. I mean, if they do piss him off, what's he gonna do? Build a chair, then hit them with it? Hand carve a cupboard then lock them in it? Sandpaper off their faces?
This guy is crap. He gets killed by Nicholas Cage at the end. NICHOLAS CAGE! He's like the woman of all action stars.

13: The Spiders in Resident Evil

Now, you'd think that giant spiders would be threatening, woudn't you? You know, you're in a giant empty house, full of zombies (and one really fuckoff scary little girl in a hut). You go downstairs. You're in a passageway. You walk along, then BAM. A giant spider falls from above in an attempt to RIP OFF YOUR FACE. AARGH. SCARY. Even scarier than Steve's used tampon draw. They would give even the most unwussy girl I know, Fati, a heart attack.

But no. Because the giant spiders in this game are so unimpressive, you can actually ignore them and go about your daily business. You don't even have to bother fighting them. You don't even have to CHANGE DIRECTION. They move at about half a mile an hour at full speed. They turn slower than Steven Hawkings in a really narrow corridor. They spit a really weak acid at you and waggle their hairy legs. That's it. So fucking useless. Even the ZOMBIES in Resident Evil are more effective than the spiders.

There's even a spider boss in one bit. Oh man, A HUGE SPIDER. You'd think that, at LEAST, this bitch would be hard to kill, right? WRONG. The game designers obviously realised how shittum the spiders were, and they LEAVE A FUCKING KNIFE IN THE ROOM. Just so you don't waste precious bullets shooting the damn thing, you are GIVEN a sharpened bit of metal to hack the spider to death. I usually choose to flamethrower it. Not because it's easier, it's just quicker and more fun. And the spider deserves it, really, for being shit.

12: Lockjaw, from Mighty Max

Did anyone use to collect the Mighty Max sets? They were these little playsets that opened up to form miniture landscapes. The playsets were shaped like the heads of monsters and inside was the monster's lair and all these little characters. Sort of like Polly Pocket, except with blood and decapitations and death. Each set came with a little comic strip too, so you could see how our hero (Mighty Max, prick), defeated this week's monster. I used to collect them. Don't laugh, at least I didn't use to collect barbies, OLIVER.

Anyway, I remember this particular specimin, because the bad guy was just so lame. Well, to be honest, they were all a bit crap, and they all got killed in the end by some dipshit ten year old with a stupid hat and a chicken as a best friend, but this guy was especially bad. He was called Lockjaw, and here's a picture of his head:



Oooh, scary man. Especially with that hinge on the bottom of his head. Moron. Anyway, Lockjaw was this like hobo who lived in a shed in the middle of nowhere, kind of like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and our hero Max is in his hut for some reason. Then Lockjaw LEAPS OUT OF HIS CUPBOARD and tries to kill Max with his axe. Pretty good. But then Max kicks Lockjaw in the back and he falls back into the cupboard. That's it. That's this guy's entire story. Well, it was a miniture playset, so he got less frames of cartoon strip, but... poor guy. He lives for his entire life killing people, then he gets locked in a cupboard by a 10 year old. For shame, Lockjaw. For shame. You suck. Fucking hell, even ten year olds have managed to murder minors (God bless you, Jamie Bulger, you little corpse) so why can't you? Moron.

11: Every Baddie in Tomorrow Never Dies

It's not often that you get a film in which EVERYBODY is a bumbling dipshit, but, hey, they managed to pull it off pretty successfully in this cinematic abortion.

Just from memory... Dr Kaufman, the evil german professor of death who kills innocent women but is unable to spot the fact that Bond is tricking him with his fancy electro-zapping phone. That white haired german prick who's unable to open a damn car door. That military general who plays a major part in proceedings but didn't get ten seconds of screen time. And, of course, Johnathon Pryce. I don't know, I don't know. I bloody hate Jonathon Price. So much so that I can't be arsed to look up how you spell his name. His character was a mysterious media baron who had some really smart plan to take over the world by blowing up Beijing (?) then somehow being able to emerge a world leader (?). I feel that the plan was somewhat flawed, really. But, hey, at least he has a magic stealth boat. For He Is King.

I think Johnathon Pryce manages to beat Jaws for being the most lame and ineffectual Bond villain ever. And don't say that Jaws was cool, you pricks. Only ten year olds like Jaws. His selling point was that he had metal teeth. That was it. And he was the crappest character in the Goldeneye Multiplayer.

10: The Riddler, in Batman Forever

a: I don't like Jim Carrey.
b: This character was in Batman Forever, the film that led directly to the turd that was Batman Returns.
c: He was just annoying and his hair kept changing colour every scene.
d: Prrrick.
e: Just LOOK AT HIM:



Seriously, man. You can't get any more lamer than that. He's lamer than the presenters on Tots tv, and they are Pretty Lame. Singing pricks. But... that green suit! This guy is an INSULT to the villain genre. Whose fucking idea was that film, anyway? Sure as hell wasn't mine. And yet I'm the only one still complaining about it. FOR SHAME.

9: Jessie and James from Pokemon

I think that the MAIN problem with these two, and the reason that they lost every... single... time, was that they just didn't learn. And that's not a good thing for a villain. All the good villains. If Micheal Corleone hadn't learnt to breakdance, do you think he would have survived Godfather 2? Nope. He'd have been dead by the end of the first beatboxing scene. Somebody should inform Jessie and James:
a: Disguises don't work if all they involve is a fake mustache and a stupid hat.
b: Following the same three kids around the country trying to steal their pets, and repeatedly failing, must have taught you SOMETHING. At least, choose some other kids. Dumb kids. Perhaps a kid with aids. Or a kid with Down's Syndrome. What would Down's Sydrome look like anime style? Please draw some pictures and send them to me, PLEASE.
c: Don't continually sing your theme tune. It DOES sort of give you away/give the kids a chance to run off. Retards.

8: Edward Lionheart from Theatre of Blood

Oh, dear. This character, played by Vincent Price, was an ex-actor who killed off the critics who insulted his work with a series of grisly and Shakespeare related deaths. Shakespeare? Coughpaulcough.
However, he had a FEW flaws in his masterplan that led to him being number 8 in my list of really shit villains:

1: His henchmen were a crossdressing woman dressed with a ginger afro and a huge moustache, and an army of evil hobos. Yes, you did hear that correctly. An army of evil hobos. Who were permanently pissed off their heads on MAGIC PURPLE LIQUID (tm). They're not exactly the Dark Samurai legions, are they?
2: Here's a hint for you, Mr Lionheart: When you have your enemy at your mercy after a REALLY FUNNY swordfight, you kill him. You don't decide to let him go for no reason. That is what is known as, in chess, a 'bad move'.
3: If you're going to set fire to your own lair for no reason, have one of your evil hobos kill your daughter, decide you didn't want your daughter to die after all, carry her prone body up onto the ROOF of the burning lair for no reason, then fall through the roof to your death, you probably aren't really cut out for this evil-genius stuff. More like evil special case.

7: Torgo from Manos, Hands of Fate

I haven't even seen this film, yet I know that Torgo deserves a high place in this list, just through the SHEER cult presence of his crapness. For those of you who don't know, Manos is one of those rare breed of films that deserves the rank of 'So bad It's better than a good number of decent films'. This is a film that was SO badly made, that several of the cast and crew committed suicide after it was released, and the majority of those involved in the film never worked in cinema ever again. The film was made by a fertiliser salesman with cheap camera that only shot thirty seconds of film at a time and didn't pick up sound, so the entire film was dubbed over by three men and a women.
This film, with its INCREDIBLE score of 1.5 out of ten, has the highly prized 'bottom place' on the IMDB list of films.

Torgo is the portly caretaker of a lodge 'while the master is away'. His job is to look threatening and scare people away. Apparently the actor who played this GOD of villainy had decided that Torgo was to be a satyr, without informing anybody. So the upshot of that is that Torgo walks funny. And one person makes a remark about his feet. That's it. You are possibly the least effective villain EVER. And you get the best death; the Master sets fire to you with his evil hand of death and you run off. That's it, bye Torgo. And what sort of name is TORGO? You create new leagues of lame.

Ah, Torgo, you legend. You truly are crap. By the way, if anybody can get me a copy of this film, I will pay good (read: no) money.

6: Sideshow Bob, from The Simpsons

Alright, I know that he's meant to be comic and ineffectual, but Sideshow Bob just wins awards for being a terrible failure at villainy. Especially that bit when he walks into nine rakes, one after another.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.
Genius, just genius. God bless you, Bob. I have nothing more to write about you.
THWACK. *Angry mumble*.

5: King Bob-omb, from Mario 64

Picture the scene. This is the first time you have played Mario 64, the first game on the Nintento 64. You've fallen in the moat a few times. You've entered your first world; the land of bombs or whatever it was. Bosnia, probably. You climb the mountain, dodging the boulders that appear from nowhere, yet still manage to knock you off the damn cliff every time.

And FINALLY, you reach the top, to be confronted by... this huge black shit with a crown, a lame moustache thing and stupid legs. After challenging you in a manly way for a few minutes, you have a fight, when it suddenly is made clear: King Bob-omb is CRAP. He goes even slower than the damn spiders in Resident Evil. Lumber lumber lumber. And you're not even allowed to throw him off a cliff. How the hell does this guy get to be king? He seems to have no regal or political skills at all. He is possibly the least threatening boss ever of any game EVER. And I've played through Kirby's dreamland on the Game Boy, when the first boss was a TREE. Yes, you heard me. A tree.

4: The Mysterons, from Captain Scarlet

Now, don't get me wrong. When I say 'The Mysterons', I DO NOT mean 'Mysteron Agent Captain Black', who after all is one of the manliest men EVER, man. No, I mean the actual aliens themselves. And my reasons for this choice are slightly different than for my other choices. In this case, the mysterons are well equipped. They are not hopelessly incompetent. They have the ability to kill people with the use of magic moonbeams, explosions from space, and evil clones. They can raise the dead as their personal slaves. They have bombs. They have poisons. They have plans. And they have Captain Black in their service. I wouldn't have thought that it would be difficult to destroy the world with that advantage. Especially as the world is filled with puppets who, to be honest, aren't the sharpest tools in the shed.

YET THEY STILL MANAGE TO FUCK IT UP. I wish I could grab the Mysteron leader and throttle him seductively. If you want to win a war, it's very simple. You keep every troop movement and plan secret from the enemy. You keep him guessing, you keep him scared, you keep him out of control of the situation. You, mysterons, you are fully in control of the situation. You are invisible. And you can blow shit up whenever you feel like it. So WHY OH WHY do you tell Spectrum the exact location of your next attack, complete with dates, times and, probably, a good clue as to how you're gonna go about this dastardly scheme?

Mysteron warplan
Think up a dastardly plan.
Tell Spectrum, just to keep them involved.
Spectrum sends Captain Scarlet and chums to solve the mystery.
Captain Scarlet saves the day.
Lose.
Think up another plan.
Tell Spectrum.

See where the problem lies? You attack one isolated military base at a time, tell Spectrum roughly a week in advance, then lose because they are waiting for you. This is not what is known as a wise tactical maneuvre. This is what is known as 'being a moron'. Mysterons. Pah.

3: Stormtroopers in Star Wars: A New Hope, Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and Star Wars: Something Really Exciting Happens

Stormtroopers, with their natty white uniforms, are famed far and wide for their shittitude. It's amazing how an army of identically suited soldiers, trained and under the control of an evil empire with a range of weapons, gadgetary, named after a Nazi death squad can be SO DAMN UNTHREATENING.
Maybe its the way that they have the aiming skills of a blind spastic. Or the way that they get fooled by simple tricks.

*A gang of stormtroopers menace our hero*
Stormtrooper 1: Hey, you.
Hero: LOOK OVER THERE!
Stormtrooper 1: What? Hey, guys, we'd better go check it out!
*All the Stormtroopers run off*

I don't know if that actually happened, but then again, I wasn't paying attention. It probably did. Do you think the stormtoopers have music hooked up to their helmets? I bet they do. I bet they all listen to Madonna. Only that amount of suckitude could possibly result in the stormtroopers being THAT shit. Hey, at the end of Episode 3, I thought the stormtroopers looked like a pretty damn good force of warriors... they managed to kill off the Jedi in ten minutes. And by the end of Episode 6 they were barely able to slaughter a bunch of pissy teddy bears. Crap, I say. Crap.
So what's happened in the twenty years between Episodes 3 and 4? Did they all get fat and lazy? I bet they all started to watch ITV. Fucking ITV. This isn't the first galactic order ITV has screwed up, I tell you, and it won't be the last. Oh yeah. If you watch Episode 4 of Star Wars, one of the stormtroopers walks into a door. Now, I know that sounds like a fanboy thing to know, but consider this:
a: It's a well documented error and has been in countless tv shows and magazines.
b: When you watch it, it's fucking obvious. It even makes a loud KERPUNK sound as his head comes into contact with the door.
c: IT PROVES MY POINT. Stormtroopers are the most ineffective crack troops ever. They can't even conquer a fucking door, let alone the resistance.

2: Zombies in... every zombie film ever

Zombies fall definitely into the category of 'so rubbish they are endearing', as opposed to 'so useless they are irritating'. Zombies are, by definition, rubbish. They move at like half a mile an hour. They fall over a lot. They're rotting. When you think about it, zombies aren't even monsters. They're just like less effective versions of humans. There is no fear with a zombie. You're trapped in a basement with one? Boo bloody hoo, just punch it in the face. The fucker's so dumb, it's not like he's going to block the punch.

All the great zombie films recognise the inherent crapness in zombies and exploit it for comic effect. Dawn of the Dead, best zombie film EVER (and no, not the remake) has a brilliant scene with a bunch of rednecks having a barbequeue and shooting the zombies FOR FUN. They're playing music, they're having the time of their lives. It's good. The zombies don't have a hope in hell. To make a good zombie film, you have to realise how terrible your monster is, then have fun with that concept, as opposed to making them more threatening. Running zombies, my ass. You want to know why Shaun of the Dead made more money than the Dawn of the Dead remake here in the UK? Because the zombies didn't run.

If I'm going to brutally honest, there's not goddamn way that zombies are ever going to take over the world. How are they going to get large enough numbers to beat the heavily armed armies of the world? Consider that the human race has managed the destruction of 6 million people in one go, and these people were a helluva lot smarter than your average zombie, there's no CHANCE that the zombies would ever take over the world. Oh, so if they bite you, you die? Wear gloves, dumbass. Another thing the Nazis have given us.

Haha, zombies fall over.

And no, they can't bloody run. What are you, a retard? ZOMBIES CAN'T RUN. They can barely walk. THEY CAN'T MOVE AT ANYTHING FASTER THAN A STAGGER. These guys are slow, they are stupid, they are totally useless in anything but massive numbers. I rest my motherfucking case. Zombies are terrible and fully deserve their place as number two in my list of crap villains.

And now for number one. This is a set of bad guys who are even more rubbish than the zombies. How is this possible? Well, it is when you consider how I have been doing this list. There are plenty of purposefully crap villains out there. Dr Evil, for example, or any of the spoof evil mobsters out there. Hell, I could include Crafty Krok from the Cocopop's advert. But I don't. Because they are intentionally rubbish. For this list, you get rated higher if your crapness is unintentional. The zombies don't get the highest position, because, to be honest, nobody REALLY takes them seriously. No, the highest place in this list goes to a set of villains that, despite their complete and utter, total, unequivocable, mythical, incredible AMAZING crapness, are still viewed in their universe as being terrifying, monstrous and the worst threat to mankind since that guy who could fire beams of AIDS from his hands.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...

1: The Daleks

Man, I hate the Daleks so much. Actually, I love them. It's Dr Who fans I hate. Dr Who is, basically, a crappy show, right? The time travel thing is just an excuse for them to travel around doing whateve the hell they want, in the future, in the past, involving robots, demons, and aliens in crazy foreign planets. And yet the Dr Who fans take the entire thing so damn seriously. They act like the entire show has any sort of logic and continuity. I tell you, the other day on aintitcool.com I saw this guy bitch for a good ten lines about how someone had referred to the TARDIS as the Tardis, because, apparently it's an acronym. Well, fuck you, I'm now going to purposefully spell it with all lower case letters just to indirectly piss you off. In fact, I'll also spell it incorrectly. tradis.

So all these losers take it so damn seriously. Not me, I'm above such things, I've risen to wanting a girlfriend. Actually, I was never at the level of Dr Who. I saw the episode where they all get attacked by giant rats on tv one day and, yeah. Best not mention it. This is why I love the daleks. No matter how hard they argue as to alternate reality theories and the 27th doctor and the time war and the trial of the time lords and the space time continuum, you can just throw the daleks in there.

"Why do you take Dr Who so seriously, when he's quite plainly fighting a bunch of wheelie bins with attached plunger?"



Look, I just ruined your fanboy bullshittum. What I love about these critters is that they were so blatantly made in ten minutes with whatever was lying around the studio, and I'm pretty sure the only reason that they are taken so seriously today was that everyone who made the original series thought that they were a massive joke.

Seriously, though, how can you take a dalek as a credible threat to the galaxy? THEY ARE WHEELIE BINS WITH PLUNGERS ATTACHED. They are even more crap than R2D2. Here is a list of ways you could defeat the daleks:

• Just put lots of stairs everywhere. And don't give me that rubbish 'oh they can fly' bullshit. Daleks can't fly. That was just added to the latest series in a failed attempt to reduce their crapness just a teensy bit.



• Scatter the land with dirty toilets that need unblocking.



• Make the doors slightly narrower. Not much, just another couple of centimetres would do it.



• Electromagnets.



• Teach them to love. Play them a lot of Phil Collins songs or something. Or alternatively, rock their socks off with some smooth tunes from The Sans Culottes.



• Just leave them out in the rain for a few days.

Daleks. Are. Shit. And don't let anybody tell you different.

Wow, it's been a journey. And a waste of time. Oh well, who needs GCSE Chemistry? Not me. I'm going to be a millionaire! Or, as this list would indicate, somebody who complains a lot. Comment, you fuckers.

I've decided to start a band

In a recent GCSE English paper, there was an essay question, with the title of Can we be hopeful for the future? Well, something like that. And, being the perfect student I am, I happily wrote away for the first three quarters of the essay. But then I sort of lost it at the end and, in a fit of creative and artistic BRILLIANCE, managed to predict a social and cultural revolution coming up in the next few years. That was my reason to be hopeful for the future. Shit man, I was half a line away from re-writing Mao's Communist Dictate before I realised that I only had half an hour left to write about how computers were like heroin (another charming point I made in the other essay).

So, I hope I have a teacher who has a good sense of humour, or a really lousy grasp of cultural psycology. Actually, Mr Simpson would be a good guy to mark my paper anyway.

But the crux of my 'argument' (if you can call it that, it was more of a random splattery ejaculation of incoherent thought) was that humanity will reject the baser forms of entertainment (crappy american movies, reality tv and... uh...) and seek higher enlightenment with better art, theatre and music. Basically, thinking about it, my reason for being hopeful about the future is that everyone's gonna watch foreign films.

This got me thinking. Well, to be honest, it didn't, but this makes a nice lead in to the rest of the post. Can't you see the effort that goes into this blog? It has introductary preambles to warm up the reader, a nicely linked narrative and a high level of professional journalism that includes proper spelling and grammar, and even the looking up of hard to spell words in the dictionery.

A ha ha.

Yeah. This got me thinking... I might get MORE marks if my essay is ACTUALLY accurate ie. if the cultural revolution actually occurs. Hell, my essay might make the news. 'Local boy forsees cultural revolution'. I might become rich off that essay. I might go on to a glittering carreer in writing, leaving you shit-wankers in my dust, reading the scraps from my brain that I'll burp into this blog every four weeks AND LIKING IT.

But... how was I to enact this cultural revolution? I can't just run down the street with a placard screaming "START A CULTURAL REVOLUTION, YOU FOOLS!" I mean, that's what Stephen Hawking tried, and look what happened to him. I would have to do something better and more musical than that. THEN IT HIT ME. I would have to form... A BAND. But not just any band, oh no. The most kickass, rawkin' and rawlin', jive hungry drug peddling stay up all night cigar smoking chairs into the swimming pool throwing alligator wrestling stadium selling-out Grange Hill murdering mofo badass afro owning spoon bending belly dancing backwaxing penis enlarging muscle tensing hot-diggedy-damn MANLY band in the entire history of MUSIC.

This would be the band to show you all the reason why you exist. This would be the band to shake up the entire FOUNDATIONS of society as we know it. This was the band whose music was so damn good, it purposefully goes out at night and murders the music of other musical groups JUST TO SHOW HOW GOOD IT IS. This is the band that killed Martin Luthor King with their pure awesomness. This is the band that brought Elvis back from the dead with complicated musical riffs JUST to show him that he was no longer the King of Music. This is the band that had every copy of every Mozart song burnt, then played his entire set off by heart on the bass double-riffter guitar. Oh yeah, this is the band that had brand new guitar designed for them by swiss elves, the only type of guitar that could withstand the pure amount of tasty groovitude pumped through its titanium-coated strings. This is the band that would launch a thousand ships.

Well, I had the plan. Now, how was I to put it into effect?

I considered my own musical skills. Well, with two and a half years of recorder and one and a half of clarinet safely tucked under my belt, I felt that I was pretty well prepared for my future stardom. So what if I quit the clarinet due to the fact that after several hundred pound's worth of lessons, I couldn't get a decent sound of it? With a clarinet, it doesn't count. After all, the clarinet is famed for being one of the coolest instruments around, only eclipsed by the piccolo and flute for manly manlyness. So, I had my type of band; we were to be a rock clarinet outfit. Man.

BUT THEN IT HIT ME. Who was there to be my co-bandmembers? I mean, it couldn't just be anyone. I considered inviting the Hampton Orchestra French Horn Section, but then realised that I needed some real musicians, playing some real instuments. Who? Who? I had several IMPORTANT guidelines for prospective bandmembers:

1: As this band is going to be the manliest thing since Oli G's pecs, my bandmembers have to all be men. No women in this band. As, to be honest, women are all crap at music. If anyone wants to name me ONE decent female rock band, please, PLEASE, come forward. And, no, Madonna does not fucking count.
2: They all have to be on the cutting edge of fashion. No sixties rejects, BONO. Not that I think that Bono is a sixties reject, I just don't like him. Stupid sunglasses wearing tit. I'll stick him a moment that he can't get out of. A moment OF PAIN. Man, that's a good cuss, I might note that one down for Live 8.
3:: They must all be adept at channeling massive amounts of cosmic music godliness through their puny human frames. No cripples.
4: Just to make this clear, no women. And no gays. I don't have any problem with gays, but, come on, this is a proper band, not Dale Winton's Flower Time Singalong.
5: They all have to be drop dead goshdarn ATTRACTIVE. Not that I'm shallow, but name me one rock band that had ugly people in it. Ok, there are lots, but they wore cool makeup.

THEN IT HIT ME. The group of men who had long been rocking HARD while we all lay in our encrusted Britney Spears enduced cocoons of catatonia and depression. The men who brought a whole new reason to the word: ROCK.

These men are large masses of rock moving forward in a circular motion.
And, at the same time, they are portable firearms combined with the red flower of the plant genus Rosa laevigata.
They are, indeed, a city in America that rhymes with Moston.
Their front man is the defensive mechanism of a bee or, indeed, a wasp.
They dress up in white makeup and have implanted cow's tongues in their mouth.
They are one.
They are many.

They are...

Spandau Ballet


Spandau Ballet: SECOND MANLIEST BAND AROUND (after, of course, this one).

Right, after I had the Spandau Ballet boys on board, we had the discussion as to what to name ourselves. Tony, Garry and John were quite keen on naming us "Tony Garry And John and some others," whereas Steve preferred "The Reservoir Dogs". However, nobody likes Steve so we told him to shut up and go and stand in the corner while we discussed it. We decided that, being the head of the band, I was the biggest so could fire/explode the rest of the gang, so what I said went. This power struggle turned out to be important when it came to the album cover. And so, after a lot of discussion, we came to two possibles: Handsome Thomas Plus Five, or The Sans Culottes.

If you don't know what a Sans Culotte is, go onto Google Image Search and type in 'fecal japan'. It won't help you much, but it's funny.

We (I) decided on The Sans Culottes, as a suitably revolutionary name. It also meant that we didn't have to wear socks. And so we were born.

Then we had to decide on our image. As you all know, I am well known for my dashing sense of fashion (my taste in fleeces and bizarre sunglasses is legendary... everyone copies me, you know).
Although the original plan was to be at the cutting edge of fashion, I had a revelation. When the Sans Culottes sparked off the cultural revolution, as we surely would, FASHION as it existed would be changed. Who knows, people may end up wearing grey Mickey Mouse Tshirts, stipey blue and white trousers, long witch cloaks and zippy bags. We couldn't go on the fashions of today. It would be fasionable suicide, like a McFly wristband, or being Steve. So I decided to look back, back to an tireless and timeless age of fashion, where everything was cool and everything went, a time of beautiful fabrics and suits of shell. A time that has been long overlooked by the retro stylists.

The Eighties.

Sure, for some reason, the 80s has got a reputation for being a bad time for fashion. PISH POSH I SAY. I mean, how can a decade that gave us jerry curls and purple shell suits be known as BAD for fashion? Papah. So, yes, we would have groovy eighties haircuts and a nice line in spandex to kit us up. After hiring a top stylist (me), we were kitted out and ready. Me and the Spandsters were ready. The Sans Culottes were ready.

Nearly.

I just made one TINY alteration to the original plan before we were released on the world. We needed to sex ourselves up a bit more, and the huge mustaches weren't having the desired effect. Well, to be honest, I didn't need any more sexing up, but the Spandausters did. So I booked them in for some operations. The boys didn't like the idea at first, but I pointed out that a minor piece of cosmetic surgery never hurt anyone and, anyway, they didn't have a choice either way. They were a touch upset when they first came-to and saw the widespead nature of the procedure (especially Steve, who hadn't been told, but we hate him anyway so it doesn't matter) but after a few weeks, they got used to their new look as my backup singers. Hell, some of them even like it. Steve doesn't, obviously, but does anyone care about him? Raise your hand if you care what Steve thinks. Anyone? No? Nobody? Thank you.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... THE SANS CULOTTES!



Our first song "Death to that Fucking Crazy Frog", will be released some time in the near future. You'd better nail your socks to your feet if you don't want them to be ROCKED OFF.

Oh yeah. I rule. That picture was totally worth the solid hour of not revising.

ALL THE SPELLING MISTAKES ARE INTENTIONAL