The font in the end credits of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is Coppergate Gothic Bold (or light)

Yeah, as you can see, I am totally uninspired tonight.
But I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory today for the second time, and it was totally sexy. Sexier, in fact. And I realised why. It all boils down into two simple equations.

Equation number one: Midgets and squirrels = Box Office Gold
There were many midgets in this film. In fact there was just one midget, magically multiplied to equal many midgets. But who cares, all midgets are the same anyway: Put on earth for my amusement. There were also many squirrels. This resulted in me enjoying the film. It's a simple equation. But I don't know if there's another film that features dozens of midgets and dozens of squirrels all in one frame. If such a film exists, please tell me.

Equation number two: The eternal ying-yang of films
Wise man say: You see a bad film, god will send enough good films to balance it out. I saw Madagascar, that fucking piece of shit. I then got to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which balances it out. Except, oh wait, I also saw Fight Club last night. AND Kill Bill. So to successfully wipe out the shit taste in my mouth caused by Madagascar, I was required to watch a virtual modern classic with career best performances by Ed Norton and Brad Pitt, the forth film EVER by Quentin Tarantino with a scene voted as the best fight ever by famous bald guy Al Murray, AND a combination of Burton (the man), Depp (the manly man) and Roald Dahl (the total fucking dude... possibly my hero, I haven't decided yet... either him or Wonderwoman)... THAT'S HOW SHIT MADAGASCAR WAS.

GO AND SEE CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY IF YOU WANT HUNDREDS OF ANIMALS MOBBING A YOUNG GIRL AND POSSIBLY KILLING HER (everyone). GO AND SEE MADAGASCAR IF YOU'RE A TOTAL FUCKUP WHO LIKES TO SEE BADLY ANIMATED ANIMALS DANCE AROUND DRIPPING VAGINAL JUICES EVERYWHERE (Steve...fuckwit).

Thank you.

Don't see Madagascar. It's shit.

I just thought that I'd put that as the title, just in case somebody's about to go to the cinema and is so busy he can only read the title of posts on blogs. Notice that I said 'he'. As we all know that women are:

a: Not busy. Baking cakes doesn't count as business in my book.
b: Not going to the cinema unless it's for a date, in which case, they should just watch whatever the man wants to watch and like it. And if the man choses to watch Madagascar, well, you're screwed then.

But I digress. Don't see Madagascar. It's shit. Just thought I'd reiterate that point, for any weird people out there who only read the ninth/tenth sentences in the main post body and choose to ignore the title altogether. Madagascar is the biggest stinking pile of rubbish ever. Well, not ever, I'm sure that there are worse films. In fact, I KNOW there are worse films. Hitch, for examples. Or shitty romantic comedies. Many of them star Ben Stiller. Ironically, Ben Stiller was my main reason for going to see this film. I saw his name in the newspapers and I said to myself "Wow, Ben Stiller's in a film! That's such a rarity nowadays I had better cancel my tickets to the bypass surgery and go watch it." A-ha. I'm joking, of course, the main reason was that I'm chums with a bunch of spaztards who decide that going to a cruddy children's film is a good way to spend time/money. Cough Hitch cough.

Now for my reasons which this film is a waste of valuable brain cells:

The character design is moronic. I'm sorry, but it was just annoying. If they were going for a Tex Avery madcap overexaggerated cartoon style, which I think was the intention, just dress all the animals in pinstripe suits and have them smoke cigars. I mean, for the love of christ:



Seriously, what the FUCK? No wonder the film is shit, look at the title characters.

There is no main character. Now, I know that this scheme has been pulled of successfully in many films, such as Magnolia or 21 Grams, but this is an animated film about lions and zebra getting along happily in peace and harmony. It is not a malaised pondering on the existance of life and death and how we are all connected, or a gritty, hardcore drugs story. If they'd somehow managed to combine all three concepts together, they may have had something. But they didn't. So instead you get a mess.
At the beginning, the main character is this retarded zebra called Marty or Frank or something, I cant remember (if I can't remember the names of the title characters seventeen hours after seeing it, you know the film is poor. I last saw the Lion King like seven years ago, yet I can still name Simba, Zazoo, Timon, Pumba, Musafa, Kiara, and all the other cats... RINSED MADAGASCAR RINSED). Zebra wants to leave the zoo, so zebra is the main character. Then for a while they turn it into an ensemble piece with a LION called Ben Stiller. And a hippopopopopomaotomas played by some black chick and a giraffe played by Ross from Friends. Then halfway through you have no idea who the main character is meant to be. Is it the lion? Is it the zebra? WHO CARES?

The main characters are impressive in the way that EVERY ONE OF THEM are annoying. I mean, even the Teletubbies have Noo-Noo, the pissed off vacuum cleaner. But no, by the end of the first half, I was praying for a hunter of some sort. Or at least AIDS.
The Zebra is a cunt who gets everyone into a mess then ends up have a great party. He also says black phrases every five minutes, just to remind everyone that they cast a minority in the movie, and also to connect with the urban audience. He keeps going on about whether he is black with white stripes or white with black stripes, despite the fact that he is quite clearly white with black stripes.
IF THE MAJORITY OF YOUR FUCKING BODY IS WHITE AND THE BLACK STRIPES ARE THE MINORITY, YOU ARE WHITE WITH BLACK STRIPES. YOU STUPID TWAT.
The Lion is a tit who whinges about steak and spends half the film complaining about everything. Then he suddenly turns all evil and has hallucinations about steak. Now at this point, I had hopes that he'd kill the rest of the cast. Did he? No. He pisses off and whinges some more. Then he suddenly changes his mind again and becomes nice. Wow, that's some character arc you got there, Mr Lion.
The Hippopotamous or however the hell you spell it is a woman. So therefore she's perfect as HEAVEN FORBID the writers make her have any faults or, you know, be interesting. She also chants ghetto phrases every ten seconds. Wow, this film is hip.
The Giraffe is pointless. I'm not joking, you could totally remove him from the film, just edit him out, and you wouldn't notice. I mean, if I was watching this film without Ross from friends in it, I wouldn't think to myself 'I know what this films needs, a pointless character who just whinges a lot and has no impact on anything'. There's a good rule to scriptwriting: if you can totally remove something without impacting on the plot, do so. I just made that rule up, but I think it's a good one. Of course, that does mean that Pulp Fiction would be, like, ten minutes long.

The cinema that I saw it in was small. Look, I drew a picture:



It's coloured in and everything. I think I captured my personality perfectly. The fact that this was a really nice small independent (ish) cinema and it was showing this drivel just made me hate this film more. THEY EVEN GAVE US FREE TAPWATER. HOW CAN THEY SHOW THIS? I don't know.

They played Chariots of Fire halfway through. This is like one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever (they played it at my grandfather's funeral) and I'm fucking sick of morons misusing it every time they wanna do a slow-motion shot of people running towards each other. AND THE PEOPLE RUNNING TOWARDS EACH OTHER AND EMBRACING ISN'T EVEN IN CHARIOTS OF FIRE, RETARDS.

There was a moral ending to the film. I HATE MORAL ENDINGS. ARJDLFJSDLFJSDL:K FJKASJHFASDK:SDFsdsdfnmm.jkfasdmsadfasdkfas,fm,sadmfasmdfmsadfasdfasdfnasdnfsa. And this was the worst sort of moral ending: It was so superfluously tacked on, you could SMELL the Pritt Stick. Literally, there was no build-up to it in the film, no indication that anything of the sort was going to happen. Nothing. "It doesn't matter what happens to us, as long as we're all together." THEY SPENT MOST OF THE FILM INTENTIONALLY SPENDING TIME APART FROM EACH OTHER. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PRECEDING FILM.

But back to the film. Well, I guess that there were SOME good points. I'd always thought that it would be impossible to make a feature length film in which nothing happens and there are no character arcs or humour or emotion, and yeah, the Madagascar team proved me right. I like being proven right, so that was good. But COME ON, how can you make a film where NOTHING HAPPENS? Even though they escape the zoo, wash up on an island, build a beach hut, make friends with some lemurs, and then scare off some other animals, NOTHING HAPPENS. That's like, it. Sorry if I ruined it for you, but if you've come this far and you still wanna see this film, you deserve it wrecked for you. And anyway, I already ruined Harry Potter. For those of you who don't know yet, say, some Potter fans who haven't read the book yet but are looking at a review of Madagascar on this website to pass the time, Snape kills Dumbledore. Hah, twats.
But there was no climax. No build-up. No story arc. It was just like watching a series of things happening to these characters who sort of ploughed through them reacting. BLAMMO. And they spent like twenty minutes on a beach arguing. Cruddy.

And there were plot holes the size of the moon. So the animals escaped from the zoo. So, what, the authorities decide to send EVERY ANIMAL IN THE ZOO to Kenya? Even the penguins? THE FUCKING PENGUINS? And then they kept them in crates? Crates? CRATES? And then none of the animals drowned? This films sucks. But I like pointing out plot-holes, it makes me feel smart.

Other good things:

There were these penguins that just spend their time beating up people and doing acrobatics. If they'd made the entire damn film about the penguins, it could have been great.

Ali G played like some random llama hippie king. I mean, his character was random in a 'this makes no plot sense and it entirely unsatisfactory' way, but hey, some of his lines were amusing.

There were some film references that were quite good.

There's a bit where an animal gets drugged and they play this nice hippie version of 'the candyman', so you can close your eyes and pretend that you're watching a hippie version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory although, to be honest, I can't see how WWATCF could possibly get any more drug induced and hippyish.

So yeah, that's my review of Madagascar. I've just figured out why I hate this film, yet most of the other people in the cinema guffawed their way through it. I analyze the damn thing as I'm watching it. They just look at the pretty colours. They're like people really impressed at a complicated engine, when I actually notice that it's painted on a bit of wood. In vomit.

Wow, analogy.

In case you're one of those people who only read the last lines of posts and ignores the rest, don't go and see Madagascar. It's shit.

I like Photoshop

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Remember remember the 5th of November

The V for Vendetta trailer is up.

I mean... wow. This isn't even a proper post, but do I give a shit? No. Just watch it, you cunts.

http://vforvendetta.warnerbros.com/trailer.html

Check out my photoshop skillz

I don't know, I really don't. Sorry everybody. I started with a picture of a pig and it just sort of expanded. Wew. Still, it's pretty sexy. Reminds me of that Far Side Comic with the duck.

Um, yeah.

Basically, everybody who reads this blog has gone on holiday so I can post whatever the hell I like, including the ending to Harry Potter 6. Who here thinks that HARRY MIGHT BE A HORCRUX? WHO CARES? Not me.

Lalala, I can type whatever I like. Girls suck. You're all gay. I'll be here all night.

And in conclusion, here's another piccie I made today:



Man I rule. As you can see, today has been a busy day.

KABLAMO: Version 2

Hahahahahaha. Terrorist attacks in London. And what do I do? I DRAW A CRAPPY CARTOON STRIP:



Why does my terrorist look like Father Christmas? Oh well.

Ahahaha, none of your bombs went off. And even more amusingly, it seems the only person injured was ONE OF THE TERRORISTS when his shitty bomb failed to go off properly. CAN WE SAY RINSED?

RINSED!

What kind of dipshit do you have to be to fuck up a suicide bombing? I mean, come on, all you do is walk into a BUS and press a BUTTON. And, if you ask my grandfather, you have to be called Akbar. That's IT. Of course, this may just be a diversion for the massive biological bomb that's about to go off in the other corner of London. But we don't like to think about such things. But don't worry, people, we'll be able to survive as a country. Well, I will, I don't live in central London. Screw the rest of you.

HOLY SHIT... THE PRIME MINISTER HAS CANCELLED HIS APPOINTMENT TO VISIT A PRIMARY SCHOOL! I REPEAT: THE PM HAS CANCELLED HIS APPOINTMENT TO VISIT A PRIMARY SCHOOL. Damnit. Somewhere, there's a terrorist cackling insanely at the successful outcome of his plan. "Mahahaha! The primary schools now have to re-shuffle their timetables and find something else for their students to do." Damnit, the terrorists are winning.

And golly, a woman on BBC1 said the F word. This isn't the sort of thing we want to hear. I have a good mind to complain.

They haven't even closed down the tube network. Man oh man. And the award for the crappiest terrorist attack ever goes to: These guys. Ah, I'm officially amused.

Coversations with my grandad

His words are in bold because, quite frankly, they're the most interesting:

GD: Do they still have women film directors? I was thinking about this lady film director the other day. She made this film quite recently.
Mum: What was her name?
GD: I can't remember.
Mum: What was the name of the film?
GD: Can't remember that either. It might have been a tv show.
Mum: So basically you're thinking of a women director who's name you can't remember who made a film quite recently that you can't remember which may in fact have been a tv show. Am I correct?
GD: Yeah. What women film directors are there?
Me: There's uh, that woman who did Lost in Translation. Sophia Coppolla.
GD: No, he directed Apocolypse now.
Mum: No, that's Francis Ford Coppolla. Sophia Coppolla's his daughter.
GD: Margaret Thatcher would have made a good film director.

GD: Look how dry it is, all the weeds are dieing. Soon it'll be like the sahara here.
Me: But the soil in the sahara's different.
GD: They should get all the old fogies up and make them march around this field. Have arabs with bombs on the edges to stop any escaping. Just imagine all the old fogies lieing in the middle of this field moaning.
Mum: Sometimes I don't understand you.
GD: I'd win if I did that, then I'd be chanting 'I AM THE WINNER!' Then they'd give me a crate of beer. Haha.

GD: Do you have any women teachers at your school?
Me: Well, we have a few.
GD: Why? There aren't any girls at your school. I bet nobody likes the women teachers there.
Me: Uh...
GD: What do they teach at girls's schools?
Me: Well, cooking, cleaning I guess, wearing dresses...
GD: I expect they teach them how to sweep, too. Give them brooms.

Mum: I'm going away for the weekend soon, I hope that the boys won't have a party.
GD: Remember that time when Gary had a party? We were away from the weekend and he invited his friends round and they all ran into a field and worshipped the sun.
Mum: And then they climbed into our beds and got mud everywhere.
GD: And remember that other time when Gary blew up that saucepan in the alley, with a home-made bomb?
Mum: And that time when he blew up the kitchen.
GD: He's a chemist, I guess that he was probably experimenting.

*we have been discussing the terrorist bombings of London*
GD: I hear that one of those terrorists had 9 GCSEs. 9 GCSES!
Me: Yeah.
GD: I wonder how many GCSEs you need to get to be a bomber. I thought you only had to be called Akbar.
Mum: You can't say things like that, dad!
GD: What do you reckon the bomber said to his mother? I bet he said, "I've been training ma!". Or, "I've joined an underground movement". Yeah.
Mum: Hmm.
GD: I wonder what they'd do if I left this bag under the seat in the underground.
Me: It'd be gone in ten minutes. They'd send sniffer dogs round.
GD: But they'd eat my chocolate biscuits!

GD: I'd like to go to strawberry picking place and just lie under the hedge and eat all the strawberries. Then I'd move along to another patch and eat the strawberries there.
Mum: Mmm.
GD: They have nice soft hay under those hedges.

GD: *Handing me a piece of staw* Fancy a joint?
Me: *choking* WHAT?

Oh my lord. I actually love him so much. What a dude.

Sorry everybody

Mwahhahhahahahaha.

I'm such a bastard.

No, wait, actually, if you're one of those dipshits who waits around for years on end, not reading anything except Harry Potter, for the next book to come out, I HOPE I RUINED IT FOR YOU.

HAHAHAH! I AM SO EVIL!

Warning: This post contained spoilers about Harry Potter 6 and should not have been read by anybody not wanting to ruin the surprise.

My dear old fish, go and boil your head!

Oh, so who went and saw a sneak pre-premier cast and crew screening of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory today?

Was it me?
Could it have been me?
Surely not, it could not have been me.
But what if it was me?
Was it?
Was it me?
Really?
Was it me?

IT WAS ME. So FUCK YOU... Britain. And probably most of continental Europe. But probably not America. But Americans don't count because, as I've learned today, most of your women are morons.

So, the day was very exciting and I saw a great deal of film stars, including CAROL VORDERMAN, G-4, and even JAMES FROM BUSTED but I didn't see him because I was playing with my camera. There were some others too, including that guy who played Officer John Hanson Number 2 in 21 Jump Street.

The screening took place in some massive cinema in this square in London (I believe that it's called 'Leicester Square' - pronounced l-ai-ses-tar). There was this little midget in the foyer, who later turned out to play several of the Oompa-Loompas, who went by the name of 'Deep Roy'. Now I think that this is a very classy name for a midget... small person... whatever. I mean... DEEP. ROY. I would LOVE a name like that. It's like having a really tall guy and calling him Shallow Hal. Wasn't there already a film called that? Was it about a giant? I don't know. In this film they had apparently managed to CLONE Deep Roy and shrink him down into a teeny-weeny person. I don't know how they did this; perhaps small people are easier to clone. They fit in the jam jars better, or something.

I'd like to say that I took some FIT blonde (or brunette... to be honest, probably brunette) lass to this thing with me and we spent the next hour making out like donkeys, but instead I took my little sister. BECAUSE I'M COOL. So we sat in the cinema, full to the brim with professional movie-making types who said 'DARLING' a lot and air-kissed. Then I started to get paranoid - I checked my phone like twelve times to make sure that it was still turned off. And sister was forced to turn off all sound on her tamagotchi. To be honest, I would have preferred it to be smashed into a fine powder with a mallet, but there were no mallets available and the fine quality japanese worksmanship was resistant to my attempts to pull it apart by hand. Those crazy japs and their inventions.

ALSO Tim Burton (the main man) came up on stage at the front of the cinema and delivered a long and eloquent speech that sort of went like "Uh, thanks guys for, you know, working on the film and, yeah, I hope you enjoy it", before vanishing into the darkness of a side door to hang from the cieling or paint pictures of boys with rakes for feet or whatever else those tortured gothic genii do in their spare time. I heart Timmy B (that's the street slang for his name). He is such a dude. He really is.

The film was quite good. It was about this boy called Charlie who goes to a factory of some sort, with hilarious and sexy results. There are also these four old people who constantly sleep in the same bed together. Now, I know my mind is perverted, but THAT'S A WEBSITE I REALLY DON'T WANNA SEE. And I've seen some crazy stuff on those internets. There was also this bit where these squirrels killed this little girl because she disrespected their collective authorities. That's the things with squirrels - you mess with them - POW - they take you down. Down to chinatown. Then in an act of skill that will surely result in her dismembered squirrel-ravaged body never being properly identified, those squirrels take out her father too.
The squirrels in this film were extremely well trained, leading me to my next point: If they can train 50 seperate squirrels to kill people on cue, where the fuck are my killer monkey bodyguards? I mean, if Willy Wonka (who, judging by this film, is clinically retarded) can persuade a bunch of dumbass fuzzy-tailed rats to band together and form a killer tag-team, WHY CAN'T ANYBODY PERSUADE MONKEYS TO WEAR TUXEDOS AND MAIM ON MY COMMAND?

This STUPID country.

After the film, we went outside, and saw that they had made Leicester Square all prettyful. This picture, detailing the prettyfullness, I like to call The Longest Picture In The World:



Oh dear, it's gone extremely teeny. Oh well, fuck off I'm not changing it. Don't you love its longness? I also adore the beautiful way I've captured the back of that fat fuck's head on the left. Hmm. After this, somebody had the bright idea of staying to watch the premier. I think that it might have been me, but for the purposes of this post, it was my sister. But although reluctant to the idea, I was swayed by the idea of schmoozing with the stars and drinking martinis in a hot tub with Timmy B. Oh my god. There are all sorts of hot stars to drink martinis in a hot tub with... and I end up with Tim Burton? Yeesh.

So we ended up crammed into a very tiny space, full of lots of thick-as-shit american tourists, who, although being a bit fit, were also as dumb as hammers. Fortunately, I was able to pass the time fairly pleasantly, as I had the things a boy needs:

Water
Fit american tourists to look at
Pixies CD
My own BLISTERING masculinity
The new, fascinatingly written Harry Potter book
My sexy Boris Johnson Tshirt

However, even this didn't save my from the mind-numbing inanity of the crowd. From the ugly fat foreigner who spent her time asking who everyone was, to the moronic (but fit) american teens who took photos of random members of the public but ignored the actual movie stars who walked by, they were the worst of a bad bunch. A cameraman zoomed past and filmed us. The crowed wooed happily. I did not woo. I am not a person who woos. If you look on the tapes, you'll see a nice picture of a boy wearing a blue tshirt, looking pissed off, and not wooing. I do not woo. Fucking wooers.

At this point I was wondering what the fuck I was doing, crammed in a crowd while celebrities (INCLUDING GRAHAM NORTON! OMG OMGOMG LOLZ!) walked past, ignoring out sorry asses. But then, Johnny Depp (or as the cool kids call him, J-Dog D-Man) walked past. THIS WAS IT! I raised my camera. He was in shot. He was in frame. I was about to get the POWER SHOT of J-Dog D-Man.

Here's the picture that resulted:



You can quite clearly see Johnny D's blur in the middle of the photo, nicely framed by THE DUMB BINT WHO DECIDED TO WAVE HER ARMS IN THE AIR, THEREFORE FUCKING UP THE PICTURE THAT TOOK 2.5 HOURS TO TAKE. I mean CHRIST. What POSSIBLE FUCKING CHANCE is there that Johnny sees you raising your arms, decides to LEAP ACROSS the railings, and makes you his bride? No. And like, people who scream JOHNNY and just shriek a lot. Whats the point? Man I hate people.

So I just sort of stood there and looked unbelievably pissed off while half of London mobbed the fence I was standing next to.

Johnny Depp is a twat. Stupid blue-hatted tit. I'm only kidding, Johnny, I love you. It's the entire continent of America I hate.

Good morning, jobseekers!

I've decided that I need to get a job. Yes, big moment, me moving into the wide world of work. It's kind of like having sex for the first time, except with less entrance exams and MORE MONEY. Unless, of course, you're a prostitute, which is not a career option that I'm really considering. Of course, I am the PIMP DADDY. I was at a party yesterday and you know what some guy said to me? "Wow, you pimp". So evidence of my pimpdom is spreading far and wide across the land.

Top Tip for parties: Wear yellow lycra rowing all-in-ones. Chicks dig the yellow lycra rowing all-in-ones.

But what sort of job was I to get? After thinking about it, it hit me. The perfect job would be one in which I am given money for very little at all. In fact, the perfect job would be one in which I am just sent money every week in the mail without doing anything at all. But as far as I know, no such job exists. Well, that's capitalism for you. I've said it before and I'll say it again: we need to go back to feudalism. I would be a count, and the rest of you can be my slaves.

So, then, what ACTUAL job to get? Well I looked at my area for possible job ideas. When I say 'looked', I mean 'kind of cycled around then just looked up random places on the internet in a half-hearted manner'. And here's what I came up with:

Waterstones: Waterstones is nice. It's all warm and cosy and has that nice bookshop smell. So I walked right in there and got lost. Then I had an idea... I needed to use some sort of subertage in order to be able to walk up to the desk. You can't just queue up and then ask for a job, can you? You gotta have a PRETEXT. This is where The Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles Dickens (who I am replacing), came into the equations. After buying the book and failing to ask for a job from the scary looking woman at the counter, I realised that there was an information desk, run by an effeminate looking man. For some reason, effeminate looking men are the most easily-approachable of any class of people (after old ladies):

They don't have the angry testosterone of younger men,
They don't have the angry world weariness of older men,
They don't have the crankiness of old people,
They don't have the possible period-induced madness of women,
They don't have the possible pikey 'I'M AN EMPLOYEE OF WATERSTONES BUT I'M STILL GONNA STAB YOU!' qualities of teenagers.
Basically, they're unlikely to flip out and mock you/scream you out of the shop if you ask them something. As you can tell, I have a pretty low opinion of people at shop information-desks in general.

So I walk up to the effeminate man. I planned my words exactly. 'Excuse me, do you have any job vacancies?'. I ENDED UP ASKING FOR WORK EXPERIENCE. ARRGHALKSDJFD. WHO THE HELL DOES WORK EXPERIENCE AT WATERSTONES? IT'S BASICALLY WORKING FOR FREE FOR NO REASON. THAT SUCKS.

Fortunately, they haven't called me yet. So I don't have to do pointless non-paid work. After all, the entire purpose is to get money which I can waste on Pixies CDs on the internet. This monkey has gone to heaven, indeed.

Sainsbury's: There's a Sainsbury's pretty close to my house. I'm pretty much guaranteed a job there. Those are the pros. The cons are the fact that it's Sainsbury's. It's a supermarket. I don't like supermarkets. Have you noticed that when you're in a supermarket, you don't cast a shadow? That's because you lose your soul when you're inside. For every second one is inside a supermarket, one feels one's soul being ripped out of one's body through the soles of one's feet. You only get it back once you re-enter the sunlight. I couldn't stand being trapped in a supermarket for hours on end. IT WOULD KILL ME.

And plus, the application form was depressing. It's so full of customer services bullshit it makes me want to vomit: "At Sainsbury's we hav a passion for providing our customers with great food, great service and value for money. We know that it takes a great team fo achieve this...". Firstly, I don't care about the value for money. If I'm gonna be working there, I already know that the supermarket exists. Stop telling me about it. And plus, if the food isn't that great, I'll be finding about it anyway BECAUSE I'LL BE WORKING THERE. Oooh, I just RUINED your shit, Sainsbury's. Rinsed.

I got half-way through filling in the form, when I realised that I'd rather take a scissor to my own tongue than work at Sainsbury's for a prolonged period of time.

Waitrose: Well, Waitrose being the higher class version of Sainsbury's, I thought that perhaps this would be able to cater for my aristocratic sensibilities. Unfortunately, I was defeated by the fact that Waitrose is so far away from my house. It's like a good twenty five minute cycle. And if I can't be arsed to cycle there ONCE to get an application form, what about the other five million times I'll be forced to go there? So nope. I might have had a glittering career at Waitrose, rising from lowly shop-boy to being a supermarket tycoon. Unlikely, I know. But we'll never find out now. It's like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction and the true age of Dr Harris - forever a mystery.

The Entertainer: I then thought to myself. What would be a totally bitchin' job to have? Then it hit me: TOY SHOP. So I picked up the phone and called the toysiest shop I knew; The Entertainer, Kingston. Basically, all the staff there seem to do is play with toys. Here's how the conversation went:

Ring ring.
"Hello, this is The Entertainer Kingston. How can I help?"
"Is that The Entertainer?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Do you have any job options open?"
"No, sorry, we don't have any at the mom-"
"Okay" *Hangs up*

Random Bookshop: I still hadn't given up on the bookshop idea. Bookshops are my idea of Heaven. A good job would involve me sitting at a till, reading all day, and occasionally pushing buttons on the til to handle people's money. Then getting paid. So I called up a local bookshop.

Ring ring.
"Hello, this is The Bookshop. How can I help?"
"Is that The Bookshop?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Do you have any job options open?"
"No, sorry, we don't have any at the mom-"
"Okay" *Hangs up*

I was beginning to think that this wasn't going to work for me.

Squire's: There's a Squire's round the corner. Perhaps I could get a job sitting at a till there, reading a book and occasionally talking to old ladies who want to buy daisies. But, shock of shocks, I looked it up on TEH INTERNETS, and it was revealed that THE ONLY OPENINGS they have are for MANUAL LABOUR. Yes, lifting and carrying and shit. And also, apparently I need to be interested in a future career in botany. Botany? What, plants and shit? That didn't worry me much - I can always LIE, but MANUAL LABOUR? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? DO I LOOK SPANISH? I have delicate rower's hands, unused to heavy carrying or, you know, doing stuff. Manual labour doesn't really MESH with my whole lazy existence.

But I decided, what the fuck, I'd go in and have a look. You know, suss out the digs. So I went in. And I saw a bunch of sweaty balding men driving forklift trucks, smoking and probably wearing hard-hats. I fled the place as fast as my sexy legs could carry me, screaming like a little piggy.

Johnson's Shoes: There was a sign on the window advertising for part-time shop assistants. But, come on, it's a shoe shop. Fuck off.

All this has taught me something interesting about myself. I've realised that I actually do not like people. Like, any of them. I don't trust the general public. I want a job that doesn't involve any interaction with other people... at all. You know, helping people, carrying stuff, doing things for other folks, working in a team... that whole ethos doesn't work for me. Sorry Sainsbury's, but for the option on the application form that says The idea of dealing with customers does not really appeal to me does not really appeal to me, I would be pretty much forced to tick 'STRONGLY AGREE." In fact, the idea of helping customers all day is my personal vision of hell.

And thus concludes this tale. What, you think that this was going to be a happy ending, in which my search is successful and I get a perfect job for me? Ha ha! Welcome to my life - spend a few days doing something, then realise that it was probably just a big waste of time and go back to doing NOTHING. Fuck it, I have enough money in my allowance account for 16.1931034 Pixies CDs (I just worked that out). Thats a WHOLE lot of intelligable screaming.

And another thing. I'm not gonna work if I have to wear a stupid uniform. I just escaped wearing school uniform, you really think I want to hop straight into a blue/orange Sainsbury's clown suit? Screw you, I think that I'll continue to sit here sticking it to the man with my anti-authoritarian rebel wayz. For I am the revolutionary. Hell, I even have TWO V for Vendetta masks downstairs (STOLEN FROM THE FILM SET!) and and AND I took rekkie photographs for them. So basically, I AM Castro.

I'm pretty sure that life is going to bring down my youthful spirit pretty quickly, to be honest. You may mock me, but I'm going to see an advanced screening of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tomorrow, so FUCK YOU. I also am the total pimp daddy. Oh yeah. You KNOW what I'm talking about. Grin.

You're like the onion in my... dialysis fluid

I was thinking last night, and I've decided that being an atheist is shit. All you do is sit there and not believe in God. And you disappoint your grandparents. They don't say anything, but you just know that the whole not-going-to-church thing is KILLING them.

And of course, there's the Space thing. Without fail, every time I do a physics exam paper (which is never again... whoopee!) I get all freaked out when I reach the question about space. It always reminds me how small and shit this globe is, and the fact that we are just floating in a big motherfucking ball of EMPTY SPACE. Only in the Space section of the physics textbook are the words 'eternity' and 'into the abyss' bandied about willy nilly. All this shit about space FREAKS ME OUT. I spent a good portion of the Physics exam gazing into 'space', slack jawed, considering my pure insignificance in the massive area that is SPACE. Damn you, astronauts. Fucking space.

So it would be nice to know that, you know, there's some huge wise guy with a beard watching me to make sure that gravity doesn't suddenly forget I exist and I float off into the void. Void. That's another word that freaks the shit out of me. VOID. ARGH. I've decided that I need a God to be something BIGGER than space to counteract the big shit thats going on. And also as a pal.This God will spend his (or her, I'm not picky, but to be honest I'm pretty sure that a male god would be so much better) time looking at me and reserving me a place in the afterlife. The good afterlife, none of that shitty Hell stuff.

The third reason for me decided to take up religion again is pikeys. I just want to be sure that I have nothing to fear from pikeys, safe in the knowledge that my God will give any wanker who tries to nick my wallet bowel cancer. Or a lightning bolt hairdo. Is it wrong that I want a God to be my personal bodyguard? Fuck it.

So now I need a religion. Well, there are the main ones - Christianity, Islam, uh, Jewish, Buddhism, and some of those other foreign ones. I'm not even going to BRING UP those shitty mini-religions like Kabbalah and Scientology. Scientology? What the fuck is that? Well, Reverend Ron Hubbard gives us the answer:

"A civilization without insanity, without criminals and without war, where the able can prosper and honest beings can have rights, and where man is free to rise to greater heights, are the aims of Scientology." — L. Ron Hubbard

Yeah, good luck, mate. Scientology. Pahahhaha.

Christianity
The obvious choice, with the big God, and the whole 'he always loves you' thing. Also has an in-built fanclub, and you get to be friends with nice fully balanced fellows like this guy:



But on the other hand, Christianity, for a religion with demons, devils, bringing back from the dead, burning in eternal hellfire, and hideous deaths, is uniquely lame. Can't describe it any better than that. The only cool Christian was Ghandi: FACT. And he's dead now. And Jesus... what's the deal with Jesus? Everyone keeps going on about Jesus returning, as thought it'd be a good thing. Why? All it means is that the calendar would get fucked up. Would the current year go back to being bc again? Or would it stay as ad, despite the lack of Jesus? And what's so good about Jesus anyway. All he'd do would prance about, walking on water like the bigshot he is, telling people to stop being violent. Ooh, like that's gonna work. You suck, Jesus.

Man, I hope Jesus isn't in the room with me right now. After all, he is With Me Always:


Even when I'm playing the french horn. Isn't that nice?

Islam
Hmm. Intriguing. You do get to make women dress up in black robes and grow a natty beard. But this sounds like one of those religions where you have to do loads of stuff. You know, praying and fasting and blowing yourself up and shit. I don't want a religion where a guy with a beard and a hat gets pissed off with me if I don't spend half the time talking to myself and eating sand. So, sorry, but I'll have to pass on the islam.

Jewism
Hmm. Jewishness? Dare I go the way of the jew, like so many of my idols before me? Shall I convert, like Charlotte from Sex and the City? She's pretty stupid, if she can do it, anyone can. I mean, you get to step on wine glasses and stuff. And Henry Hill from Goodfellas was a jew, or at least he married one. And he ended up ratting on all his friends and living his life in a shed somewhere. So if that's what happens to jewish people, I think I'll pass.
Other reasons why I'm not going jew: the jokes, the talking funny, the long meals, the piss-taking from Ogg, the whole holocaust thing, the war, the no-eating delicious pork rule, the circumsision, the deal with the germans, the long black curly hair... I don't think I'm suitable Jew material.
And, as Tom Lehrer said, "Everybody hates the Jews". Don't get made at me, he said it.

Buddhism
Now HERE'S a religion I could embrace. As far as I can tell, to be a buddhist, all you do is shave your hair off, wear a nice orange jumpsuit then hang around some huge ultra-cool temple meditating. And I'm going to let you in on a little secret - meditating is just THINKING ABOUT STUFF. QUIETLY. I can do that any day of the week. Also, buddhism has less of the angryness that pervades so many other religions. And there are no punishments! The worst that can POSSIBLY happen to you is that you get reincarnated as a market dog. That's IT. How groovy is that?
And buddhism is COOL, man. It's a faith that kind of inspiring. And Buddha is a dude. Buddha is the only cool fat guy. Hurrah.

But on the other hand, to be a good buddhist, you're not allowed to be pissed off with anyone or pat people on the head or anything. Damnit... I LIKE being angry with people. People are twats. Apparently to be buddhist you have to be, like, all in tune with nature and stuff. Which means no meat. Nuts to that, burgers are tasty. And I'll be fucked if I'm going to live in the mountain with bears. Also, buddhism is starting to lose its edge nowadays, as any fat woman with an orange tshirt can decide that she's a buddhist and fuck with the religion. And terrorists keep blowing up the statues. Bloody terrorists.

Jedi
Come on, this isn't even a real religion. But I wouldn't mind a religion that gives you the ability to play with huge glowing laser-swords and leap 60 feet in one go.

Hmm.

Wow, so it seems that NONE of the major religions are tailor made to suit my tastes. Damnit. I was about to forget the whole idea of god when I looked at the sky and realised that space is still HUGE. Argh. After hiding from the evil glare of the stars, it HIT ME.

I'll just make up my own religion!

THIS IDEA HAS BEEN FLOATING AROUND IN MY HEAD FOR A WHILE. A religion without the lameness of Christianity, the strictness of Islam, the circumision of Jewishness, and with the meat eating goodness of being an atheist. This would be the religion of the FUTURE, the religion that guarantees that I'm not gonna be screwed when Judgement Day comes along. I have decided to call my religion Piratism. Hmm, or Ninjism. Actually, perhaps not ninjism, I don't like that 'jism' in there. Ok, my religion has no name. No, wait, I just found a latin dictionary. Omniism. Pretty slick. Or even Omniism!. I think the exclamation mark gives it an edge on other, non-puncuatation-affiliated faiths.

The basis of Omniism! is that everybody has their own personal god who just follows them around and protects them from all the evil demons. There are lots of evil demons. Evil demons are cool. This god always takes your side, and when you die, you get to be a god of your own, while your god gets reincarnated as a guy who you then protect. So then you get to fly around, killing demons and protecting your guy. And when your guy dies, you get reincarnated as a person. Pretty slick, eh? You basically get to either spend your time being protected or fighting demons. Did I mention that when you're a God, you get superpowers? Well, you do. You also get a cool suit.
The sweet thing is, the better you protect your guy, the better the existence you get reincarnated into. So if you're really shit and your guy gets eaten by a dog on his second day, you get reincarnated as a leech, and your god only has to protect you against leech demons. And leech demons are shit, they just go really slowly. Ah, I rule.
And the REALLY cool thing is that you can be reincarnated into animals and plants and stuff. AND ALIENS. If you're really good, you get reincarnated into an alien and you get to fly about in a spaceship, killing stuff and setting fire to cows (people who's gods weren't as good as you).
I don't know. But I like the idea that I have some invisible demon-killing ultra-fly superhero following me around. No, wait, the superhero isn't invisible, he lives in The Second Dimension. Yeah, none of this fourth dimension shit, your demon is a creature of 2D. He's just constantly at 90 degrees to you so you never see him. Life was easier back in the days of 2D.

So there you have it - the birth of Omniism!. It's part religion, part video-game, and 100% FUN!.

I think that this post has categorically proved how little I know about any religion... ever. I'm so sorry. Hey, at least I'm not doing RS.

Hey, Arthur!

I like watching children's shows that aren't meant for me. I then like to poke holes in them. I know that this is probably a bit unfair - after all, these shows were designed for people seven years younger than me, but I think of it along the lines of gaining a second opinion. After all, if you had no idea about cars, then a guy fixed the engine of your car, would it be bad if another mechanic had a look at it and pointed out that it was fixed with glue and plasters? No, it wouldn't be. So that's the analogy that I'm using. I think. I don't know. But yes, I have seen a lot of kids' shows in my time. Many have been brilliant. Many have had funny drug references that only I get. But many have been utter undiluted shit. And now I'm writing a post about the crappiest, just because I've finished Resident Evil 4 and I need to write something before I go away today. So here we go:

This post is in honour of Arthur, officially The Lamest Show On TV. Arthur is about the adventures of a young lad called Arthur and all his friends in the perfect american locality of Elwood City. There are no terrorists in Elwood. There is no crime. There are no drugs. In fact, there are no blacks, indians, or foreigners. The worst criminal in town is the school bully, and even she's a bit shit (we know that the bully is bad because she had long hair and wears a denim coat with no sleeves and frayed edges). But this show isn't about the perfect town of Elwood (god bless you, eugenics). This show is about ARTHUR. For those of you who don't know, this is Arthur, with his friend Buster:



Arthur is the gay yellow one. In case you were wondering, Arthur is meant to be an aardvark. Yes, and aardvark. This is what an aardvark actually looks like:



And here's the list of differences between Arthur and a real aardvark:

Arthur is yellow.
Arthur wears clothes.
Arthur has been voiced by four different people. The aardvark has only been voiced by two.
Arthur has fully formed human hands. Thumbs too.
Arthur stands up on two feet.
Arthur doesn't have a massive nose.
Arthur goes to school.
Arthur eats normal people food, as opposed to ants.
Arthur speaks in a squeaky girlish voice as opposed to the manly germaic roars that issue forth from most aardvarks.
Arthur does not sleep in a recently excavated nest. Rather, he sleeps in a bed.
Arthur is best friends with a rabbit.
To all extents and purposes, Arthur does not have a penis.

Arthur is like the most unaardvarky aardvark ever. I mean, he lives in a house. In an american suburb. Basically, Arthur is a human boy, they've just decided to make him and all his friends multicoloured and give them funny ears. That's IT. And he's best friends with a rabbit. Why a rabbit? I don't know. But he has plenty of other friends too, including Binky, who seems to be a potato. Yeack. But, I'm not pedantic. I can forgive a tv show this amount of willfull raping of the laws of biology; after all, everybody in the Simpsons is yellow.

What I can't forgive, however, is the sheer amount of lameness that this show manages to cram into every episode.

Seriously, if you could distill Lame into a liquid, this show would be a LAKE. A lake of lame. Vicars with guitars and beards telling kids that 'God is Groovy' watch this show and proclaim it to be lame, man. This show is lamer than Teletubbies, which manage to win some cool points just through the sheer power of the drug-induced brain that originally thought it up. But Arthur? There's no drug inducement anywhere. Well, I bet there's a reference somewhere, but it's quickly quashed with a valuable life lesson.

Life lessons. I hate life lessons. The only life lesson you really need to learn is that Nobody Cares. Once you've got that off pat, you're set for life. But this show... ARGH. EVERY EPISODE HAS A MORAL. I mean, I don't mind morals in SOME TV shows (well actually I do); like that episode of the Simpsons where Sideshow Bob was about to marry Selma and the moral was 'never stop distrusting people', or that episode of Family Guy was 'don't kill the kids from Dawson's creek'. But I can't forgive a show where every SCENE is either devoted to setting up the moral, or teaching the moral. Seriously, if you were writing a synopsis of every episode of Arthur (and god willing, I'll never have to), you could just copy the words 'and Arthur and the Gang learn a valuable life lesson', and paste them onto the end. It's like the mission of Arthur to cover every hot topic in American culture today so we can be one big PC family.

For example, in one episode, Arthur's friend Buster is sad because his parents are divorced (issue number 1) and his father lives far away, (issue number 2), and Arthur is worried that Buster is going to be sad at the father-son picnic (issue number 3). So Arthur and his friends decide to get Binky a NEW DAD! A HA HA! DOESN'T THAT SOUND A HILARIOUS WAY TO SPEND HALF AN HOUR? IT DOES. AND BOY WAS IT FUNNY.
And, my personal favourite, the episode where potato boy learns that he's allergic to penuts. Now instead of eating lots of nuts and having his head explode in a cool/hilarious way, he prances about for the entire episode whingeing about being allergic, until he realises that there's a way to get around his allergy, by being careful about what he eats, going to the library to look up information about allergies, and not being around people with penuts. Yes, that's it. That's the resolution to this particular episode. Deep, man.

I hate this show much. Watching it is like watching one of those BBC propaganda videos aimed at children, telling you not to play with matches or smoke or talk to strangers.

'This is Johnny. Johnny smokes. NOW JOHNNY HAS LUNG CANCER AND IS GOING TO DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS! MWHWAHHAHA!'

Oddly, I usually enjoy those videos. They make me laugh. Arthur does not. They should remove the shiny 'fun' tag, and just make it an educational show that they force kids in school to watch with a Clockwork Orange style setup. I mean, this show breaks one of the funadmental rules of lameness. It tries to be funny. Mistake. You can't be funny when your main character is dressed in a shirt/sweater combo, massive shoes, and glasses. What sort of kid wears a shirt/sweater combo? And glasses? Not that I have anything against kids with glasses, but they are SO ANNOYING. On the french trip there was this little german kid with glasses and he kept glaring at me. So I had a staring competion with him. AND I WON. Take that, you little cunt. Then I looked round, and Curry was having a staring competition with a baby. And wielding a rock threateningly. Ah, memories.

Oh yeah. Arthur is the kind of show where the main character spends hours singing songs about why reading is really fun, and dancing around the library. So you like reading, do you, Arthur? Well why don't you read a DECENT book, as opposed to the liquid shit you usually read. Read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That will blow your little mind. RINSED.

So, in conclusion, Arthur sucks. The sad thing is, he'll probably get laid before me.

"Hi, I'm Arthur and I'm a big gay loser aardvark who actually acts like a person because the writers are lazy cunts" - actual quote from the series

Things not to do in London tomorrow:

• Dress up in robes and a face mask and run around the streets hollering 'ALLAH!' or 'INFIDELS!' Or a mixture of the two: ALFADELS. Is it me, or do alfadels sound delicious?


• Make jokes about bombs.


• Tell bomb anacdotes, riddles, or ironic musings. Bomb related banter is still alright, however.


• Rent out Rambo 3.


• Rugby tackle people to the floor.


• Tell the fit bus driver that she's 'da bomb!'


• On a crowded train, yell 'HE HAS A GRENADE!' followed by 'BUNDLE!' as people try to leave the station.


• Randomly scatter bags on street corners.


• Fireworks. I bet even sparklers are off limits now.


• Hang around looking shifty.


• Run around screaming.


• Be arabic.

Damnit, those pesky terrorists have totally ruined the fun of going into London. Wankers.

So, lads, London is burning again, eh? So, we've finally joined the USA club of having our buildings razed to the ground. Except for the IRA bombings. And, you know, having the shit bombed out of us, nightly, for the entirity of World War Two. And probably a bit of World War One. And, of course, the Great Fire of London. And Guy Fawkes attempting to blow up the Houses of Parliment. And I guess that the Plague counts as biological terrorism, right? Damn rats. We're so well known for our buildings not surviving well, we have not one but TWO theme tunes. Do you Americans have any theme tunes? Well, other than the Twin Towers Tango, no.

But other than that, this is the FIRST bit of property destruction/terrorism that London has ever faced. Now, this may sound a bit tetchy, but I'm bored of Americans going on like they're the first country to ever experience buildings falling over. Ever since the theories of 'gravity' and 'combustion' were invented in 1963 by some hippy guy, buildings have been catching fire and falling over. So stop complaining about the Twin Towers, ok, America? I direct this comment mostly at the scores of discussion-board fellas who consider that a country only counts as having taken part in the 'war on terror' if it's first lost a pretty building/mode of transportation some twat with a bomb.

The British response to the entire transport system being blown up and grinding to a halt is entirely different to the American one to some office buildings falling over. On 9/11 (it should be technically 11/9, seeing as the properly be the smallest system of periods of time first, working up - days, months, years... BUT NO... we have to follow the yankee system which MAKES NO SENSE) everybody ran around screaming hysterically, then promptly blew the crap out of some random countries and whinged about it forever. On 7/7 (what the fuck? They're going to need a smoother name than 7/7 if they want to make this thing sound cool. The London Transport Catastrophe. Or THE DAY THE EARTH EXPLODED. Or IT'S RAINING BITS OF BUSES. Sung by a group of chorus girls to the tune of 'It's raining men') everybody got a bit depressed then started queueing to get the boat home. Yes, the boat home.

God, I love Britain. And I especially love our news reportage. Because we're meant to be totally impartial, we're not allowed to state THE FUCKING OBVIOUS.

"Yes, several tube trains and, uh, a bus, have exploded and, uh... at the moment, the hypothesis is that it's a power surge of some sort."

A power surge. Oh man. Not terrorists, no... one of those magic power surges that can take out several trains and an UNLUCKY bus in the space of an hour. And I seriously worship those newsreaders for their ability to take twenty minutes' worth of news, and stretch it out to be a full day's worth of material. The secret? Simple, and in five easy steps you too can be a disaster newsreader:

How to fill up a day's worth of news programming with very little information for Dummies (a reference for the rest of us!)
1: Recap. Allllllways recap. Do so every now and again, just in case somebody has JUST turned on the tv/woken up from a coma. Often, it might be a good idea to recap half way through a sentence. Or even a word.
"And now we go onto our reporter in Picadil- just to recap, the sky is falling and we all are going to die."
2: Flit rapidly between many random newsreaders standing in front of busy streets. Often, it's a good idea to have newsreaders who have no idea what's going on and can't hear what the anchorman is saying. It's also a good idea to cut the reporters off mid-sentence to cut to another reporter.
3: Have interviews with people who happened to be walking past when the incident in question took place. These people should all be unattractive, as to not dirty the viewing pleasure for me, and must all give long rambling statements that make no sense/have very little content.
4: Have long camera shots of nothing in particular. Assure the audience how exciting it all is.
5: Repeat yourself ever five minutes. ALWAYS REPEAT.

And there you go, you're a newsreader.

Also, if you.................. want to be Tony............ Blaire, just look........... sol......... emn, and include an............... irrelevant pause ever...... few............. words. That's all............. you........... nee.................. d.

Ah Tony, King of the Power Pause.

God Bless You, London. Especially tomorrow, when it will probably be a criminal offense to be carrying a suitcase on a train without written permission from, like, fifteen Governmental bodies.

Alright guys, who's ready for a PROM?

I'm going to A PROM tomorrow. Whoopee. Can you hear the excitement in my tone? Because I am very excited. Proms are such fun.

I can see what's going to happen already. I'll pull up in my sports car to my beautiful date's suburban house in a tree-lined American suburb, brilliantly attired in a well fitting tuxedo and clutching a beautiful boquet of flowers and chocolates. I'll be invited into the beautiful house by the two ultra-beautiful parents and we shall make small talk around the beautiful coffee table before my date walks down the stairs. Then we'll all go into slow motion for a minute while she walks down the stairs, looking BEAUTIFUL in a BEAUTIFUL diamond-encrusted designer dress and smiling beautifully. Then we'll speed off in the car to the prom, which will be in FULL SWING by the time we get there. It will be full of beautiful couples dancing to loud non-threatening popular music, in a beautifully decorated hall. People will be drinking, but there'll be no drunkeness. We shall dance, me and my beautiful date, then we shall get elected King and Queen of the prom. Then we'll zoom off in the sports car and have sex on the nearby beach (beautiful, of course), before getting into a brief, exciting fight with the beautiful captain of the football team. Then we'll speed back to the prom where some black guy will be playing some song on a guitar, and we'll all dance. Then there'll be a slow zoom out into the air. Then I'll travel back to the present time in my rocket powered time travelleling wonder-car with my amazing scientific buddy, Doctor Harris. Or whatever.

Well, that's been the pattern of events for every prom that I've attended.

Number of proms that I have ever attended: 0.

Damn those americans and their fancy TV proms. Damn them to hell. Now, how is it going to be in reality? Well, first I say we decipher the 'classic' (read: American) version of the prom, to see where the differences lie. Well, I can think of one. In real life, people in prom dresses do not walk down the stairs gracefully in slow motion - they are not ultra fit divas of love and grace, unfortunately. In real life, people in prom dresses look like this:


I have to applaud the photographer for her incredible framing of this shot. Also, it's not obvious from this picture, but Steve and Emma are actually siamese twins! They are joined together at the ends of their arms.

In real life, people look crap when they're dressed up. Take me for example. Now, everybody knows that I am the coolest guy in the world ever. I also manage to make any bizarre combination of clotheing look fucking styling with my rebel cools. I mean, I even managed to pull off wearing shorts, white tshirt and high visibility jacket. Sweet. Yet, despite my obvious manliness, I look shit in a tuxedo. The shirt chokes the wind out of me and the bow tie is like A NOOSE AROUND MY NECK. A NOOSE. And what's more, this is a tuxedo that my DEAD GRANDFATHER used to wear. And that's, like, the only reason I like wearing it. Yes, you heard me. A plus is that this tuxedo used to have a dead person in it. Not LITERALLY (he didn't ACTUALLY die in it, although that would be a serious plus), but it's nice to know that something you own has a bit of history to it. DO YOU KNOW that my tuxedo used to be owned by JAMES BOND? No? Well good, because it wasn't. However, Grandfather (dead one) use to work on the Bond Flicks - he actually featured in The Man In The Golden Gun; have a look in the background of the casino scene for a guy with a mustache - and he purchased this tux in the style of bond.

So what does that mean? I've actually lost track of what I was talking about. I swear that this post had something to do with a prom. It now seems to have turned into a description of my dead grandfather's movie career. Oh yeah, right, the prom. Me in a tuxedo. Right. Well, Cassie (my 'date', wink wink) I seriously wouldn't get your hopes up. To be honest, I think that you'd have been better off going with your stalker. And here's why.

A list of reasons why I am going to be shit at this prom

Me in a tuxedo
We've already covered this, but just to get the image across. When any man puts on a tuxedo, no matter who he is, here is the image that he is trying to achieve:



Ah, Shaun Connery, you non-crazy Scotsman, you. So thats's what I want to look like. And, here's the image that I'm probably going to present on the night:



Yeesh. Oh well, at least I won't look like that guy with no face. At least that's something to be grateful for.

Dancing
I don't dance. Period. Actually, amend that to: I don't dance without being plied with mind-numbing toxins beforehand. And then, even when drunk, my dancing is broken down into a little thing which I like to call 'funky walking'. That's right, you just walk very slowly up and down, moving your legs in a crazyifying metronomic way, back and forth. Kind of like skiing, but more groovy. You get me? No, you probably don't. But be assured, it's pretty damn cool. Groovesome, even.
But waltzing? Nope. You'd have to kidnap a member of my family and hold them hostage before you get me dancing. And not just ANY member of my family. It would have to be a good one. Mother or father at the very least. Siblings? Fuck off, you can cut off their genitalia for all I care, I sure as hell ain't waltzing.

Unless, of course, any of the music from Pulp Fiction comes on. In that case, all bets are off.

Alcohol
There had better be some alcohol at this thing, I'm telling you. Unless, of course, you want one very angry Thomas on your hands. I'll need alcohol to get through this thing without actually killing something.

Me
I'm not going to take this very seriously, am I?

Oh boy.

AAAAAAAND now I'm done. Smile.

OMG OMG OMGOMGOMG!!!11!!!11LOL!!! LOL!! OMFG!

Look at it! LOOK AT IT! LOOK AT MY SHINY NEW BLOG TEMPLATE.

Wow, that is so shiznitching. Look at the smooth white lines through the INCREDIBLY sexy handprinty background. That reminds me, can people comment if they can see the handprints? Because apparently Casi cannot. She is unable to see the handprints. This means that her eyes do not work properly. And if your eyes don't work properly, do you know what that means? Yes, it means that you are technically retarded. So sorry to rain on your parade, Cassie, but before you leave the house in the future (with your keeper) you'll be contractully obliged to wear kneepads, a bike helmet and a mouthguard. And armbands, in case you fall into a puddle.

Wowee, this new SEXY template has restored my faith in my blog. And, once faith in my blog has been restored, so is my faith in humanity. Which means that I've put down the pills and the hammer and have decided to get back to some SERIOUS blogsomming to make up for the many hours of not doing so that I've put you people through. Call the previous week a 'hiatus' if you will.

Fuck it, here's a list of stuff that's happened to me in the past week. Read it and weep. Or fuck off, I don't care.

• I went to TWO PARTIES! Yeah man, popular or WHAT? I mean, I wasn't specifically invited to either of them, I sort of wandered in with the rest of the crush, BUT I STILL WENT. And I got KIND OF drunk at both. But it was, like, a fun level of drunkeness, as opposed to a 'fall over, knock yourself out on the sofa then drown in a pool of your own vomit/blood mixture' level of drunkeness. There's a fine line between the two, but I feel that this line MUST be drawn.
  It seems that the point of many of these parties is for people to show off how superior their houses/gardens are to yours. Those wankers with their big houses. But yeah, I went to some parties. That was FUN.



• I just reconfirmed my position as the most Pimp Daddy guy ever. Now, I know you think that I'm pretty Pimp Daddy already, but I managed to surpass myself in the pure Pimp Daddy stakes. Seriously, imagine the most pimping person ever. Then times him by the pimpingness owned by this fellow:
  
  THAT is how pimping I am. Like, woah, steady there, mate, you don't wanna kill us with the pure powers of your Pimp Daddy self, that's what people say when I strut down the street.
  
  I am the Pimp Daddy. Oh yeah.



• I started work on what will surely be the most brilliant creative artwork EVER to be seen ever in the entire existence of everness. It's basically this BIG mofoing collage thats about the size of the moon now. That's right, A1. I have cleverly named it 'celebrity', and it consists of lots of celebs with eyes stuck on them. And lots of arms. It's KERRRAZY. And HOT. Of course, what with all this cutting up of magazines, my carpet has become the respository for about, without using hyperbole, a billion shreds of cut up paper. This, added to the 5 shoes, three of which are missing their partners, the twelve socks, the many books, the piles of clothes, the glue, the dvds, and the rest of the groovy bollocks that lives in my space, has led my room to look a bit like Bosnia. You know, full of starving africans. That reminds me...



• I didn't go to Live 8. Fucking Bob Geldof. No, not literally. Sheesh.



• Did I mention that I'm the Pimp Daddy? I am. If you took my Pimpingness and then took the moon, the pimpingness would be bigger. My pimpingness is only matched by Oli G's hair.



• I looked up 'cunt' on Wikipedia. Do you know that it comes from Latin? Which is good, because that means that 'cunt' is like a really OLD swear word, so I'm allowed to say it in front of the Queen. Not sure how my logic works there.
  Queen: In honour of your services to being a Pimp Daddy,I herebye dub you Sir...
  Me: CUNT! Hey, don't look shocked, that word is older than YOU. It's older than this castle. In fact, the only person that this word is not older than is Paul Mcartney - The Oldest Man In The Word (fun fact: Paul Mcartney is actually 6.8 BILLION year old) Therefore, it's an antique. So stop being sucha woman.



• I realised how FIT Cassie is when she's crying. Before anybody gets the wrong impression, I was a bit drunk at that point and, to be honest, if the only time you look FIT is when a watery-salt solution is pouring out of your eye sockets due to the amount of ethanol that you've ingested and your cheeks are red and full of blood, then you're really in a bit of trouble.



• Did I tell you that Resident Evil 4 was the most pimping game ever? It is. There's this bit when you're in the basement and then this MOFO WHO LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF ALIEN jumps in and chases you around in the dark for like five minutes, while you're waiting for a lift. AND HE'S BULLETPROOF AND AND AND its very exciting. Also, our dear friend Chainsaw Eddie comes back again. Have I ever called him Chainsaw Eddie before? Oh well, here's that picture of him again, just so you remember what he looks like:
  
  
  Scary, eh?
  
  
• I've spent a good amount of time dressing up, both as a pirate and a ninja, the two most manly things around. The pirate effect was gained by wearing swimming pants, a large white linin shirt, and a high visibility jacket worn by people working on the night shoot of 'V for Vendetta'. A yellow umbrella was added for full pirate effect. I am the only one who thinks that I look vaguely piratish. My mother is worried; what with this and my sudden obsession with creating artwork, she has dubbed me 'eccentric', which I think is WICKED. The ninja effect was gained by tying a black tshirt around my head in such a way that I look like a ninja. How did I learn to do this? TEH INTERNETS, of course. I've decided to go as a ninja to Roxy's party. Fuck the fact that the party is 999 emergency services themed. Ninjas are the emergency services in japan. If somebody's breaking into your house with some scissors, you just dial the ninjas and then twelve of them drop down from the cieling, where they've been waiting for the past week, and kill the bastard. So ninjas are A-OK. And who the fuck has a themed fancy dress party anyway?

And I'm sure some other exciting stuff happened too. But the main thing is that I'm a Pimp Daddy, and THE BLOG IS BACK! Now piss off.

Test post

This is a test post? SPIFFING.