A civilised discussion of musical stuffs (part 2)...

... has been temporarily postponed, due to one very important world event.

Hurricane Katrina



For those of you who don't know, Hurricane Katrina is like this really big hurricane that's like destroying some town in America. Everyone* is bitching about it a lot and everyone** is acting like it's 9/11 times A THOUSAND, despite the fact that so far only 135 people have died, which works out as about 0.0009 per cent of the total casualties of the Asian tsunami. So to be honest, I think everyone should stop whinging. I mean, the other day it rained and my tshirt got wet, and do you see ME acting like a woman? NO. I just marched up there and kicked the shit out of that raincloud until it cried and promised to leave the sky and never come back. Then I kicked it some more until it sailed off and ruined some guy's wedding.

But I have to say, I'll be praying for the dear departed people caught in this terrible hurricane Katrina. And I reckon everyone should stop going on about how the media have sensationalised it. LEAVE THE MEDIA ALONE. To be honest, I think that the media haven't sensationalised this ENOUGH. I mean, they're still calling it Hurricane Katrina, right? Personally, I don't think that Katrina is an evil enough name for such a TERRIBLE NATURAL DISASTER. It should have been named Hurricane Adolf or, like, Hurricane Jack the Ripper. Of course, if I had my way, it would really have been named Hurricane That guy from La Femme Nikita played by Jean Reno who just randomly shot all those security guards just for the hell of it, but that's just me, and I rule.

Of course, when I say I'll be praying for them, I really mean I'll be watching the entire thing on the internet from the safety of my little house here in Swaziland and laughing merrily as the disasters pile up. The last I heard, the prisoners had rioted and were holding a deputy and his family hostage in the state prison. You know what that says to me? Hollywood film. Actually I think that they already made a film in which a bunch of robbers attack a town during a hurricane and have lots of exciting gunfights***. No, wait, that was GHANDI. OH MY GOD I'M SO FUNNY. LOOK AT ME I MADE A GHANDI JOKE. I SHOULD WRITE FOR LENO. A HA HA. FUCKING HELL I'M GOOD. GHANDI. YOU KNOW I WRITE ALL MY OWN MATERIAL. WOOAH.

Also, apparently a levee**** has burst and 80% of the town is under water. Everyone's acting all surprised. WELL WHAT DO YOU FUCKING EXPECT YOU DIPSHITS, YOU BUILT YOUR TOWN IN A BIG FUCKING BOWL UNDER SEA LEVEL. WHAT DID YOU THINK WAS GONNA HAPPEN? Didn't they read that bible story about that guy who built his house on the beach, and then the other guy who built his house on the rocks, but the rocks were below sea level so he built a crappy levee to keep the sea out but then the levee burst and his house washed away and he ran around looting before being shot by the police? I think it was in the book of, uh, Nehemiah, in, whatsis, Chapter 4, uh, Verse 3*****.

Basically, all you guys are fucked. Welcome to the Pleasuredome. Here's a picture of the poor fucks who built their houses next to the levee:



Poor guys. Their houses are screwed, all their possessions gone, and FINALLY THEIR STUPIDITY HAS CAUGHT UP WITH THEM. But looking at this picture, I've been given an idea. An idea to help these people. An idea to aid the reconstruction of New Orleans in the only way I know how... TETRIS!



Wow, man. See kids, even natural disasters have a funny side!

Other possible problems faced by the poor morons of New Orleans: alligators, floating fire ants, electric cables, and the fact that they BURIED ALL THEIR DEAD IN ABOVE GROUND MAUSOLEUMS SO THERE ARE A BUNCH OF FUCKING DEAD BODIES FLOATING ABOUT^... you lot are dipshits.

And talking of major national occurences, tis my birthday tomorrow. Yes, you may line up for fellatio duties, I'll be here ALL week.

Now listening to: "New Orleans is Sinking" by Tragically Hip


*In America
**In America
***There is no footnote to go here. I'm only putting this in because it annoys Abi, who dislikes asterixes.
****It's like a dam, except with a stupid name
*****"Now, Tobiah the Ammonite was by him, and he said, Even that which they build, if a fox go up, he shall even break down their stone wall." Riiiiight. I think I might do a Bible Sunday verse each week, in which I look up random verses from the bible and mock them online. Because that's some edgy religious humour, RIGHT there.
^This may help with the whole 'keeping the alligators fed' problem, though.

A civilised discussion of musical stuffs... (PART 1)

... or as I like to call it:

Another list post

Before I start this list, I have something to say: I am not a music student. I know nothing about music, scales, arpeggios, and rythmic devices (this is after being a music student for three years) and I didn't take the music GCSE*. So all my discussions of various musical effects and devices is just on a simple 'use complicated sounding words' system which got me through GCSE English, French, Spanish AND Maths, when you didn't even need to use words.

So with no further ado, I present:
(staccato drumroll with some extra, uh, semidetached quavers thrown in to add to the, you know, allegromissimo style of the drumroll)

My list of twenty musical things that I consider to be shit, in order 20-1, with 20 being the least shit and 1 being the most so and thus the worst

20: The Clarinet
I don't mean to be offensive to all you metrosexuals out there, but the clarinet truly is the gayest instrument ever. Everything about the clarinet is gay: the name sounds like a sort of female underwear, the shape is reminiscent of a long african phallus, it has REEDS (bits of dead plant) that you suck on and get all moist, it comes in a gay little box that looks like a handbag and is lined with velvet and FOR CHRIST'S SAKE YOU CAN'T EVEN MOVE WHEN YOU'RE PLAYING IT. BADLY. You just sit there with this big cock in your mouth blowing away and getting hideous squealing sounds. No wait, you can't play the clarinet while sitting, so you just STAND THERE, feeling your legs go weak and your face go red, puffing away.
Needless to say, I played the clarinet for three years. One intensive and traumatising lesson a week, along with band practise.
But anyway, here's a list of my many musical prizes won through my clarinetting skillz:

0 prizes
0 grades

Wow, man. I mean, it might have been the fact that I did literally no practise a week on it**, but I was POOR at that instrument. I mean, like, terrible. Firstly: I couldn't even get it to make a decent sound. Apparently my way of positioning my lips around the shaft weren't sufficiently blow-jobby enough to make it squeal correctly. Secondly, there are like FIFTEEN WAYS to play C sharp in the upper register, each done a different way depending on the note preceding it. So, yeah, and I didn't care anyway.
So therefore, the clarinet is the most shit instrument ever***. There are gayer instruments****, but nothing quite compares to the pure levels of shitness poured forth by the clarinet. And you can't just say to me 'oh, but you're just an insensitive man, you don't understand the emotions of the clarinetter'. But I have feelings. I cried my eyes out at the end of Terminator 2. You
know, with the thumbs up and everything.*****

Clarinet sucks. Except for the theme tune of Diagnosis Murder. That's the only exception.

19: Alanis Morissette
I originally didn't see what was wrong with Alanis Morissette. I was like 'Why all the Alanis hate? I mean, he did the soundtrack to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and that was damn good'. But then I realised that I'd gotten her mixed up with a 75-year old Italian film-music composer of a similar name. Then I listened to 'Hand in my pocket'. Then I saw an advert for her new album on tv, and realised that I actually hated this woman with a passion.

A few things that are wrong with Alanis Morissette:
a: What kind of fucking name is ALANIS? Babynames.com doesn't even register it as a name. It's properly spelt with two Ns (intriguely, the same amount of Ns in the words "No Talent"). It means 'from Atlanta'. So this means that she's some sort of fish-woman. Fuck it, it was probably her catawauling that made the fucking continent explode in the first place.
b: She fits quite nicely into several of the other 'shit music things' in the rest of this list (numbers 1, 5, 6, 13 probably, 16, and probably 18).
c: Her new album, which is as far as I can tell just all her old songs but played with an acoustic guitar really slowly, looks totally wanky to the point of bleeding. And if I remember correctly, she has her own name signed on the front. Woahhhhh, be careful you don't knock me out with your independent free-spirited coolz, Alienis. Did you see what I did there? ALIENis. Oh man, sometimes I knock myself out.
3: She has a song called 'Thank u'. Woah man, way to appeal to the urban youthful demographic who no longer seem to need the 'yo' of 'you' any more... that's really made sure that your song will be a certified classic for years ahead.
4: She has some sort of 'grungy hippie pot-smoking idealistic urban flower-baby' vibe going on on her website. Woahhh, torn paper backgrounds? Like, ink-blotty typing for the font? Wow, Alanis, I want to run away and join a commune and listen to Alanis Morissette songs all day while smoking pot and discussing the clouds.
8: She was mocked in the song 'Snippets'. How was she mocked? By somebody singing exactly like her. The guy imitated her exactly and it sounded retarded without even trying.
f: Apparently she released a song called "Ironic" which featured no ironic things happening. Later tried to cover-up her own moronisity by claiming that it was deliberately meant to be NON IRONIC, which was why the song was IRONIC. Fucking moron, irony is injured enough as it is without your lame back-peddling music.
9: I've been able to come up with this list just sitting here and making it up as I go along. I haven't even listened to all of her songs and I still hate her. Bitch.

And Alanis is still a stupid name and I can't even SPELL Morrison.

18: "Yeah"
I fucking hate it when people say 'yeah' in songs. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind real rock n roll 'yeahs'. When the singer has just finished his twenty minute long guitar solo, his fingertips are spraying blood and the heat of the moment is flowing through his loins, who can blame a guy for throwing back his head and screaming YEAH to the heavens? Not me. Not anybody. Except perhaps Steven Hawkings, but he's a twat.
No, what I'm talking about is when wanky singers (usually playing acoustic guitars) start playing a song, play like two chords, then get really excited by what they're about to play and go 'yeah' really whispery-like. For a really good example of this, listen to the Jasom Mraz (what kind of fucking name is Mraz?) version of "Summer Breeze". He like strums the guitar once, breathes really deeply and goes 'yeah'. Why do people do this? It's just really lame... it's like they're just anticipating what a super song it is that they're about to sing and just have to tell the world.
Or are they just congratulating each other about how they managed to get the guitar out of the case successfully? Usually, the only people to do this are playing accoustic guitar, or piano. Everybody else is too busy playing the music and, you know, singing decently to bother with pointless syllables of affirmation.

17: Birdsong
Why does everybody like birdsong so much? Am I the only person who's noticed how shit it is? I mean, it's actually painful to lisen to. It's not really song to be honest, it's just random squeaking sounds. There's no cohesion to it, no rythm. I mean, if they'd thrown in a bit of allegro clarimissimo repeat, uh, semi-detached quavers embauchure, it'd be a bit better. But they don't. It's a shambles. Mother Nature really dropped the ball on this one.

I mean, I'd be a bit more positive if they harmonised together or something (a sparrow barbershop quartet would be a thing to see) but they DON'T. And then they wake me up in the morning and everybody acts like it's beautiful music. It's not. It's shit. I could do better. And that's saying something. Because I'm about as musical as Steve when she's playing the meat flute.

16: Jazz and chamber music
If I may, I shall begin THIS sparkling entrance to this countdown with a quote from my main man Jason Mraz (who really deserves his own number) from his masterpiece of song Summer Breeze:

Oh sweet days of summer, the jazz-man's in bloom,
July is dressed up, and playing a tune

Jazz is shit. Chamber Music is just the old timey equivalent of jazz. Basically, anything I say about jazz equally applies to chamber music.
Right: Jazz is shit. I just have to reiterate that point - Jazz is so crap I can't even describe it's crapness. It's just like these guys standing on a platform just playing whatever shit comes into their minds. Everyone's all like 'well it's just so free-wheeling and unpredictable, a true window to the soul and it's just beautiful, like a Pollock painting and-" WRONG. It's just musical diahrea^... long, drippy, no form, so shape, goes on forever, fills the space like a thousand tiny wet sponges of carrot and over-digested brown soup and the JAZZ MUSICIANS NEVER SHUT UP, THE TWATS.
Jazz is not cool. Jazz is not 'hip'. The only people who listen to jazz had starring roles on 'Sex and the City', listen to jazz podcasts and go to Alanis Morissofa concerts wearing berets and using cigarette-holders WITH NO CIGARETTES IN THEM. JAZZ IS A GIANT MOULDERING PILE OF SHIT.

In this number, there have been about fourteen fecal references. This was not an accident - I hate jazz. It's crap. Fifteen.

15 and a half: Jason Mraz
Yes, I know that I said this was a 20 point list, but I just did a GIS for Jason Mraz and, well, the results speak for themselves:



Fuckin 'ell. Well, what were you expecting from someone who called his album "Redneck undercover"?

15: The whole ghetto music 'thing'
I'd have to say that I am quite a racist. 200m is probably my preferred distance, but, hey, I'm not too shabby at the four mile slog and I have been known to take part in the occasional 50m sprints. That said, I don't have any racial prejudices (except against those crafty oompa-loompas... steal MY job will you?). The other day I even passed a black person in the street and I warmly embraced him and shook his hand, just to prove how well balanced I was. So don't take the following the wrong way, eh? Not like those shifty-looking metrosexuals.

The entire ghetto music thing sucks so hard it leaves a hickey. No joke. The entire 'Boyz N Da Hood' thing is hysterically, awfully, depressing. It's a massive wankfest of money, testosterone and sports clothing. All the songs are the same. All the artists are the same. It's a testiment to the crappititude of ghetto superstarz that I reckon I could program a 'make your own ghetto superstarz' program in twenty minutes, and I HAVE A MAC. AND NO PROGRAMMING SKILLZ. That's because there are only two types: really fat or buffed up with muscles.
And that doesn't even MENTION the music videos. I can hear the discussions.

Video Director: Right, so let's go a totally different way this time, right, Snooz-Doggy-Doop-Dog? I'm thinking it's dark, it's raining, you're all alone, you're in an abandoned abbey, and you've realised that your life is pointless and weak - that's the CRUX of the song.
Snooz-Doggy-Doop-Dog: No man, let's have me in a hot tub with some hot ladiez.
Director: But we have this beautiful abbey lined up, it will be an all time classic video - it'll really show your soft side.
Snooz-Doggy-Doop-Dog: And then in, like, a limo. With some hot ladiez.
Director: Steven Speilberg has even offered to help light the entire building for us.
Snooz-Doggy-Doop-Dog: And, then, like, in a nightclub of some sort. With some hot ladiez. And champagne.
Director: They're willing to de-freeze Walt Disney and have him animate the title design of your name.
Snooz-Doggy-Doop-Dog: And then I'm back in the hot tub again. WITH HOT LADIEZ.

I mean, judging from the video, it'd seem to me that all you ghetto superstarz do is get caught in drive byes and, like, score with women and hang around street corners eating chips. Not, you know, staying in the Hilton with your own personal bath-butler and being carried around by your bodyguards so you don't have to let your feet touch the dirty floor and owning your own private party boats or all the other stuff that was on that MTV documentary. Yes, I saw that, P Diddy, you stupid cunt.

Oh yeah, and the whole 'my homie got shot man' thing is crap. Yes, I know that all your ghetto-superstar friends keep getting shot (that's a plus for ghetto style music - it's a self cleaning oven^^). You know why? Because your music SUCKS. I don't see anybody shooting Madonna. Although her horse did trample her. So that kinda proves my point. Horses don't like Madonna, nobody likes ghetto music. Because it sucks. Oh yeah, and you all have fucking stupid names. You're not a dog or a small amount of money, stop calling yourself that, you fuckers.

14: Musicians/actors or actors/musicians
I think that the world has had quite enough of lame musicians who want to be actors and lame actors who want to be musicians. I couldn't decide what was worth, but then I saw Hilary Duff singing a song of some sort on Top of the Pops so, yeah. Actors trying to be musicians just SLIGHTLY edges out the musicians trying to actors camp in the lameness quota. But only just. They're both equally lame.

What pisses me off about this is the way that these people are so blatantly freewheeling on their already tenuous grips to fame in a way that just wastes everybody else's time. It's like, acting is COOL so they're all 'well I'll have a go at that' and then Pink ends up starring in some random cave-related film (which was actually worked on by Dan The Man from Romania). Her acting screws up the film, the film fails, and then everyone else in it has a stinker in their CVs, JUST because Pink decided that she wanted a go at acting. Just fuck off and warble somewhere else.

If you're wondering why I haven't rully rinsed Hilary Duff yet, don't worry, she'll appear higher up the list (which will probably be the highest that her music has ever got her up any list... OOH ZING). Oh yeah, and in a colliding of many of the points on this list, 50 Cent has released a film of some sort, in which he plays a rapper of some sort. Apparently, nobody told him that:
a: He's crap.
b: Rap sucks.
c: I certainly won't be going to see THAT film.

13: Long blank spaces in songs
Some bands think it's really smart to leave 7 minute long silent gaps at the end of their CDs. I'm looking at you, TheVerveSnowPatrolRobbieWilliams. That's really good, guys. Way to totally fuck up 'shuffle mode' for everybody. All it means is that I delete the last songs from your respective albums off my computer. Well done there, lads.

12 and a half: Jason Mraz again
Seriously, just look at him:



He looks like Craig from Big Brother. And that's not even mentioning the way he filled 'Summer Breeze' with like a solid minute of 'doo-da-da-da-daaaaaa' singing. Man I hate that song.

12: Will Smith
A proud card carrying member of the 'musician turned actor' gang here. But now he's like a really weird mutant varient of the breed - the musician turned into an actor turned so COMPLETELY into an actor when he tries to be a musician again it just seems like an actor being a musician, resulting in a kind of prism effect that will eventually form a black hole of crap that will end up engulfing the entire planet.

Seriously, though, just give it up. The only good piece of music you ever did was the theme tune from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and that last song you did (Switch, nicely named after a credit card company - ooh rebellious there Will) was just embarrasing. "Oh, you too cute to dance eh?"^^^
Eugh... you're not ghetto^^^^, Will, and you're not a breakdancing hip hard drinking black man. The cool clothes don't do anything to change that, grandpa. Face it: you are just plain lame. And Men In Black 2 was rubbish. To be honest, Will Smith may be THE WHITEST black person in popular culture today. Except for that rastafarian guy in the Homepride advert with the Ku Klux Klan costume on. He's pretty white.

11: The lead singer from Maroon 5
I'll deal with the actual BAND Maroon 5 tomorrow, but I just felt that the lead singer deserves to be slapped really hard right now. According to the internet, he has no first name, but is known by fans as 'that gay guy who prances about in the jumper'. I'm gonna call him, uh, Netgear. Netgear is a shit. Sorry, but first of all he dresses like Seth Coen:



And even in the VIDEO for one of their songs, the camera keeps trying to move away from him but he follows it about excitedly like, you know, a puppy or a cripple chasing a shiny stone. He's a nascissistic tit-brained tit. And he dresses like Seth Coen. And he dances weirdly. Actually, he dances like a spastic on shock therapy. He is obviously SO PLEASED WITH HIMSELF.

"Look at me, I'm a ROCK N ROLL STAR."

Twat. You're the reason that rock n roll has become so debased. I hate you.

Stay tuned for the final 10 entries in this list... at some point in the future. Or never. Depends.

*What do you take me for, a complete faggot? And anyway, any retard with at least two opposable digits could secure A* at music GCSE, all you do it sit there playing with triangles and being madly impressed at the sounds that come forth... losers.
**Due to my pure manly skills, the metrosexuality of the clarinet was like a magnetic opposite to me so we were repulsed. I recognise that technically, if we were magnetic opposited we'd have been permanently attached to each other's faces like so much stogg, but, look, I got an A* at Physics, I can change science in any way I want, ok?
***Excluding the french horn, but even the chronically weedy need SOMETHING to do, right?
****The piccolo, the harp, the FLUTE (now if anything's a girl instrument the flute is), just to name a few. The piano too. To be honest, the only really manly instument is the electric guitar. And only then when it's being played by me.
*****Yes, I know, blatant Spaced rip-off. I'm aware of this, you probably weren't, fuck off.
^I don't care how you spell it.
^^I stole this off somewhere - don't ask me where. I CAN'T REMEMBER.
^^^If I'd had the chance, I would have put those talky bits in songs (I can think of several) into this list, but as it is, I don't have any room left in it. I mean, I DID put Jason Mraz in twice, but come on, he's a cunt.
^^^^But he's not 'not ghetto' in a good way... he's managed to take the opposite of really shitty (ghetto) and come up with something even shittier. For that I applaud him.

GCSEs

I got A*s in everything except art, and As in both AS levels. Am I smart? Yes, I think I am. I mean, wow... just FEEL the brain energy radiating off me like some psycic lightbulb of brains. So, a BRAINBULB.

And before anybody points out that I didn't get full A*s, I have a few points for you:

a: Fuck off,
b: Its art... hardly the most important of subjects, and is highly subjective anyway (I doubt that the examiner was highly impressed with my 'snails-are-deep' subject matter, to be honest)
c: If I'd wanted to get guaranteed full A*s, I'd have done LATIN which is just a series of recognising words in a mathematical pattern... ooh I just ruined Latin's shit,
d: I'm perfectly happy with my results,
e: It's better than most of you already,
f: I'm still getting bought piles of expensive treasure, so WHO CARES?
g: My english results were the shiznit, man... I feckn rule.

Mostly, thought, I'm glad that the massive amount of buildup and trepidation I was feeling before the results has FINALLY dissipated. Oh man, I couldn't sleep for a night in the build-up to those results. Every day I was just 'oh god, what if I fail to get an A in Maths? I'LL HAVE TO RETAKE!' and I was having dreams of dancing envelopes full of grades and I nearly cut my wrists, the results were such a worry for me, as they dictate the rest of my entire LIFE AND MY ENTIRE WORLD RELIED ON WHAT WAS IN THAT ENVELOPE AND WHAT IF I DIDN'T DO AS WELL AS I WANTED TO? I'D NEVER BE ABLE TO GO TO UNIVERSITY OR BECOME AN IMPORTANT OR RELEVENT MEMEBER OF SOCIETY AND I'D END UP AS A CRACK WHORE OR A BINMAN OR A POLITICAL JOURNALIST OR A PUPPY-MOLESTOR OR EVEN GOD FORBID A C-LIST CELEBRITY AND THE SHAME WOULD CAUSE ME TO CUT OFF MY OWN HANDS.*

So there have been a massive amount of parties that I haven't wanted to go to:

Marios's: What a fucking shambles this was. Well, I dunno, perhaps it would've been more enjoyable if I hadn't been jetlagged, but to be honest, I still probably would've thought of it as a shambles.
Some other parties, none of which I wanted to go to: Yep, I'm sure that these were nice.

Oh well.

My birthday is coming up soon. I might make a paypal button for one day only, so you foreigners can send me money.

*NB: This is not true. I didn't even remember that we had GCSE results til two days beforehand. And even then, my greatest worry was that I wasn't gonna get A* at Chemistry. As it turned out, I did. So that was alright then.

No, wait, I lied. THIS is why I hate air travel

Our flight was cancelled, so no GCSE results for me. That's another seminal moment in my life royally fucked over.
And don't even try to phone me. Some fat cunt stole my phone. In fact, can everyone email their numbers to me?
Prepare for a long whingeing post later on. PREPARE.

"Oh look its the sound of the tiniest violin in the world."
*SUCKER PUNCH*
Take that you fucking violinist.

Bertie says cheeeese. So all's well that ends well, eh?

Oh yeah, THIS is why I hate international travel

Sittin' in the Bucharest International airport, blogging away,
Sittin' in the Bucharest International airport, blogging in may,
Sittin' in the Bucharest International airport typing on a stupid 150,000 lei a minute computer waiting for a fucking plane that's never gonna arrive with tourists reading what I'm writing over my shoulder and slowly losing the will to live due to the poinless inanity of life and my deep desire to just jettison my famliy and go back to my bachelor life with my father,*

I just remembered why I hate international flight. It's my family. Twats. I can handle it perfectly well on my own, in fact I can just cruise through like the leapord-spotted pimp that I am when I'm by myself. But attach my family to me and suddenly it's like I've lost all my pimp juice and I'm dragging a fifteen tonne rusty metal anchor behind me tied to my armpits. It's THAT difficult.

My brother is ill. My brother is always ill when it coincides with return plane journeys. Thailand he threw up in the taxi. Rome he was falling over all over the place. And now he's spewing left right and center. Twat. I swear he does it JUST to annoy me.

I have very little sympathy for ill people. They piss me off to a great degree. In fact, every time I see an ill person hunched over a sink breathing deeply and looking like their about to vomit up their stomach linings, I am forced to hold back the urge to beat them soundly across the spine with a nice hard two-by-four**. This would probably explain why my promising carreer as a Paediatrician was tragically cut short***.
So my brother is unable to stand up for any prolonged period of time, which means that our supposedly effortless glide through the airport has been crushed into a series of sharp trots to benches that are near to the toilets.

I'm also travelling with my mother and my sister. Yes, the females. In my vast experience of travelling with females, they are the ones that totally lose it and turn into psyco bitches at airports, hissing at my to pick up my bag and move when we quite clearly have a good five minutes before the plane leaves, or telling me to stop grinning and look severe in the security check, or stop telling me to make terrorist jokes in the departure lounge****. They don't understand the concept of 'chilling out' and letting events take their course. I am of course the cucumber cool man (when I cross the road, kids cry 'hey, Cucumber C' at me and I'm all like 'wadup dogg*****' and they're all like 'yo!' and I'm all like 'woah dude' and they're all like 'wow, Cucumber C, I was about to embark on a life of crime and violence but now you've put me on the path to riteousness - we're going to go visit the Civic Centre and find a way to help society' and I'm all like 'Remember kids - only losers do drugs' and it's all cool) and their endless worrying drags down my cool cucumber self. THE PLANE IS NOT GOING TO LEAVE WITHOUT YOU AND YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HAVE YOUR BAGS STOLEN IF YOU ARE NOT HOLDING THEM ALL THE TIME, STOP TELLING ME TO GUARD THEM WHILE YOU GO TO THE TOILET.

And the plane just got delayed. At the moment, it's 4:05. The time of delay is 6:15. YEP, that's TWO HOURS WAIT. I have the internet until 4:48 so this may end up being a very long post indeed. So that means that I'm UNLIKELY to get that party tonight that I wasn't even invited to and have no method of reaching or leaving, so that's not gonna happen. But for fuck's sake, apparently the reason for the delay is that the plane is still in England. When the skanky ho who imparted this news to us imparted this news to us I felt like screaming "WHAT'S IT DOING THERE?" but that would have blown my cool and we all know that I am Cucumber Cool (the other day I was drinking my diet coke when these skaters came by and they were all like 'hey cucumber C wanna come skate with us' and I was like 'big up pimp-daddy' so we busted some neat tricks and grinded some poles and ollied some walls and they were all like 'you're the MAN Cucumber C' and I was like 'well, I'm the man, but that's because I DON'T SMOKE' and they were all like 'big 4-0 pimp daddy, I ain't NEVER smoking as long as I live' and I was like 'that's right, son, because only LOSERS smoke' then we brokedanced) so instead I sauntered over to my brother and made vomiting sounds in his ear.

And there's no food in the plane, because apparently some cunts down at BA are on a strike or something. Tits. Why are they having a strike? Apparently a bunch of yanks who'll they'll never meet in some company that they'll never work for got fired from cooking the food that they'll never eat. Ooh, big boo-hoo, some of your friends got fired. THAT'S LIFE, now STOP BITCHING AND COOK ME SOME FOOD. I actually have no idea what's going on. I hope my brother throws up on my mum - as long as I'm not sitting next to them, I'd find that really funny.^

What else? Airport security. I can't really bitch about that, except you should see some of the stuff thrown into the big plastic bins next to the security stations in Romania - knives (I swear that there was a whole sword in there), replica guns, toy lazer-guns, grenades, flick-knives, cigarettes, matches, aerosols, carving knives... the list goes on. Romanians sure love their knives. I wonder if the airport security picks up that I'm writing so many weapons in the internet? Perhaps they think that I'm a terrorist. Terrorist. Terrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooorrrrrist. I HAVE A BOMB. Look I just typed "I have a bomb" at the airport. In capital letters AND bold, so I am in effect yelling my words. Mwhahahhahaha.

Thankfully, I have the Pixies in my ear, and I AM a chien andalucian, bitches.

What ellllllllllseeeeeeee...........? Fuck, why did I buy an HOUR'S worth of internet? I still have a good half hour left. Oh well, I wonder if you can look up porn on the airport computers?

Actually, there are still tourists looking over my shoulder. Hi guys, guess what I have in my bag? Yes, that's right, A NITROGEN BOMB. MWAHHAHAHA. Ooh, an airport lady just walked past. Hmm, I'd better be inconspicuous.

I hate air travel.

*To be sung to the tune of On Top Of Old Smokey
**With a nail sticking out of it
***I tell you, that kid with leukimia set HIMSELF on fire!
****So I said 'Yeah, mum's a terrorist' in the BA departure lounge on the way to Thailand and the security woman looked shocked; sue me.
*****That reminds me; there's a real wigga sitting behind me. His ghetto clothes sure mark him out as a true member of da hood. What a twat.
^I'm on a different flight itinery; fuck them.

I hate people

The other day we went to Carre-Four, the big supermarket in Romania. Yes, just the one. Carre-Four (which, literally translated, means 'Carry Four') is like the world's biggest most motherfucking hypermarket. You can buy ANYTHING there, from peas to a slightly different type of peas to new wives. Apparently, going to the Carre-Four is like a big social event in Romania, because every time I go there it's PACKED with excited romanian teenagers, women, men, old people, babies... basically the whole social spectrum.

I hate the Carre-Four with a passion. I don't hate the building itself. The building is relatively inoffensive, as buildings go (unlike that penis shaped building in Paris that's on all the postcards) but it's the PEOPLE that piss me off. Firstly, there are too many of them. Every third person who enters Carre-Four should be shot in the kneecaps. Harsh but fair I think. And people walk as slow as they possibly can JUST to piss me off. It's like "oh look there he comes LETS STAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING AISLE GAZINGLY LISTLESSLY AT THE CIELING. And then an old lady drives into the back of my ankle with her trolley. And I'm all 'well I CAN'T MOVE CAN I YOU STUPID BINT' and shes all 'Squigfle flalfa hooralala' and I'm all 'Talk english, you cunt,' and then she rams me with her trolley again, so then I bang the fat fuck with MY trolley and he gets all pissed off so everyone decides to walk extra slow just to piss me off, so I end up detonating the C4 strapped to my chest before I get to the pork section and WE ALL FALL DOWN.

Carre-Four has reminded me how much I hate people. It's not just a specific age group that I hate. I hate the whole selection - young, middle aged, and old alike. All are equal in my new regime of hatred:

Babies
Well, we finally decided that we'd bought enough dried apricots to last the week, so we headed for the checkout. Danny (the man...y) parked us on a nice quick moving queue and we were soon on our way. But then, to my utter SHOCK and HORROR, some stupid woman with a baby strapped to her chest just shoved past us and took our place. This wasn't even subtle, it was just a barefaced stealing of our place. After she'd made her way through, accompanied by my very sternest glare, another dumbass biatch with her sprog stole our place.
It was then that I noticed that this was the queue line for women with babies. This saddened me. Why the fuck are women with babies any more important than the rest of us? Why do they get their own damn queue? Why isn't there a queue for pissed off 16 year olds without babies? If the babies want their own queue lines they can fucking well queue up themselves instead of getting carried everywhere. Fucking babies. If I had my way, every newbown baby would be punted* over one of those rugby posts by some sort of boot/pendulum interfacing machine. The ones that survived got to stay alive. This plan has the added attraction of having more retarded people/people with interesting shaped heads to mock on the street by us bottom-landers.
And people with square heads are always good.

Toddlers
The other day I was at a Chinese restaurant. We felt that the Chinese, being the hard-working little fellas they are, deserve their culture to be patronised by us Brits. So we went to a Chinese restaurant. And there were these two fucking toddlers running around screaming at the top of their voices. And hitting each other with chopsticks. Now if I want to see two little people running around hitting each other with sticks, I go to the circus. Not to the fucking Chinese restaurant. I would've been quite happy to baseball bat the pair of them until they shut their yapping, but instead the waitresses stared at them and made cootchie cootchie coo sounds and were REALLY impressed. Would they have been impressed if I'd run around screaming? No. They'd have had two beefy chinese men to, like, kick my ass with their karate or something.
Fucking toddlers; since when were they so great? All they do is run around and look cute. Somebody should teach them how the world works; you're not going to be allowed to run around screaming, you're going to end up sad and alone and dead AND WE'RE ALL ROTTING BIOLOGICAL MATERIAL.
Somebody should tell THAT to those fucking toddlers. Possibly with a baseball bat.
"And if you are pure in heart and deed, you'll all go to a wonderful place called Heaven. Nah, just joking, you just rot in a hole in the ground."

Teenagers
Now, I'm going to quote myself here:
'Text me if Joe ever nails Emma'
Right? Remember that? Ok. Now if what I've heard is correct, Joe ATTEMPTED to nail Emma and ended up getting dumped by Kris. So that's the end of age of Jis (Possibly opening the way for the glorious era of Koligill, Kaul, Krismas or even - and most probably Kike)... AND NOBODY BOTHERED TO TELL ME. There's like some SERIOUS Eastenders drumroll stylie drama there and NOBODY TOLD ME. Do you know how much mockery I missed? I mean I've only managed to tell Joe how shocking it was ONCE. And Kris is all heartbroken and Emma is hated and it's all serious.
Personally, I can see the funny side, but that's just me. I saw the funny side in the tsunami. For example:
How many thai people does it take to change a lightbulb?
Doesn't matter, the power was shorted out and they're all swimming away.
This joke needs work.

Mosquitos
Mosquitos suck. Bite me, will you? Well I just RINSED YOU ON MY BLOG.

19-29 year old women
Well, one 19-29 year old in particular. There's this actress in a tampon commercial that's making the rounds on TV at the moment. She's playing some random girl in a classroom that's half full of men and half of women. And then she's playing with her tampons (or as I've taken to calling them in the past second, vaginavampires) and the prof calls her to the front. Then he thinks that they're sweets and says "I hope you brought enough for the class" because TAMPONS look SOO much like sweets and then she says "well enough for the girls" and then all the prof looks confused as he's a silly man and all the boys in the class look confused as they're silly men and then girls all laugh as they're superior and the other girl laughs and the audience laugh and WE ALL LAUGH BECAUSE IT'S SO SMART.

I hate this woman. Actually I hate this advert, but this is a good enough place to rant.

1: Tampons are not hilarious. They are designed to allow women to stop BITS OF THEIR DISSOLVING GENITALIA soaking their clothes. Woahhhhh... you go girl. You and you're genital cotton wool balls have totally RUINED the SHIT of us men and our constant penii.
2: Women suck.
3: Tampons do not look like sweets. I don't know what kinda sweets YOU eat, Mr Advertmaker, but you're a stupid shitwank.
4: Men are not morons. Without the men, who would the women make pies for? Nobody. Then the women would eat the pies. And would get fat. But due to the lack of menfolk around, they wouldn't bother with the whole 'looking nice' thing and would all end up looking like marshmellows. Then the entire elevator business would close down and WE WOULD ALL DIE as I can't be bothered to end this thought.
5: Women suck.

People who start long posts then can't be bothered to end them, thus breaking the hearts of all the long-term fans.
That would be me. Still, send money.

The only age that does not suck is the age of people about to turn 17 on September the 1st. Oh wait OH MY GOD THAT'S MY BIRTHDAY. HINT. I'm not asking for money or anything, but any used banknotes would be most appreciated.

You can dress up like a sultan in your onion skin HAT.

*I love this word.

Blogging in Romania is hard, so I'm not even going to try

Why has suddenly a flag appeared in the corner of the screen? On the top bar.
I asked for no flag.
I am afraid to click on it.
But I'm going to do so anyway.
I'll report back after the damage has been done.

Pretend that there's a gap here and lots of intense speculation as to waht's* going to happen

Well, I clicked on it. THEN IT WENT RED. I was very surprised at this turn of events, so I unclicked on it. Then clicked on it again. And unclicked.
I amused myself in this manner for a good three seconds. Then I gave up.
I don't care. I'm coming home on Wednesday. AS results then. GCSE results on Thursday. Oooh.

Exciting.

*intentional

My Review of the Romanians

Seeing as I've been here a week now, and owing to the MOMENTOUS importance of today, I've decided to do a review of the various romanians that I have met on my adventures. Which were very adventurous.

Danny
Danny is my father's driver. His job is to pick up my father and I from the appartment at 730 in the morning, then drive us home again at 8 at night. Danny also drives us to lunch. In the afternoon. I feel that my father somewhat takes advantage of the services offered by Danny, by using him as a tour guide, laundry service, shopping assistant and even to take the rest of the family on outings. Danny doesn't mind; Danny is far too nice to refuse to push the shopping trolley and find the sugar for us.
TODAY IS DANNY'S BIRTHDAY! This is why today is so highly momentous. We know that today is his birthday because he joyously told us last night. He is a very tasty 24 years old. To celebrate, we gave him some money, a Werther's Original, a packet of chewing gum and a really crappily made card with several crude doodles of Danny turning into a milk carton. Danny was so chuffed with this present, he didn't even mind that we made him wait in the car for 45 minutes while we visited a chocolate shop. It really warmed my heart.
Other Danny knowledge: He gives us the weather every day. It's invariably 'a leettle bit rainy' or 'nice'. He has nice big eyebrows. It's cheaper to rent a Dannywithcar than to rent a car; so Danny actually has MINUS value. He doesn't like listening to the world sevice. In his four years of driving, he hasn't had any major accidents. However he once crashed into a lamp-post while reversing, because it was snowy and he couldn't see it (he told us this really proudly). He looks tiny in comparison to the rest of his car. He gets paid ten dollars a day. He also apparently has a degree in micro-biotics or something, which probably says a lot about the state of the economy in Romania.
WE LOVE DANNY.

Beardy guy
I don't know this guy's name (its Bilbo or Mildo or Dildo or something) but I dislike him. He just looks sinister. He has all the attributes of sinister people:
Beard
Sinister eyes
Shifty lookin'self
Tall and thin - all thin people are sinister and I generally don't like anybody who's taller than I am... wankers
Talks Romanian
Stupid name
He sits there at the table and looks around shiftily. He's always glaring at me, as though my pure 100 percent undiluted HOTNESS is offensive to his evil lifestyle. He often talks in Romanian while looking at me then bursts into evil laughter. HE LOOKS LIKE LUCIFER. He has the beard (which is an EXACT Lucifer beard). He has the shifty eyes. He smokes, so very often smoke is coming out of his nose. So basically, paint him red, give him a tail and a pitchfork and BAM. Satan.
He once told me that he liked my T-Shirt. This made me distrust him more.

Dog
This random puppy oftens comes into the building and runs about excitedly. It looks sort of like a really shit version of the Andrex puppy. In our efforts to ensure that less random stray animals come into the building, we've been feeding him bowls of milk, running around with him, stroking him and generally encouraging him in every possible way.
This dog does not like Beardy Man; it barks at him. This is more proof to my whole 'Beardy Man is Satan' theory. After barking at Beardy Man he started barking at me, so I threw a bit of polystyrene at him to shut him up.

Squirrel Lady
Everybody calls her 'VV', which apparently is romanian for squirrel. This seemed a bit harsh at first, but then I looked closely at her and realised that she does indeed resemble a squirrel (they have a lot of red squirrels in Romania, which are just like the grey variety except for the fact that they're easier to spot against the tree branches, and so easier to blast down with your handy catapault). Her job seems to be to do whatever everybody else tells her to. That meant that they kept her barred in the model room to carve bits of foam board or make polystyrene stairs or whatever the fuck they didn't wanna do. Fortunately, as soon as I entered the scene, that job fell to ME. Wooooooooooooooooo, oooo. Ooo.
Squirrel lady is very nice but she does tend to be a bit patronising when telling me how to cut up cardboard squares (1.4cm by 1.4 cm) which means that sometimes I feel like dropkicking her face.

Alf
There's nobody called Alf. What are you, stupid?

George
AKA 'George of the Jungle' AKA 'The Georgemeister'. George doesn't really belong in the model room as he never makes any models, but he has a desk in the corner anyway. George's job is to draw wolves all day long. That's all he does. Draws wolves. Quietly. In the corner. Occasionally Blonde Man (who shall be introduced) appears and tells George to draw another sort of wolf, or maybe a stained glass window. Once, Blonde Man appeared and told George to draw a pre-raffaelite woman. George then produced a highly detailed picture of a blue naked woman with lizards hands, floating in the air. Not sure how that came into his head, but hey, it was fun to watch him do it.
I quite like George as he obviously doesn't have much idea whats going on, why people keep telling him to draw things, why all the wolves, what he's even doing in this film studio as he originally entered to ask directions. He's a dude.
Also, his stool broke two days ago. All the legs fell off, so he glued them back in. For the next TWO days, his chair kept breaking - the legs kept falling out. I know because I watched him fix it each time, until the legs got so twisted it looked like a piece of modern art, and in his bid to get them back in, he snapped one. So then he sat on the desk and drew. Didn't ask for another chair, NOTHING. Then he got on his original stool.
Then my father found out that he was balancing on three bits of wood and some glue, took the stool, threw it down a corridor, then gave him a new one.
Ah George, George, George of the jungle.

Cat
There's this cat at the cafe where we have lunch. Apparently it's pregnant, which surprised me as I thought it was a boy. It can eat its own bodyweight in steak. Fat cunt. I feed it quite a lot when the romanian food is weird, which is most of the time. WHOOPEE.

Dan
Dan is the MAN. He is by far the coolest Romanian here. He's like my MENTOR through the harsh world of making models. Did I say that he was cool? He is cool. He is the MAN. DAN THE MAN, no less. I can't think of any specific examples of the coolness of Dan right now except oh yes, I can.

Here's a list of things that Dan doesn't like:
The building style around Bucharest, especially the scaffolding (which I think is HILARIOUS because its made of WOOD)
The decorative plastic cows that cover the city (he thinks that they are a waste of time)
The weather
Making two nearly identical models of a fucking wood
George's picture of the naked blue woman
Photoshopping pictures of buildings
The music on his computer (he has a file called "strange oriental shit" which is just that - a bunch of weird bangladeshi tunes and wailing. He told me that he got it from a girl he used to know, a vegetarian who was caught shoplifting)
Tripe soup, which is actually tastier than it sounds
The random cloth stuff they use to clad the film sets prior to painting them

Things that Dan does like:
Using photoshop to give people small heads
Me (I HOPE)
Cheese
The Pulp Fiction soundtrack
Some other stuff that's cool

Things that Dan hasn't heard of:
The Crazy Frog... see? He is SO COOL that such things don't even register on his radar.

Blonde guy
He's blonde. He's a guy. Looks a bit bohemian. I think his job is to make sure that George doesn't end up drawing any random crap. All I see of him is when he comes into the room and sees that George has drawn some random crap. Hmm.

Yeah. There were some other people too but you don't really care about them. Hell, I'm surprised you cared about the first lot. Losers.

Hey, weren't AS Level Results in today? How did everybody do? Hey look, I got my AS Level Results for Caring what everyone else did in their AS levels... OH I FAILED. DAMNIT.

The wolf trainer on this film is actually called Zoltan

Yo. I'm on my ONE DAY OFF a week. ONE DAY. That means that I work a SIX DAY WEEK. SIX DAYS. That's like slave labour. I didn't know that they allowed six day weeks, except in shitty backwards countries that have streets lined with stray dogs, ugly people and collapsed sewers.

So, ROMANIA, eh? I canna be arsed to blog properly. This brings to mind the old saying: If you have nothing relevant to say, just give a list of disconnected opinions, things that happened, and random shit you saw in the street.

So, here's just a list of STUFF from Romania. It's in no particular order, and if you're generally unimpressed by the effort that went into this, well, there's a place for losers like you.

On the side of the Cornflakes box, there are lists of ingredients in seventeen languages. However, all of the titling and descriptions are in English.
There's a cat at the cafe where we eat lunch; it must eat its body-weight in weird Romanian meat every day just from our table.
There are a lot of stray dogs wandering the streets. Apparently they often turn up dead. The best my dad ever saw was THREE dead ones in one journey. So far, I've only seen one deceased pooch. It was like an oozing red blob in the centre of the road with a leg sticking out. Ah, good times.
The wolf trainer on this film is actually called Zoltan. ZOLTAN. I didn't even think that anybody actually named their kids ZOLTAN. Except for the parents of evil action-figure villains. I have just decided. I am SO naming my future son Zoltan. That would kick ass. All the other kids, with gay names like Gareth and Hugh and William would be all jealous and shit of ZOLTAN with his wrist mounted rocket launcher and his POWER FIST. GO ZOLTAN.
Piece of advice from my Father Number 1: If little romanian gypsy kids ask you for money, you just shrug your shoulders and blow a rasberry. This makes them just leave LIKE THAT.
I have three bites on my hands. None are from fit romanian girls. My bet is that it was from the wood I was gathering the other day.
There's a collapsed sewer a few roads away. There are two fucking huge holes in the road. These have been there for a couple of days and nobody has done anything. At all. In fact, there are random holes dug in the road all over the place. Super.
At the film studios where I'm working there have been like three underground cave movies. One of which starred global mega-star-goddess PINK.
Yesterday we sat behind another global megastar - TOM SKERRITT. Famous for his nice mustache and his roles in hit movies Tuscaloosa, Changing Hearts and Greenmail (yes, even Greenmail), we were mere METRES away from him. I was about to go and ask for his autograph, but the pure star-power of him drove me away. He's now in Romania shooting a film, with the lead part of 'Customer Number 3'.
Piece of advice from my Father Number 2: Never put bannaas in the fridge.
There is a lot of ugly in Romania. A LOT of ugly. But on the other hand, when there's fitness, there is FITNESS. Like woah mama fitness. Like a gold ring buried in a bathtub of fecal matter. Kinda like tubgirl if you get me, homie.
I could have been an extra on this film if they were shooting any outdoor scenes. I couldn't really be an extra in the appartment scene, seeing as there are only like three people in the room at the time. I dunno, I could be just standing quietly in the corner holding a vase or something. Coulda worked I guess.
I realised the other day that I've been ironically pronouncing 'tomato' the American way for so long I've actually started to say it automatically. DAMN YOU AMERICA.
There are a lot of Romanians here. I don't like Romanianans. You know why? Because they speak romanian. Sods.
Danny has big eyebrows. You'll find out who Danny is at another time. We all love Danny.
Piece of advice from my Father Number 3: If an adult tries to sell you something in the street, just point over his shoulder and say MY FRIEND. Then walk off when they turn round.
Jerry Seinfield was offered the part of turkey number 3 in a South Park episode. His agent turned it down. Bitch.
'Thank you' in romanian is 'merci'. So basically its a shitty bastardisation of other good languages. And when I say 'good languages' I mean 'languages I can understand'.
I was really mind-blown when I realised that all the people that I was working with actually lived through Communist rule. Kerazy.
I can't understand the Romanian currency. It's like, two tiers, new lei and old lei, and everything is written either in new or old lei, and the old lei is worth like 10,000 less than the new lei, but they never say which one they're using, so a bill for 100 could either be one pound eighty or, like, eighteen quid and I can't figure it out and it makes my brain hurt.
I get to go on a 'technical rekkie' on Monday, which I think involves just standing about looking at the walls. Could be boring, so I'm bringing my CD PLAYER.
I am always saying Budapest instead of Bucharest. Not my fault that they STOLE THE FUCKING NAME, is it?
I have listened to every Pixies CD I own like fifteen times through. It's not my fault that I work like 10 hours a day and the CDs are only about 35 minutes long each, is it?
I can't decide whether to use upper case or lower case whenever I type Romanian, so I have kinda been swapping between the two.
DID I SAY THAT I SAW TOM SKERRITT? TOM SKERRITT! WOW.

I saw my dad rinse a sidewalk trader the other day while we were at a cafe. It was quite funny.
Trader: You want this?
*Shows my dad a cigarette lighter in a box*
Dad: Now, there are three things wrong with this operation. One: I don't smoke.
Trader: 800 lei, but I keep half, you get me?
Dad: Two: Go away, you're blocking the light.
*Trader staggers off*
Dad: Three: I don't even want the box.

Hardey har. Well I kinda edited that to make it more funny, but hey, it's still all good. Thinking about it, it wasn't really a trader. More of just a random drunk guy who wanted some money. There are a lot of those in Bucharest.

I have made a model of a wood. It's so good, and it only took a few hours. When I say hours, I mean SOLID DAYS.

Tom Skerritt! Woweee.

Hey, look at me, I'm in ROMANIA

Woo. Woo. Etc.
I'm in Romania! AND I AM DOG TIRED. I HAVE WORKED AN 11 HOUR DAY TODAY. 11 HOURS. THIS WORK THING IS A STUPID IDEA. After this experience I shall not consider it as a good way to spend my time in the future. But hey.

Upon my arrival, I was highly pleased to see about four horses and carts as we travelled towards the Studio. This made me happy as it proved that my knowledge of the Romanian people was as perfect as ever. It reminded me of my trip to Amsterdam when I saw daffodils, windmills, dykes, pot smoking teenagers and clogs all on the minibus ride in. I haven't seen any vampires yet, but there's still plenty of time. But I have seen lots of werewolves. Granted, they're on the walls of the Art Department BUT THAT STILL COUNTS, DAMNIT. I also saw some cows on the way in. We all know that cows only exist to give REAL werewolves something to chow on. So I therefore win.

Anyway, uh, yeah. I was a bit worried when I was shoved in a room full of Romanians by my father then abandoned, but I soon cheered up when I was given a fucking sharp knife and told to cut up bits of foam board and AND AND POLYSTYRENE! Everybody loves mutilating polystyrene. Why was I doing this? To build a WOOD. A model of a wood, to be precise. So basically, working on films is like a long arts and crafts session. Wicked. And I'm still bored of it.

Today was spent making branches for model trees. Do you know how long I spent doing this? Taking away lunch break, NINE AND A HALF. YES I SPENT NINE AND A HALF SOLID HOURS TWISTING BITS OF WIRE TOGETHER, COVERING THEM IN GLUE AND THEN SPRINKLING THEM WITH GREEN STUFF. So now I have green stuff all over my hands. Wink wink. I haven't yet met my personal hero Olivier Martinez, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time. And there was a picture of him on the wall, so hey, getting closer.

Also, romania is full of gypsies (NO I'M NOT GIVING YOU ANY MONEY FUCK OFF YOU ANNOYING KIDS), mangy dogs who are cute, and people speaking romanian. I don't like it when people speak foreign languages. Especially Romanian, which is like the bastard son of the modern languages department. Seriously, yes is 'da', no is 'noo', thank you is 'merci', etc etc etc. But I still can't understand them. And this may be seen as paranoia, but if I'm in the room with a bunch of foreigners talking in foreign (or as it's technically known, 'gobbledegook') and they laugh, I assume that they're laughing at me. Gits. You can laugh, eh, but... yeah.

Ha ha Heathrow is on strike. Losers. I flew in yesterday. Look at all those cunts waiting around. YOUR PLANE IS CANCELLED. YOU ARE SCREWED. SCREWED I SAY. JUST ROT IN THE AIRPORT WHILE I SIT ALL COMFY IN MY HOTEL ROOM. You lot suck. Loooooooooosers.

Ha ha there's a place in India called Islamabad. I have no idea why that makes me laugh. Sounds like a wrestling move.

We're going to Romania (welcome to Romania)

Guess what? I'M GOING TO ROMANIA TOMORROW. TO WORK ON A FILM. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. I am the boss. Suck on it, bitches. While the rest of you get work experience working at a blood bank or testing needles at the HIV clinic or, like, as prostitutes for old men with genital leprosy, I get to work ON A FILM SET. IN ROMANIA. Woop woop. I'm like, the coolest dude ever. Woah, look at me as I ZOOM PAST with my cool-o-meter set to 'Ultra-Cool'. Or indeed, Sub Zero. Zing. And to think... I wanted a job in Waitrose. Fuck you, you corporate drones. I'M OFF TO WORK IN THE FILM INDUSTRY!

Anyway, the film that I'm going to be gracing with my skillz is called Bloody Chocolate. Or Blood of the Chocolate or Chocolate Blood or something. The title was apparently a Steppenwolf quote. I dunno why you'd want to name a film after a heavy metal rock band but hey, I'm not a director, for some reason. It sounds like a violent sequel to Willy Wonka but then that's just me, and I don't count. In fact, this film is about WEREWOLVES! Woooooo... werewolves. Well at least with werewolf films you know that you're getting the seal of quality. I mean, An American Werewolf in Paris, Underworld, Van Helsing... there's just lines upon lines of classic werewolf action going down through cinema history. This film should be an instant classic with its univeral themes of, uh, turning into a wolf and, you know, killing other wolves and, turning back into a human and being naked and having to find your clothes again.

But anyway.

The film features global MEGASTARS Olivier Martinez, famous for his roles in hit movies S.W.A.T and La Femme de chambre du Titanic, and some other blonde chick who was in four episodes of 24 season 3 (the crappy one with the crafty mexicans). But reading through her resume... she was also apparently in urban classic 'Murder by Numbers', or, as its more commonly known by its cult legion of rabid followers, Murd3r 8y Num8ers. 83cau23 num83rs ar3 lik3 20 much c0012r than 13tt3r2. Also, did you know that Olivier Martinez is going out with pop megagodess KYIE MANOG? ITS TRUE. KYLIE MANOG. WOAH. Star quality there.

Why am I mocking this film? I'm the one working on it. And it's still damn cooler work experiance than anything else. Hey, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to meet my personal hero, female director Katja von Garnier. Yes, you heard me, female director Katja von Garnier. No, she wasn't the shampoo lady (although the shampoo lady is another of my heroes)... did you know that female director Katja von Garnier studied at the Academy for Television and Film (HFF) in Munich. YES IN MUNICH. And given the universal popularity of the Munich film scene nowadays... woah. She also dated hollywood hunk BRAD PITT:


I like how Brad has stayed true to his ethnic roots

But yeah. Here's a list of everything I know, or can comfortably pretend to know, about Romania:

There are lots of forests. These forests are full of pine trees and snow. And werewolves.
Men in fur jackets walk about talking in outrageous accents and hunting elk.
Every other person is either a werewolf or a vampire. So logically that means that 50% of the population are werewolves, and 50% vampires.
Apparently all the girls are fit and have big eyes. Unfortunately I'm no longer allowed to look at them or somebody will take a penis cleaver to me. Ouch.
Contains the fabled land of Transylvania.
There will probably be a lot of goths wandering around Transylvania trying to meet Dracula. Stupid cunts.
There are lots of gypsies there. In fact, the entire population of Romania is gypsies. Go onto the Romanian Motorway and you'll just see rows of horse-drawn carts driven by men with big hats.
Everybody dances about clicking their heels and throwing massive skirts everywhere.
Don't piss off anybody or you will end up getting cursed.
MEGASTAR OLIVIER MARTINEZ WILL BE THERE AND OMG OMG OMG HE MIGHT EVEN SAY HELLO TO ME OMG!
Apparently phones over there are like 23 times more expensive over here. So unless you have something deadly important to tell me (you're pregnant, you're mum's pregnant, Joe's finally nailed Emma, Steve finally shed her second skin, cat's dead, dog's dead, space shuttle exploded*, something exciting has happened) or your name's Lucia, no, you may not phone/text me with whatever random shit pops into your noggin. Piss off.
They don't have normal tv there. Just gypsy tv, which consists of a lot of clapping and folk music.

And now I conclude this post with a quote from my grandfather:

So, what are you doing on this film? I guess you'll be directing. 'I want to sit in the directors chair'. Or perhaps they'll give you a small part. You know, as an actor. Of course, you have to do whatever they tell you. If Johnny Depp asks you to wipe his nose, you gotta do it. Or they might give you a big pile of dresses and say 'Iron these dresses.' And you'll have to iron them. Then we're watching the film and all these women come on with big burn marks on their dresses.

For this touching display of confidence in my abilities, and for the fact that he thought that Olivier Martinez was

a: A woman,
b: Therefore not important enough for me to have to blow his/her nose,

He has earnt my universal love and respect. Kinda makes me sad that he'll be dead in a few years and we'll be plundering his body for vital organs and nutrients.

*I was actually disappointed that the shuttle didn't vaporise. I thought that it'd be cool. I like spectacle, sue me. Do you know that they found a smouldering penis in a tree after the Columbia Disaster? The police said it was a Shuttle Cock. Zing, I'm on FIRE tonight. Like the astronauts should have been. Woah mamma.

Empty House Vol 2: Empty Housier

My mother is, hopefully, going to arrive home in 33 minutes exactly. Well, ish. According to my computer clock. Which is a minute faster than my bedside clock. Which is a minute and a half slower than the tv clock. Which is probably, like, fifteen minutes off from the clock on the oven. I don't know what fucker programmed the clock on the oven (probably my mother) but it's miles off whatever the REAL time is. But I digress.

My mother is (discounting any amusing plane crashes) going to walk through the front door in 31 minutes. Yep, that last paragraph took me two minutes to write. That works out at, like, 45 words a minute. That's SHIT. I bet Stephen Hawkings can type faster than that with his tentacle or whatever the fuck it is that he uses to navigate through the empty shell of his life. And when she gets home I think that we'll all be able to breathe a big old sigh of relief. Yep, I can formally hand over the whole 'looking after the abode' thing to her and get back to doing what I do best: NOTHING. Well, to be honest, I wasn't doing much anyway when she wasn't here, but there was good deal of neurotic worriment to my nothing-doing when she was not in the building.

The puddle of tea/coffee on the tabletop... it was still there in the morning. Except the water had evaporated, leaving some nasty brown smudge that wouldn't budge no matter HOW hard I scrubbed it. Granted, the extents of my efforts were to pick up a sponge from the sink and kind of brush the stain a bit, but I'm pretty sure that even the STRONGEST of efforts wouldn't have been able to shift it. So I sort of covered it with the sugar-bowl and sidled off.

Twenty-five mins til she gets back.

I invited, like, nine people here to have a mass house partay (following the pattern of my leader and hero, Tom Cruise-Control in Risky Business). Guess how many came, or even bothered to reply to me? Two. TWO. THAT IS SHIT. YOU LOT ARE CRAP FRIENDS. I don't care if you were abroad, you're still crap. THAT DOES IT I'M GETTING MYSELF A NEW GANG. A cool gang who will actually take the time to reply to my text messages and will come to my house for fun and will BRING SOME FOOD. In this case, fish freshly caught from the sea. In order to make this gang distinctive, I've decided to have some restrictions on joining. Basically, to become a fully fledged member of People I like, you must be a penguin. Or Oli G, Abi or Lucia (two of whom came, one of whom is MY GIRLFRIEND. YES I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. AND ITS OLI G). Or Cassie, who at least had a passing interest on coming but then just fell through like the crumbly patch of bridge she is.


Penguins are cool. And delicious, incidentally.

I would also use my penguin-clansmen as a security force to guard my house from the evil forces of Mordor.

I was kinda scared that somebody was gonna break into the house** and, like, steal the priceless family jewels. Tee hee, I said family jewels. What would I do if somebody broke into the house? Well naturally, I'd take them down with some well placed kung-fu. WACHOP KAPOW... down goes that fuckin' burglar, throat crushed, coughing up his stomach lining, unable to walk. KA-MUFFIN, WUH-PAH, down goes his evil assistant, teeth mushed in, nose just a hollow, testicles flattened into a small pink disk, kneecaps at acute angles, leaking spinal fluid and brain matter all over the carpet. Then I take an axe*** to their spines with gleeful abandon. Then I tie one to a wheelchair, set fire to him and roll him down a hill! Owned!***** And I roll the other in a carpet and THROW HIM OFF A BRIDGE! PWNED!!!!!!!! LOLZ!!!!!!!!OMGOMOGMOGLOLZ!

BUT WHAT IF A BURGLAR BREAKS IN AND I HAPPEN TO BE INCAPACITATED IN SOME WAY? You know, my legs have been lost in a hilarious industrial accident. Or if I've been poisoned by one of my many enemies. Or, perhaps I was listening to Linkin Park and the pure dark rebelliousness of the lyrics lulls me into an anti-authoritarian coma. Somebody evil could break in and steal it all while I just lie there bleeding into my sushi. I CAN'T LET THAT HAPPEN. THE FAMILY JEWELS MUST BE KEPT SAFE. SAFE FROM RUFFIANS AND TOP SECRET JEWEL THIEVES AND EVEN THE ARCH MASTERMIND ERNST STAVROS BLOEFELD:


I don't trust these criminals.

My mother should have arrived two minutes ago. I feel pretty-fucking-abandoned. But there's been no news of major plane crashes yet. I think. I dunno, there aren't any in the road directly outside my house. I'd have heard. So there's no need to worry JUST YET.

But I'm worrying. While I was up here, the crooks could've be breaking in. HOW WAS I TO PROTECT MY HOUSE? BUT THEN IT HIT ME. The answer had been staring me in the face all week: the ultimate 'Home Alone' film, about protecting your home from burglars. The plot of this film centres around a young boy who's left Home Alone in his Home (Alone). The boy who is left Home Alone is played by famous rasta movie icon Macauly Culken or however the fuck you spell it.


Macauly Culken in his hey-day as family actor/rapper

While this boy is Home Alone, his house is attacked by burglars. Well, instead of phoning the police or shooting them or something realistic, the Home Alone boy just builds masses of ultra-cool traps and mutilates them for a good twenty minutes. The crooks then get hit on the head with a shovel by some old guy. In the sequel to this film, the boy does this again, except this time the crooks end up being eaten by pigeons or something. And all this while the boy is Home Alone. I can't remember what the film was called, I think that it was "The boy who committed GBH on some poor criminals but ended up being the hero." Twat.

This film is factually inaccurate in two main areas. Firstly, one of the criminals is Joe Pesci. Now, I'm no fancy historian, but I do know that, historically, YOU DO NOT FUCK ABOUT WITH JOE PESCI. HE WILL HURT YOU. So really, after the first time the boy sets fire to ol'Joe, Joe wouldn't have sat around and let him do it again. The Joe I KNOW woulda set fire to the boy's mother. Then the boy's house. Then he'd have baseball batted the boy's dog to death JUST BECAUSE HE FELT LIKE IT. That's what kinda guy Joe is: YOU DO NOT FUCK AROUND WITH HIM.

Secondly, is it even legal to drop spanners on, throw bricks at, set fire to, blow up, electrocute, throw cement at, drop paint-cans at, swing heavy metal pipes at, push tool-chests down the chair at, set fire to (again), defenstrate, scar, throw off buildings, and then pigeon-attack, criminals? Seems a TAD OVER THE TOP to me. So I asked the guy who makes the laws, Tony Blair:


It was nice of Tony to give me his time.

He said that it was all ok, just so long as no permanent marks were left on the criminals. This means that Macauly should have been throwin in jail for recklessly assaulting those crooks. Then it'd have been "The boy who committed GBH on some poor criminals but ended up being the hero 3: Ass poundage in jail."

So I decided to build a set of death-traps around my house to protect me from all the evil catburglars and whatnot. But then I re-read this post and realised that it was already dangerously incoherent and was mere inches away from imploding under the weight of it's own utter shittitude, so I just left my dogs downstairs and gave up on the whole idea. The dogs'll sort out any burglars. Hell, one of them bit Abi yesterday, just because she happened to disrespect their authoritah. Woop.

What the fuck is going on now? My mother is now 19 minutes late. Maybe there WAS a plane crash. Good. That'll teach those fucking stewardesses not to give me lamb when I specifically asked for pork.

Losers.

*I know this is a misspelling, but it was too good to let go. The idea of a bag of handicapped people makes me laugh, and at the end of the day, that's all that counts, isn't it? Fuck off.
**Not really, but this lets me include a new ker-azy**** pop reference.
***In America, axe is spelt ax. Apparently that extra 'e' to make the work non-retarded is JUST A BIT TOO DIFFICULT TO HANDLE, eh, guys? This is why your space shuttle is going to explode - you just don't go that extra mile. "Oh I can't put an extra 'e' on the end of 'ax', it's too hard. "I can't superglue that bit of foam packing back into place in the shuttle, it's too hard". BASICALLY THE SAME THING, RETARDS. In conclusion: McDonalds suck.
****When I say ker-azy, I mean pointless******.
*****This is known in acadamic circles as "The Roy Method."
******Man, asterisks are fun.*******
*******You're gay. Rinsed.

I LOVE MEN, but i prefer cassie to be honest

Empty house: Volume 1

I HAVE AN EMPTY HOUSE!
Well, not EMPTY per se. More like 'no parents and only one sibling but he's quiet and surly so he really doesn't count'. It's pretty empty, though. Except for the dogs, which we are ignoring.
So, we have total freedom to do WHATEVER we want. We can go wild. We can go crazy. We can dance in the doorway in our underwear and cool-guy sunglasses to Who Wears Short-Shorts?. We can drink hard liquor. We can even eat Cesar Salads FOR BREAKFAST. AT TWELVE O CLOCK. Then watch the cricket for hours on end. Hell, if we wanted to, we could even commit the ultimate act of anti-authoritarian rebellion - listening to Linkin Park at high volume late at night.

You get that? LINKIN PARK. Total freedom. So far, we have been totally without any adult contstraints for... thirteen hours and fifty one minutes.

And already I have that weird shivery semi-hysterical feeling I get when things are rapidly spiralling out of control. Maybe I'm high on glue fumes. Or spray paint. That is a definite possibility. Today, inspired by my new hero Banksy I have been making STENCILS. Printing them out on paper (wasting black ink), attaching them to bits of card with spray mount (sending spray fumes everywhere), cutting them out with sharp knives (bits of card and stuff all over the floor, huge knife-blister on my finger), then spraying them with Chaos Black spray paint (fingertips covered in black, possible paint on floor, masses of fumes). Here's a good example of my stenclin' skillz:



What have I stencilled? You'll have to read the rest of this post to find out!*
*or just skip to the bottom. You're not missing much, just a lot of neurotic complaints about the dishwasher.

I've done like five of these, all in my poorly ventillated room. I'm now feeling dizzy and drowsy, symptoms that are described on the CHAOS BLACK but not so much on the 3M PHOTO MOUNT. Maybe that's cos I used up the the photo mount already this afternoon and have already become high off it. That'd explain why I decided to make a cake this afternoon.

Yes, I made a cake. Apparently my mother saw fit to keep us entertained while she was away FOR THE ONE WEEKEND so she left us not one but TWO 'bake your own' kits. After the success of the cookies (which were delicious) we decided to go crazy on the cake, which seemed to be suitably choco-riffic and fudge-tacular, judging by the picture on the box. Despite not knowing what 'cream the butter' meant and failing to grease the tins much, it went fairly well, I thought. My little brother didn't agree with me, but we've already confirmed that he's surly. So he doesn't count.
Well, after a good deal of yelling at me, we ended up with one mother FUCKER of a cake. I mean it was so fit. Like a big brown beautiful cylinder of cakeynes. However, the following things were also splattered with brown choco-rific-ality:

Like four spoons
Several bowls
The spinny bits for the electric whisk
The floor in several places
My dogs (Yes I know chocolate is meant to be deadly for dogs you dipshits, but it's not, so fuck off)
Much of the tabletop
My t-shirt (oh yeah, I also managed to cover my nice t-shirt in PVA glue; combined with the brown, I look like a by-stander in a really weird bit of porno)
The tabletop
The back of my mouth, due to delicious licking-of-bowlnessitude
The stove, which was still turned on, so now there's chocolate burnt onto it

Our attempts to clean up were not successful. Mostly because the damn washing machine doesn't work. Well, I can't get it to work. I'm not good with machinery. Well, I am good with MAN machinery (lawnmowers, chainsaws, nailguns, iMacs, N64s), but not so good with what the general population would refer to as LADY machinery (irons, washing machines, dishwashers, brooms, mops, sewing, babies, PCs, Playstations). Did you see dishwashers in that list? Because I seriously can't figure out what the hell's up with our particular appliance. Like, I put the little tablet thing in like I was meant to then I turned round the twizzly knob and IT MADE A CHUBA-CHUBA SOUND BUT THEN WHEN I OPENED THE WASHING MACHINE NOTHING WAS CLEAN AND THERE WAS WHITE CRAP ALL OVER THE BOTTOM OF THE DISHWASHER. Never have I wanted a maid more. I ended up going through four different tablets before I finally got it to work properly.

Fucking dishwashers. And I'm driving in less than a month. Whoopee. Well I think that I'll be ok, just so long as the car doesn't require detergent and doesn't have a spin-cycle.

Some other things that point towards the slowly breaking fabric of our household:

Our dogs are going crazy, seeing as we haven't walked them or, like, paid any attention to them at all. In retaliation, one of them ate half a bag of sugar. Why? Why would a dog do this? But it did. It does explain how hyper they were this afternoon.
There's a puddle of tea next to the kettle. It's been there for at least seven hours. Nobody has done anything. We're just ignoring it. Hoping that it will go away. BUT THAT'S THE THING. THERE ARE NO PARENTS THERE. THINGS JUST STAY THERE. ARGH.
There's a dead mouse and something that might be a dead slug but is probably an alien tentacle floating in the water-butt in the garden.
There is a big pile of washing up for things that don't fit in the dishwasher. As we speak, the chocolate sauce covering them is probably solidifying to being harder than rock.
My brother has already turned into my mother.
The fountain in the garden is full of random green shit.
My brother just walked into my room and asked me if it looked like he was wearing elf shoes. Like I said, surly.
I am finding it difficult to find anything in this house. Including bin-liners.
Did I mention that I have no clue if the dishwasher is doing anything useful at the moment?
I'm getting high off fumes.
Despite the massive stockpile of food left for us, we've already eaten through most of the pre-made meals in the fridge. Shit. Soon we'll be living on beans. Except I don't know how to make beans. And I couldn't find them if I wanted to.
I'm not putting the dog poo in the garden into bags and binning it. I'm just kicking it into the flower-bed.
I'm feeling a sinking feeling every time I go anywhere.

WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE! HOLY SHIT. If you're coming to my house on Sunday, bring some food, and possibly a mother to sort us out. Please.

Oh yeah, it was a shark. Just upside down, to confuse you losers. Ha, fooled you eh? Rinsed.

You'll never take me alive, coppers!

I am a wanted man.
I'm a fugitive from the law.
I'm a criminal.
Watch out ladies, I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a pimp, I'm a brother, I'm, uh, a PIMP.
I'm a hardass motherfucker.
I'm a gangster. I'm a modern day Harry Hill.
Fuck it, I'm a modern day ATTILA THE HUN.



So basically I was cruising down the street on my bike, looking 100% like the pimp I am. Bring bring went the bell, and people dodged out the way. Well, not dodged, as I was carefully weaving through the traffic like the consummate bicycle cycling pro I am. Seriously, I am such a bicycle steering pimp, yo.

So I was zooming through the human traffic, tippin' my pimp hat to the ladies and ignoring the men (who are so far less manly than me, they basically don't appear on my pimpdar) when BAM. I saw The Man. I could tell that he was The Man because he had a badge that said HI! I AM THE MAN. I'M HERE TO OPPRESS YOU SQUALID YOUTHS! QUIET DOWN THERE. He may have looked a little like this:



... but probably didn't. The Man raised one hand and motioned for me to stop, to get off the pavement. Apparently he was unaware of my pimping bicycle steering skillz. Perhaps he thought that I was in some danger from a random passing lunatic. But I think the REAL REASON is far more sinister: he's part of The Machine (of which I have been raging against so violently and revolutionarily, with my listening of Linkin Park and my wearing of a black tshirt with a skull on it), intent on "killing my buzz" with his chains of oppression.

"Run, freedom-loving buddies, run, before you too are oppressed!" I cried, to my posse of hardcore anti-authoritarian rebel boyz, who split off and fled, listening to the ultra-hardcore jams of One Step Closer and beat-boxing. But it was too late for me. I was to be oppressed. The Man motioned to me. There was no escape. I slowed to a stop and pulled my earphones from my ears.

THE MAN: Mate, this is a public path, you just can't just be cycling along here.
MY BRAIN: Stop oppressing me, oh you vile dog of the capitalist regime! Why do you fat-cats have to jazz up our studious buzz?"
ME: *nod*
THE MAN: Now I won't book you now, but next time it's a £60 on the spot next time.
MY BRAIN: PAH! YOU THINK I FEAR YOU? As ultra-hardcore metal band LINKIN PARK say: If I'm killed by the questions like a cancer then I'll be buried in the silence of the answer. YOU JUST THINK ABOUT THAT!
ME: *Nod*
THE MAN: Next time, ok?
MY BRAIN: I JUST CAN'T SEEM TO CONVINCE MYSELF WHY I'M STUCK ON THE OUTSIDE! HOW DO THOSE REBEL STYLEZ CUT YOU DOWN, COPPA?
ME: Yeah, sorry.
THE MAN: Ok.
MY BRAIN: THIS IS MY DECEMBER.
ME:*cycling off* Shut up, brain. Linkin Park sucks.
MY BRAIN: THAT'S IT, YOU'RE WETTING YOURSELF TONIGHT, MATE.

So, as you can see, some serious pimping rebellion stylez there. I mean, sheesh, I was THIS FAR AWAY from getting booked for cycling on a pavement. Nice, Mr Policeman. While you're at it, why don't you arrest me for not doing up my shoelaces? Or you could, you know, do your job and stop people blowing up Kingston.

Or, you could fail, and thus provide me with entertaining tea-time news.

I am SO oppressed. Just look at me. I'm so BOUND by the confines of this society. Sometimes a guy just feels the need to cycle through a heavily crowded bus depo, eh? But no. I have to be continually predjudiced against by THE MAN. It has to be my general shifty aura that does it. I am a shifty looking guy. Well, I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANY MORE. I'm gonna really take down the foundations of society this time.

I AM GOING TO CONTINUE TO CYCLE ON THE PAVEMENT. But not in that particular bus depot. No point in being a damned fool about it.

OOH MY ANTI-AUTHORITARIAN SCHTICK IS JUST SO OUTRRRRRRAGEOUS! I should be crowned king.

Oh yeah, and resolution number 3 achieved. I am a pimp.

Blow some more stuff up already, you twats

Since London fell over a few weeks ago, there haven't been any MAJOR disasters in the news. And I don't mean, like, famines in Africa (old news, darling, I don't care, one ticket please). I mean THINGS EXPLODING. Men strapping pipebombs to their groins and detonating them on buses. And I don't mean in some crappy Middle Eastern town called Al-Jaz-Kala-Abu-Bin-Kirahlanamala-Mohammed-Al-Al-Kippiekayyaymotherfucker-Bin-Aluminium. I mean in London. Or, at a pinch, Birmingham. I like it when that happens and all programming gets suspended and is replaced by three harassed looking newsreaders who have no idea what's going on, and the same footage of a boring street full of policeman thats LOOPED AD NAUSEUM. I could easily sit and watch that alllllll day.

The last lot of bombings were especially good because then you have all the fun of the terrorist bombings but none of that annoying guilty feeling you get from enjoying people dieing. And then they caught all four mofos which gave me an oppurtunity to yell OH RINSED RINSED YOU GOT RAPED YOU'RE GONNA GET TORTURED at the TV screen. Which is always good. If you're me. So yeah, terrorists, can you give me some more failed bombings already? The number one rule of showbiz is give the people what they want, and as terrorism is kinda like ultra-exciting reality tv, it makes sense that you give the person (me) what he wants. I mean, it's not like it's gonna scare me off using the tube/going to London. I don't use the Tube anyway. I have a bike. Start blowing up bike lanes and then I'll be scared. Actually, I'll only be scared if you start blowing up bike lanes when I'm specifically cycling on them.

Well, I guess there was that plane crash yesterday. It was a French plane. There was a storm. The plane skidded and crashed off the runway. Then it got hit by lightning. Then it caught fire. Then exploded. Perhaps God is trying to tell the french something? But nobody died. Well, that's the French, they can't even CRASH A FUCKING PLANE INTO THE GROUND SUCCESSFULLY. I mean, it's not hard, you just point the joystick or whatever at the ground and hold it there until the plane crashes into it. Ergo: explosion, death, hilarity. A retard could do it. But NO. Nobody died. Dipshits. Therefore, doesn't count as big news in England. Fark.com was raving about it, but I don't care. Perhaps I shouldn't rely on Fark.com for all my technical news details about plane crashes.

BUT WAIT. THERE IS ONE POTENTIAL DISASTER ON THE HORIZON. A nice explodey one that can't be blamed on terrorists, therefore ignores lots of boring political arguing:

The Discovery Mission (Hopefully in the future to be known as "The Discovery Disaster")

From all the top secret data that I've managed to hack from the internet (yes, that's right, I am a hacker. I'm so full of teenage hacking angst; I listen to Linkin Park and have a black tshirt with a skull on it), I have computer-coded a highly realistic prediction of how the Discovery Shuttle (it's in space, you know) will re-enter the atmosphere and how the huge fucking hole in the bottom of it is gonna react to the shift in atmosphere:



KABOOM! Notice the long streak of fire below as the guy trying to fix the hole plummets to an exciting and splattery deaths. Those six yellow sparks surrounding the blast- they're the other astronauts. Losers. Well, at least they're gonna go out with a bang. Lucky sods. And if you look at a picture of the astronauts, you'll notice that they're all old looking. So, to be honest, no MASSIVE loss there.

Apparently the big motherfucking hole in the bottom of the spaceship was caused when it had a head-on collision with a bird (my source of information: Fark.com. I wouldn't trust me). A BIRD. How retarded is that? I mean, if you're gonna make a spaceship with the ability to blast through the atmosphere and enter the chilly wastelands of space, you at least make it bird-proof. And this wasn't even a deep-frozen chicken. It was a warm fleshy bird. Soft and splattable. I assume. I don't know, perhaps there were some deep frozen birds up in the air above NASA space-land. But who knows? That's such a moronic thing to die from; an accidental collision with a defrosted bird. Unless of course it wasn't an accident.

Perhaps it was... SABOTAGE. Is that how you spell it? I don't know/care.

But if it was deliberate, I think we know who's really to blame:



WOODY FUCKING WOODPECKER. YOU'VE KILLED NASA. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, WOODY, YOU FUCKING BIRD? I bet he is. I bet he's sitting in his penthouse somewhere with a bunch of beautiful women (who all look like Jessica Rabbit... woah mama) drinking martinis and cackling nastily at his destruction of the American Space Program. He probably has stock tied up with the russians or something. That's the only way somebody would do something this evil. Money. Damn you, woodpecker, you twat. Go back to cartoons. Or, even better, die.

I hope the shuttle crashes into your head. I bet all your fellow cartoon friends would FLOCK TO YOUR FUNERAL. Because everyone LOVES Woody Woodpecker. You're SO BLOODY POPULAR WITH YOUR HILARIOUS SHOW. NOT. Rinsed. You're like Tom and Jerry Kids or that spinoff from Popeye with his son; crappy, crappy television. I mean, even that tv show about the FOOTBALL TEAM is better than you. On the other hand, I have yet to watch Woody Woodpecker drunk. I dunno, perhaps that'll make it magically hilarious. It worked for Dawn of the Dead, but that film's pretty funny anyway. Basically, Woody Woodpecker sucks.

Where was I? Oh yeah, blow up some shops already, you terrorists. Especially that Marks and Spencers in Kingston that doesn't have my suit size. You don't make size 36 moderate size suits, eh? My ass. Jerks.

And no, it's not time to go back to school yet, so stop putting up posters everywhere telling me that, you cunts.

Uh huh. Yeah. Excuse me, sir. Are you, by any chance, a serial killer? Okay.

[sarcasm on]

Yesterday, I saw the piece of modern cinema that is Scream 3. In the final chapter of this brilliantly written and acted urban classic, which is like all postmodern and stuff, the teens from the previous film are tracked by the psycho serial killer on the set of the film telling the story of the last time the psycho serial killer attacked them back in their home town with a bunch actors portraying them as their previous incarnations and I mean MAN this film is cleverly postmodern and an ironic subversion of the entire serial killer genre. Like, wow man. I'M SPACING OUT.

Here's the killer:



Woah, dude. Careful there, you might scare me to death. OUCH the nauseating sense of pervading fear that I get from that mask makes me wish that I was sitting on a toilet as opposed to a badly broken swivelly chair missing many bits of metal/screw/bolts from the bottom. Woahhh. I mean, just look at that wide open mouth and the eyes that almost seem to be SCREAMING. Can I say woah again? I feel I must just to point out how TERRIFIED I am of that mask. Especially as we've seen it in like two other films before, therefore the FEAR just MULTIPLIES EACH TIME HE APPEARS. Neeeeeeever gets old. But seriously, this film needs to be rewatched several times just to appreciate the infinite sublayers of plot and character development that are taking place with every word uttered by the well drawn, fascinating cast of characters including 'sarcastic blonde,' 'angry darkhaired man' and 'jive-talking negro'. Whoever wrote the Godfather can piss off. Micheal Corleone? Shit, compared to 'mean movie studio boss'. 'With grey hair.'

[/sarcasm off]

The killer in Scream is the shittiest piece of shit ever. I mean, just look at him. LOOK AT HIM. That is a disgrace. They use same cheapass mask in THREE FILMS? They could have at least changed the colour of it. Or added spikes or something. Spikes make everything magically cool. I mean, even FREDDY's face changed over the course of his films, and he had permanent facial scarring. Also, the Scream costume is made of some cheap shiny fabric. I mean, if it's meant to look like something that you could buy outta Clinton's Cards for 25 quid, which it might do, then it's BRILLIANT costume design. But for serial killing purposes it sucks. Why the hell do so many people CHOOSE to dress up like this killer? I mean, it's just shit, isn't it?

Also, he's retarded. Firstly, he falls over every five seconds. He jumps through windows by accident, gets backflipped, kicked in the face, shot, thrown down stairs, kicked some more, punched, and stabbed with an icepick. Now I would normally say that this is a positive aspect - he can take a lot of pain - but most of these accidents were due to him being a total fuckwit who falls over a lot. Like one time he tries to stab a teen, he misses and punches through a window. What a disgrace. Somewhere, Norman Bates is watching and shaking his head sadly.

And that reminds me; The Scream dude uses a knife to kill his enemies. A KNIFE. Well, why don't you wear a stupid mask if you're gonna go for the most cliched of cliches? Oh, wait, you already do. And if anybody says 'well it's meant to be a satire of horror movies so it's ok if it's cliched as it's all cleverly postmodern' then I'm gonna get mad. I don't care if it's meant to be a satire (and it is quite a clever one, but I'm going to mock it as being a shitty horror movie) it was marketed to the teen crowd as a straight horror and anyway, most of the fuckwits who went to see it have NO CLUE WHAT A SATIRE IS ANYWAY. Probably thing that it's a little fat man with goat legs, pan pipes and a love of wine. But who am I kidding, that's too smart a reference. But anyway.
Knives are shit. Everybody uses knives. Want to be a modern COOL serial killer? Use cheesewire. Or a human leg. Or a fucking samurai sword. Or your own hands. ANYTHING BUT A KNIFE. Knives suck so much. It's actually painful how much they suck. They suck so much they leave lovebites. Oooh, look at me, I'm a serial killer with a knife now I'm going to cut you up but OH NO YOU SURVIVED THE KNIFEWOUND SO NOW I'M GOING TO HAVE TO CHASE YOU AROUND THE HOUSE WITH YOU BLEEDING EVERYWHERE. Man that sucks.



What else? Oh yeah, the killer hunts teenagers. Teenagers? Well done mate, why don't you go hunt heavyweight boxers while you're at it, you moron. Which is gonna be the fastest, hardest punching and be the most hardy of all the stages of human development? Hint: it aint old age. If you were really serious about serial killing, then at least you could've taken on a couple of old people. Or babies. Or cancer patients. Or people with no legs. They can't run that fast, and they get caught in doors and stuff. Or Terry Schiavo. The entire film would be the killer dithering blindly about whether to kill her. Then it ends with him dynamiting the body just to piss off America.

So he's hunting teenagers. Ok, it's moronic, but at least it's a modus operandi. But then he takes like twenty minutes and about five-thousand stabs to kill each of them. Surely one decent stab in the heart would be enough to kill even the hardest of teenagers. But no. First he he has to miss about four times. Then he just cuts them a bit in a side-swipe. Then he stabs them but they're still able to survive fine. THEN he stabs them again. Not dead yet? No, then he hits them with something/throws them outta window. And THEN they still manage to stagger off in a tottering manner to be found by their friends.

If this is the best the serial killer mode of today can do, I am DISAPOINTED. But, irritatingly, it is. Here are the most recent cinema serial killers I can think of. I'm not counting Freddy/Jason because, to be honest, they were from a decade ago, and Freddy v Jason is rubbish.

The guy in Cherry Falls: Get this... it was a MAN dressed as a WOMAN because his mother was RAPED by FOUR PEOPLE and he was ABUSED AS A CHILD (chained to a cot then beaten in a hilarious flashback) and so he KILLS TEENAGERS who HAVEN'T HAD SEX YET. Did I mention that this is a man dressed as a woman? That worked in Psycho. Did it work in Cherry Falls? Nnnno. He managed to kill many teenagers, but was still defeated by a teenage girl. A teenage girl who likes toe-sex. Man that was a weird and strangely rubbish film. Did I mention that he was dressed as a woman? A WOMAN. THAT WAS THE SCARIEST CONCEPT THEY COULD COME UP WITH. Also, he used a knife. Woahhhhh.

The Guy in I know What You Did Last Summer: He used a hook instead of a knife, which was quite cool despite the fact that hooks are totally useless. His scaryness is basically relegated to the fact that he has a hook and dresses up in a mac to scare people. Gets defeated by a teenage girl again. Christ. In the sequel he manages to accidentally kill his own son then gets shot. Well done, spacker. You got rinsed.

The Boogyman: I didn't even see this film, but from what I hear, he's a cupboard that eats people. And also a piece of evil bubble wrap. Wow. Just...wow. 10/10 for imagination, -10/10 for everything else.

So basically there are no good movie serial killers any more. Except Patrick Bateman. And the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family, but they weren't exactly original, were they?

SO GUESS WHAT! I DECIDED TO MAKE MY OWN KILLER USING PHOTOSHOP. WOAH DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING DID YOU? WOW OH WOW MAN! This is the best serial killer ever. This is the serial killer of the future. This serial killer is one to rejuvinate this dying (a ha ha) series and give us all what we want most: Blood and gore and old people being detonated.

Here you go:



Woah, that is so cool. I've outdone myself this time. Do you like the blood splatter? I do. That is one moody mofo. I bet he listens to Linkin Park. Only moody people listen to Linkin Park. And serial killers. Look, I even did a key and everything, just so I can give you the details of this killer, who I shall name... Roy. Or Chainsaw Zombie. Or Erkle, I don't care.

1: A chainsaw. We need more killers with chainsaws in slasher films. You can imagine a chainsaw as lots of little knives spinning really fast. Like fifty times more efficiant than a KNIFE. That'll sort out Sarah M-G's annoying face. Take that, Buffy, you stupid tit. Rinsed by my chainsaw prowess. And if our heroine manages to lock the bedroom door and attempt to phone the police (assuming the villain hasn't already cut the phone lines... knowing Roy, the phone lines will be cut and the house will probably on fire), Roy can just SLICE IT DOWN LIKE BUTTER. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! RINSED. In my opinion, any serial killer film could be improved with just the addition of a chainsaw. In fact, who am I kidding? Any FILM could be improved with the addition of a chainsaw. Full stop.

2: A gun. In my opinion, this is also a necessity for the smart serial killer. Think about it, the heroine pushes a bookcase on you (well, not Roy. Roy has already cut her up good, so this really applies to all the other serial killers), and you're trapped. She's fleeing down the hall to safety. What do you do? Well, if you're a normal serial killer, you manage to escape and piss off to kill another few of her friends at a party before finally getting your shit ruined by an axe/gun/television. But if you're Roy, you just raise your big gun and BLAMMO. Take out her spine. She's in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Then you can set fire to her and roll her down a hill. Owned.

3: Head full of smart plans. You always need a head full of smart plans to be a serial killer. Especially one with a chainsaw. MY killer would always find a smart way to kill his victim, often involving insects and bodily mutilation. No stupid-ass stabbings for me. With the lyrics to 'Papercut' by hardcore serial killer band Linkin Park whirring through his head, Roy manages to escape police, and kills without being kicked repeatedly in the head. Also, if he has enough strength for ONE LAST SCARE, he decides to conserve it and kills the ambulance crew, instead of jumping up and OH DEAR getting shot like everybody else does.

4: Surrounded by a pool of blood. See, Roy is successful at this whole serial killer deal. Look at all that blood. He's like the chainsaw man from Resident Evil, except he is far more manly. And he doesn't have a burlap bag on his head. Tit. When Roy enters the stage, you KNOW somebody's gonna get murdered horribly and probably eyeball-slicingly. THAT'S how good he is at this whole serial killing shebang. He has an entire shelf in his fridge full of eggs, but instead of eggs it's people.

5: A nice apron. Well, it keeps all the blood splatters off his natty suit, doesn't it?

Oh yeah, there will be no sequels to the Roy films (soundtrack by heavy hardcore metal legends Linkin Park. Instead, there will be one 4 hour long serial killing epic which ends with Roy decapitating every 'head' (AHAHHAHA) of state in one long bloodbath then retiring to the town of Royson Vasey to live with his godparents in their shop.