I'm typing this over a 56K internet connection from a hut in the middle of Scotland...

... it's the only place where the Government can't find me. For finally they have discovered my identity and the part I have played in the political uprisings that have plagued this country and literally driven them to their knees. If I hadn't been out spraypainting political messages over the walls of London and buying a new bandanna, they would have snatched me from my bed. As it was, a bunch of sexily armed guards broke into my house in the dark of night. They stole my encrypted disks, bugged my lamps, tapped my phone and buggered my toaster. As soon as I returned home, I knew that something was wrong. So I called my associate The Fox (all us political terrorists have to have cool animal nicknames. For example I am The Crab, because I live in a rockfool and walk sideways waving my arms in the air) and we fled to his commune in Scotland where I have been eating beans and listening to the Dilana cover of 'Lithium' non stop for the past seventeen hours. After snapping and beating The Fox to death with a pint glass full of moonshine, I hooked the Amiga up to an internet connection and logged onto blogspot. Finally it is time to tell my story.

Now I must present my life as a political protester in all its gory details... if you are sensitive to such issues as people uprising from their lowly positions to strike a death-blow into the machine, or the ultimate power of the people against the relentless evil of the government, or the bringing-to-the-knees of every system of control that keeps the UK in thralldom, I advise you to look away, possibly at a less offensive blog. Like this one.

Ok.

Ready?

Last Saturday... I went... TO A PROTEST MARCH!!!!!!!!

omg

Yes it's true. I was amongst the brave souls who marched through London last Saturday and totally ruined Tony Blair's shit. I waved a sign. I chanted the chants. I was PASSIONATE, man. Thinking about it, I dunno what the march was about, really. I think it concerned the Lesbianese people and their quest to get more lube and easily-rippable underwear off the evil Jews. Now I'm not saying 'Evil Jews' in an anti-semitic way, because most of the march was people yelling things about how evil Jewland was. And I'm no sheep, but when a lot of drunk stupid people are yelling biased things about some country they have never visited THEN I TEND TO LISTEN.

I was invited by two people who are apparently really into the whole 'Jews are bad' thing. They kept calling them bad names and waving their fists at the sky in a kind of 'God damn you God for being so mean to the Lesbianese'. They even bought 'Free Palestine' t-shirts, although what that has to do with anything is beyond me. It's all so confusing, man. I'm an attractive magazine proofreader, not a damn political scientist, I need my politics broken down into easily-understood nuggets! Preferebly with clearly cut "Good" and "Bad" guys. From the march I was taught that the "Good" guys are the Lesbianeasy people, any civilians who get accidentally blown up, the Palpastinians, and anybody who went on the protest march. The "Baddies" are a combination of the jews, Bush, Blair, and anybody who doesn't support the Communist party (yeah, the Communists showed up too for some reason).

As this was to be my first protest march, I had a bit of a tough time working out what to wear. Should I rip up a shirt with a pair of crimping scissors to make a smart political point? Should I wear a scarf over my mouth, or a red hankerchief out of my back pocket? Perhaps I should wear shoes without socks. I might end up throwing bricks at the coppas, so should I wear a cricketing helmet and some sturdy gloves? Decisions, decisions. March-buddy Chris had warned me that "It's probably gonna be all Arabs and just us two whiteboys in the middle looking lame", so I carefully put my "Allah is a cunt" t-shirt to one side for another day. Eventually I went with the classic 'Boris' t-shirt. The 'Boris' is blue and has a picture of whizz politician Boris Johnson on the front. And the word "Boris". It's nicely political, but not to the level that could result in me getting strung up by angry arabs in the middle of Picadilly. Boris is like a talking kitten. Whatever racist/moronic/anti-arab stuff he says, you can't help but sigh and go 'Aah', while nodding fondly.

So, wearing my Boris tee, my rebellious BLACK TROUSERS and some trainers, I strolled into the Embankment, fully expecting a huge scrum of rebellious arabs burning flags and shooting guns into the air. It was at this point that I got my first surprise of the day. The majority of people at political protest marches are not cool young rebels with an axe to grind against the current system and a radical way to solve it... they're just a bunch of old lower-middle class white people with nothing better to do than stew in the juices of their own retarded political hypotheses while simultaneously coming up with half-baked plans to overthrow the government of a country that seems perfectly ok to me while growing stupid beards, wearing baggy hawaiian shirts, sock/sandal combinations and OCCASIONALLY WATCHING OLD EPISODES OF THE GOODE LIFE TO REMEMBER THE OLD DAYS. In conclusion:


LAME WHITE PEOPLE

I'm not gonna lie, I was not best impressed. But then I saw this old guy wearing a Che t-shirt with a button on it that said "Bliar". You get it? YOU GET IT? IT'S LIKE BLAIR, BUT WITH "LIAR" IN THE MIDDLE. God that's rich. When I saw this guy, I was convinced that actually they were cool, hip and relevant and I went back to weilding my sign like a crazy person (if you look in the picture, you'll see a selection of the free signs they were giving out willy-nilly. My sign, featured just to the left of the lame white policeman's head, designated Bush as "The World's No.1 Terrorist". It also identified me as a member of the Socialist Workers Party, apparently. GO SOCIALISM!!!1!!)

After a bit of sitting about watching some twattish lame white man from the Respect party bumble about with a loudspeaker, we joined a much larger group of hardcore political protesters who were displaying their fury and refusal to bend to the current authority by talking in angry voices about how angry they were, and standing about politely where the policemen told them to. At this point I should probably mention that the entire event seemed to have been sponsored by a Christmas-Tree Company. Everyone was to be holding the company's logo and waving it about really proudly:



There was even this one guy who'd painted the logo (badly) on a huge piece of cloth and was waving it above his head, almost as though it was a flag of some sort. I was going to go up to him and point out his mistake, but I was pretty sure that he already knew he was a moron and anyway my attention was taken by a bunch of cunt Communists who came up behind us waving a big flag. Not that I had anything in particular against Communism - as you might already be able to tell, politics are not one of my driving passions - but come on, they had a huge flag which was RIGHT BEHIND US and any photographs would make ME look like a damn red. And while I'm at it - Communism? WHY? I mean, you're kind of backing the wrong horse, mate. In fact, the horse you're backing has a broken leg. And has been shot twice in the side by the Strongbow arrows. And was decapitated two years ago via a Final Destination style sheet of glass falling off a crane. And is being ridden by a sumo wrestler made of solid gold.
I was going to go up to the Communists and tell them that their political belief system was shit when one of them gave me some free stickers. I was impressed at their kindness and decided to join their party after all. As for the stickers, I stuck one on the cover of the book I was reading (HP Lovecraft's "At the Mountains of Madness") in such a way that it looked like the sticker had legs and a demonic tail. Tee-hee-hee. I'm such a scamp.


In case you were wondering, the book was RUBBISH so it's ok for me to deface it in such a way. I can't believe you internet geeks like Lovecraft so much he's fucking bollocks. Sloggoth-ctchulthu starfish men my ass.

EVENTUALLY the policemen let the political rave move off and we got to business tearing this country apart at the seams. It was quite relaxing really, many of the crowd were probably over fifty so the pace was fairly slow. The only people shouting were the few arabs who had bothered to show up, and many of their chants were somewhat repetitive:

"Peace on Palestine!" (repeat 200 times... alternating with...)
"Peace on Lebanon!"
"Shame on Bush shame on Blair!" (repeat 200 times... interestingly, the high-rabbi of jewdaisim, Ehud Olmert, didn't get mentioned... bastard)

I joined in with a few of these chants, but then I got embarassed and worried that it was all a huge practical joke and they'd start a chant then all fall silent mid-word and then it'd just be me chanting politically subversive limericks to a hushed London street and them BAM there goes my job at Whitehall. However I did notice that the number of syllables and rhyme structure of "Peace on Lebanon" did lead it to be applicable to a range of other interpretations...

"He's Chris, my name's Tom!" (IT'S TRUE, TOO)
"This march... is-too-long!" (also true)
"Bring back Spiderman!" (I'm not sure where Spiderman had gone but GOD DAMNIT I WAS GONNA MARCH TO BRING HIM BACK.)

It was bare exciting blud. The best bit was when we walked past the US Embassy, and everybody stopped to hiss at the building. Yeah, we really showed that concrete a lesson. I bet the foundatious quivered at all the people making obscene gestures at them. The windows cried themselves to sleep. Even this random dog started barking madly at the building which proves that the entire place is inherently evil. At that point it started raining hard and I got an opportunity to dance about while the rest of the marchers squealed and walked a bit faster to speed up their demonstration. Losers.

Re-reading this, it seems like I have been somewhat irreverant about the whole 'Political marching' thing. It almost seems like I am MOCKING our human right to demonstrate against whatever the government feels like doing. In fact, I get the feeling that I could be making FUN of the pointless selfishness of the egotistical white losers who think that walking about yelling a lot ever has or ever will make the slightest bit of difference to the policies of a country and will benefit the people of Lesbianon. I mean, I COULD be making fun of the tall ginger guy holding a picket board informing us that all George Bush had to do to solve the Middle East Crisis it to make one "f****ing phone call" (yeah, man, censoring cuss words on a political poster... that's rock and roll man), or the middle aged woman with NHS specks who told everyone that "All we have to do is march for 6 days like we did in Portugal and then the government will collapse". Perhaps I could be implying that political marches are an ineffective waste of time, just a way for the self-riteous quasi-political lame white motherfuckers of the world to gratify their backseat-Prime Ministering while having no idea of what's really involved.

But I'm not.

Because political marches are COOL!!!! And I realised that if I ever break up/get dumped with the squaw, I can always just show up to one wearing an obscure tshirt and shmooze a tasty political bird. Of which I saw seven on Saturday. SEVEN TASTY POLITICAL GIRLS. ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN. Not like I'm counting or anything. But I had to do SOMETHING while my friends were shouting anti-Jew statements and the girlfriend had fucked off to climb a mountain in the Peak District. Fucking D of E award. I'll march against THAT if you want.

So in conclusion: Politics suck and I don't even know why I started typing this. I wasn't even drunk this time. Hmm.

Politics go so good with beer and while we're at it baby, why don't you tell me one of YOUR greatest fears?

I have decided that in order to be a proper blog, to be in line with the true spirit of the ways of the internet, it is necessary that a website must, at some point, fulfill one of the following two important stereotypes:

1: Whinging female blog full of discussion of BOYS and TAMPONS and BRAS and HOW HARD IT IS TO BE A GIRL IN THIS MALE ORIENTED WORLD. And how much parents SUCK.
2: Whining male blog full of discussions about politics and how we could easily solve the world's problems with napalm and common sense. Lots of these male bloggers seem to propose common sense to solve all these problems while simultaneously proposing that we just bomb a few arab cities off the map. Interesting.

So I had to decide which category to fulful in order to make this website a REAL BLOG. And I have decided that it's about time that I solved some political problem. Plus, I already told you all about my itchy vaginal rash, the way that MY BREASTS JUST WON'T GROW AS BIG AS STEPH'S and the fact that MY PERIOD WAS ESPECIALLY HEAVY AND I ACCIDENTALLY BLED ON MY GRANDAD'S HEAD AND THEN HE THOUGHT THAT HE WAS BLEEDING OUT OF HIS EARS AGAIN AND THAT THE BRAIN TUMOR HAD COME BACK. So I will not bore you with my female woes any more and will instead go back to tackling some complicated political issues.

Hmmmmmmmm.

Well the main political issue of the day is, of course, the bombing of Lebanon by those filthy jewish bastards. I'm sorry if you find the previous statement offensive, but really, this blog is called "Chainsaw Zombie", what did you expect? A jewish synagogue website? It's a well known fact that no jewish people ever become zombies, and the very idea of a jewish person using a chainsaw, well, it makes me laugh in a neurotic way!!! No, really, I'm sure that there's gotta be some jewish blood running through my blue eyed blonde haired body, which makes it ok for me to rag on those jews as much as I like. And anyway, the other week I was ragging on the paedophiles and THEY didn't complain. So if you are jewish and offended that I called you dirty and insinuated that you were a bastard, I'm sorry. Ragging ragging ragging. Ragging is a cool word. As cool as Fati. Whatever, let me digress.

Now, I'm no political whizz, but from my listening of the half-hourly newsflashes on X-FM, I'm pretty sure that I've developed a highly sophisticated understanding of the whole jew/lebanese question. Basically, the Jews are pissed at the Lebs for some reason that nobody quite understands. Perhaps the lebs stole the jews' lunch money ten years ago and the jews have never quite forgiven them. Perhaps the lebs made a joke about the promiscuity of jews' mother that the jews just didn't appreciate at the time. Perhaps, I don't know, the lebs broke up with their girlfriend, then sat about for six months and then just as the jews were about to ask the girlfriend out, the lebs broke in and proposed that they get back together, and the jews just had to stand there and act like nothing was wrong while the lebs and the girlfriend made out in Bushy Park for like two hours. Whatever the reason, it stands evident that the jews are annoyed at the lebanese for some anonymous reason, and instead of writing it all up spitefully on some anonymous internet blog or bitching behind their back to Iran, they have decided to bomb the shit out of Lebanon. They don't seem to have an aim, they're just doing it for jokes.

At this point, my reading of internet blogs has told me that it is necessary to insert a negative comment about the the UN, along with some quasi-witty comment about their effectiveness . So here goes: THE UN ARE TEH GHEY!!!!! ALL THEY DO IS WRITE LETTERS!!!1! OMG I SHOULD BE A POLITICAL SATIRIST

I suppose that at this point you are asking why I care so much about this issue. Well you may not be. You may be just a dyslexic guy who thinks he's reading about lawnmowers, or a blind guy who is just wildly hoping that he's managed to stumble across some porn. Whatever - you people don't matter. I'm going to tell you anyway, and not just because it's a good way to fill space in a post that I see going nowhere. It also gives me an opportunity to boast about my sexually attractive qualities. Basically, as the situation stands, my GIRLFRIEND (that's right I have a buff girlfriend to go with my hilariously witty sense of humour I'm basically the best guy in the world and if only somebody would deign to give me a job my life would be complete) is in Cyprus, on holiday. Now, she has promised to be faithful to me and I have welded her knees together in any case. That is not what worries me. What worries me is the fact that CYPRUS IS ONLY A HUNDRED MILES AWAY FROM LEBANON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is a worry for several reasons, the most important being the fact that people from jewziland are notoriously bad shots, and they could easily just totally miss Lebanon and blow my GIRLFRIEND's nicely proportioned head right off her shouders by accident. I have compiled a theoretical example of what'd happen if such a catastrophe were to take place. NB: My knowledge of Middle-Eastern geography is not my strongest point:



I shudder to think of the effort it'd be to get a new girlfriend if such a thing were to happen, so I feel that it is in everyone's best interests to figure out how to solve this problem as quickly and excitingly as possible. Usually I would advocate a measured system of international relations and treaties and shit, but my detailed research of internet blogs has led me to believe that the correct response is to just blame everything on George Bush:


This picture is filled with metaphors.

It's all Bush's fault that all the Arabs keep having bitchy little fights with each other. Him and his oil. I bet that Bush has a huge lake made out of oil in his back garden. Because that's what he does. He hoards all the oil for himself. That's why he is so pro-oil. Because he is the only person who uses it. The rest of America - oh no, they don't touch the stuff. The ONLY reason that Bush likes oil so much is that he likes to strip naked and dance about in it. That's it. Not the selfish American dependence on the car. Oh no. Just the naked oil-dancing. Occasionally he invites his two semi-buff daughers to strip down to their lingerie and wrestle in oily jelly for the entertainment of the rest of Congress. BASTARD.
And of course, the reason that Bush is so pro-oil is somehow linked to the evil jews who live in Washington and control him via a complicated system of pulleys and levers that they secretly attach intricately into his back. You know why you never see George Bush's back while he's making a speech? Because his back is filled with wires and string that are manipulated expertly by a tiny little jewish puppeteer who sits in the back of Bush's left knee. This explains why the rostrum behind which Bush speaks always has armour coating on the left side. It also explains why America is so pro-Israel. Puppets. Fucking puppets.

I have no idea what I'm talking about. I really have no clue. So I had better conclude soon before anybody realises that I'm an absolute fraud. To be honest, my basic plan is that we build a huge mousetrap in the middle of America. But instead of cheese, we fill it with jew gold and money. Then all the jews will come and try to steal the money from the mousetrap, which is when we set it off, thus dropping a huge net over their heads. But instead of rope, it will be a net made out of HAM. That oughta stop those pesky semites. Then, while they are busy oy-oying and speaking their funny talk, we can unplug George Bush and persuade him to nuke the entire Middle East off the map. After that, I suspect that everything else will work itself out quite nicely. But if he's going to nuke em, at least he should wait until my girlfriend and her parents have been safely transported out of Cyprus. Then, yeah, go wild.

So in conclusion: Politics suck and I don't even know why I started typing this. I might have been drunk. Hmm.

Do you come from Durham? If so, I advise you to not even bother reading this post

Of course, that's a trick question/bit of advice, because it's accepted that people from Durham can't even read. They can only walk about going OOH MATE in that annoying lilt, drunkenly playing the guitar on street corners and just irritating me with their general rubbishness.

YES MY FRIENDS I have returned from my lifely visit to Durham, a town that is known as the party capital of nowhere. If you don't know where Durham is, just imagine a mythical land where all the fun and cool things are born. Then imagine the town right next to that mythical land, seperated by a fifteen metre tall wall of reinforced concrete, barbed razorwire, guard towers with those cool searchlights and machine gun equipped SWAT-Nazis, a town where you will find NOTHING fun except for row upon row of boring-ass towns, closed coal mines and weird-smellin' inbred people with mushrooms instead of faces.

Why did I choose to go to Durham, then, if I knew that it was going to be so fecken shite? Why did I make the conscious decision to relocate myself for FOUR WHOLE DAYS (days which could better have been spent with, ooh, I don't know... MY NEW-OLD GIRLFRIEND) to what is basically Britain's boredom sphincter? Why did I do it? Well, to answer that question, I have two simple responses...

Response the First: I didn't make the conscious decision. I was told I was going. Then I was shot in the neck with a tranquiliser dart, gagged, hog-tied with those cable-tie things, padlocked to the boot of the car which was then covered in a thin layer of concrete, placed on a car-transporter which was then wrapped in that impossible-to-break plastic stuff they use to package batteries and disposible cameras, then picked up by fifteen helicopters and air-lifted to just outside of Oxford. Then I was placed in a car and we drove the remainder of the way there.

Response the Second: There were two concrete reasons for going to Durham. The first reason is that apparently there's a University there that I might consider going to (after seeing the ghost town that is Durham city... unlikely). The second is that my Grandad (legend) was apparently born and raised in a town outside of Durshit and wanted to go back to visit the place of his childhood. Ok, I can accept that. Although, thinking about it, the idea of somebody being RAISED near to Durham is somewhat oxmoronic as it seems to me that Durham is generally a place where people go to die.
There were a Lot of old people at Durham, as my Grandad liked to point out, usually with jeers of "look at that fat old biddy!" or "hey, check out the fat man!". Legend. I have learnt quite a lot of things about old people on this trip. One of the most interesting is that whenever an old person says goodbye to another old person, she always says "I'll see you soon," in a really forceful tone of voice, as though trying to persuade old person no.2 that it really is going to happen and one of them isn't going to die in the meantime. It's like when people have put a huge amount of money on the black at roulette, and they stand at the table going 'It's gonna be black, I KNOW it's gonna be black, it's black. Definitely black. Black.' And then it's red and they lose all their money and sell their property and have to go live in some shithole like, say, Durham.

Of course, I'm making Durham sound like it was just one huge black hole of dullness, old people, and depressing DEATH. Which of course, it wasn't. I mean, there's a lot of inherent comedy value to be had out of the people and architecture of Durham and the surrounding area. Specifically the people. Specifically, the accents of the people.
Who remembers that TV show Biker Grove? The one in that crap youth center where everyone sat about talking about Issues Relevant To The Youth Of Today? And the theme tune was like Biker... Groooove! Biker... Groooooove! Biker Biker, Biker GROOVE YEAH! A-ha! A-ha! A-ha! Thinking about it, with a show that had such an empasis on bikers, there was very little two-wheeled locomotion going on. But yeah, you all remember that show? And you remember the crazy accents that the entire cast put on? Well - get this - PEOPLE ACTUALLY TALK LIKE THAT UP NORTH!!!!!1!! I was really impressed when I first realised that; I honestly thought that the silly accents that the Baika Groave kids put on was just, like, an extended joke. Like the silly accents the Teletubbies do.

"Eh-Oh Tinky Winky!"
"Ooh-Aye man let's go down the Groave, pet."

Can you tell a difference? I can't. So yeah, there was a lot of fun to be had from ripping the piss out of the native speakers, which me and grandad did an awful lot. And, I mean, it's not like there was literally nothing whatsoever to do in Durham. Because they had a lot (and I mean A Lot) of coal mines, and coal mines are awesome. I also had a special interest in coal mines, especially as I'd just read Zola's Germinal, that paeon of depressing coal miners, and I'm planning to write a book about living cups of tea who have to mine teabags out of underground caverns and no I'm not even joking.
Of course, all of the mines were totally disused and closed down and had been so for like ten years, but hey, there was this quite good MONUMENT on a really windy field that took like an hour to walk to. And if we'd had time (and oh god what a tragedy that we didn't) we could've gone to visit Beamish, Living Museum of the Year 2004 and 2002 (God damn those bastards at the Durham Coal and Iron Dildo Emporium in 2003, 2005 and 2006, eh?), a magical place which has a replica coal mine where 'you won't stop beaming from start to finish'. Do you get it? DO YOU GET IT? BEAMING sounds like BEAMISH. AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. I laughed for like fifteen minutes when I first heard that gem. Then I swiped the leaflet and smuggled it home in my rectum for your viewing pleasure:



Who WOULDN'T want to go visit Beamish and hang out with Inspector Gordon and his merry gang there? I'll tell you who wouldn't - heartless bastards with no sense of fun and joy. To be honest, I was pretty impressed with the quality of the leaflet (excluding that cockhead four from the back who was obviously enjoying his job as the paperboy far too much), until I noticed an interesting little detail on the front cover. Look at the dates just above the word "Beamish". Now, originally I thought they referred to a historical period 1825-1913. But no, that's an "&" in the middle of those dates. This is a theme park concentrating SPECIFICALLY on the dates of 1825 AND 1913. Just those dates. None in between. Now I'm no historian, but I'm pretty sure that it's a concrete Historical Fact that literally nothing interesting happened in either 1825 or 1913. They are basically the retarded half-brothers of the historical dates. Nobody cares about them, nobody likes them. Their own mothers don't even love them. 1919 (Treaty of Marseilles... yeah? I can't remember and I wrote an essay on this for my history AS level) throws dinner parties and invites all the other years, but 1913's invite gets mysteriously lost in the post. 1898 (Boer War I think) gets the rest of the 19th century to line up and says "All the years I like, take a step forward" and all the years step forward, but then 1898 is like "Not so fast, sonny" to 1825, who runs off crying and cuts itself in its room. Even the other shit years, like 1856 (Treaty of Paris... who the fuck cares?) don't wanna hang about with 1825 and 1913. So why anybody would wanna devote a theme park after them, when as far as I know there isn't a single WW2 Theme Park about (think about it... it'd rule), I just don't know.

But I was willing to give Beamish a chance, so I checked out the Special Events 2005 list. Alarm bells are rung when I see that they haven't even updated the fecken brochure yet. Then continue to ring when I see that the events specifically highlighted as "Major Events" are -and I swear to fuck I'm not making this up - Steam Glorious Steam, Napoleonic Muster, Horse Ploughing Match, Prize Leek Show and Harvest Festival, and Classic Car Day. For fuck's sake. And this place was like, the premier tourist attraction that Durham had to offer.

I could keep talking, and I could mention my grandad's plan for dealing with the Chinese (Plan A: Put some poisonous chemical in all the reservoirs which'd kill them all, or at the very least give them a bad stomach ache. Plan B: Drop ten or twelve nuclear bombs on China - this plan was rejected because it'd spoil the chinese countryside. Plan C: Somehow hypnotise them using television and get them to all jump en masse into the sea. He was seriously offering these as theories for 'dealing with' China. Out of other mouths, they would seem genocidal, murderous, evil and disturbing, but coming from my Grandad they are just HILARIOUS), or the huge amount of neuroses I got whenever I thought about my girlfriend, but do you want to hear about that? No. So instead I'll finish with a cartoon strip that my little sister drew of the Tomcia relationship.



The captions at the bottom are "Thomas has a party but no1 comes", and "Thomas phones Lucia every day". I also want to make clear that my mate did NOT steal Lucia. That's just heresay. I didn't really like him and he didn't steal her ANYWAY, and who cares, I'm going out with her now so who has the last laugh? Me.
And just in case you were at a loss for what the moral of the cartoon strip was, my little sister has kindly obliged to fill you in...



Yeah whatever. At least I can spell "doesn't", you little retard.

In conclusion: Fuck Durham. And fuck Cyprus too, for an entirely different reason.

This blog will definitely not end mid-sentence

I haven't blogged in AGES. I can't imagine how the lot of you are surviving without me. Probably getting cold sweats, throwing up a lot, whingeing a bit and sitting up for hours on end, repeatedly refreshing this page in the vain, vain hope that I might have returned from my ivory tower and created some work of literary genius for you to peruse. Who knows what torments you went through every time you presseed Apple+R and the same old page popped up again and again? I bet you sat there blubbering into your keyboards, spitting into your pot noodles and wiping your noses on magazines (not tissues or your sleeves though).

But don't worry, because I am here with a nice long blog, featuring elaborate and hilarious pictures of things, as well as lots of hilarious social commentary and stuff. Perhaps I'll use IRONY too. Don't use enough irony on this blog which has, until recently, been an entirely irony-free zone. Wew look at all that lack of irony. Don't get enough of that irony stuff around these parts.

BUT ENOUGH OF THE POINTLESS INTRODUCTION. TIME TO GIVE A QUICK RESUME OF MY ACTIVITIES OF THE PAST TWO WEEKS::::::::::: :D ::::::::::::::

1: I GOT A GIRLFRIEND
This is pretty much the main/best news. Yes, I'm sorry ladies, but I'm off the market. I will have to withdraw resonately from the dating game yet again. If you want to get your kinky teenage thrills now, you'll have to go back to lesbianism or worshipping statues of me carved out of wood and bronze. Or doing both. Its possible to worship while wearing sensible shoes and a stupid plaid shirt; Jesus did it all the time.
Who is this girlfriend? Who is the latest squaw, the newest squeeze, the reason that my phone is totally clogged up with messages, the heavenly messenger of sweetness and light and possibly confusion induced headaches from above? Why, it is none other than the same girlfriend I was going out with last time. Yeah!!!!!!

How did I get her back? Well it is a convoluted story, involving lots of Eastenders styleeee plot twists and a guest appearance from Martin Kemp. I am renowned for my intense story-telling abilities (I can stretch even the most simple and depressingly uninteresting tale into a full fifteen-minute epic) and thus if I was so inclined I could tell you lot all about the quirky events that occurred until I finally managed to press-gang Cupid into quitting his job for Strongbow and getting back to shooting innocent girls in the back of the neck with his gay little arrows. I could mention the exciting fight scene that me and a certain lanky midget had atop a burning battleship - he was armed with a pistol, a knife, and a pistol that shot little knives, I was naked and armed only with a mug tree - that resulted in said midget's hideous screaming death. I could remark of the romantic montage showing me and the unfortunate girl in question running hand in hand through a beautiful green meadow filled with long grass, gay little flowers and fluttering butterflies - she wearing a full length cremoline smock and a bonnet, me dressed in my finest paperboy hat and breeches. Hell, if I wanted I could tell you all about my final confession of love in a rainforest glade, surrounded by, you know, trees and shit.

BUT I WON'T TELL YOU ABOUT THAT, because lets face it - nobody watches romantic comedies for the kooky scene when Tom Hanks - ha ha ha - meets his lover in the coffee shop and does something hilariously awkward that results in a HUGE audience laugh, like messing up his romantic speech, accidentally knocking over the waitress, letting slip that he has AIDS and he's just bled in her coffee, or slipping up on a bannana peel. I mean, those bits are classic and god forbid, where would modern cinema be without Ryan Reynolds, but the REAL crux of the story is the first meeting and the inevitable happy climax. Which in this story was pretty exciting.

Basically, after six months of traipsing through the desert of singledom, which was a dusty barren place, filled with ugly people and convicts, I finally sighted the fabled Glade of the Girlfriends, a mythical place where girlfriends run about free range, trying on makeup and singing happy little songs about birds and pink things. Sighting this field, which smelled of perfume and hair, I leapt up onto my horse and galloped into the midst of it, twirling my lasso about like a medieval king. Seeing me, the girlfriends immediately scattered in all directions, shrieking in their high pitched women's voices, and I was in danger of not catching any. However, with a last act of desperation I threw out my lasso and captured a decent one. Hooked her right round the neck. Got her. Got'er. Got'er. Didn't I get'er? I got'er, didn't I? Got'er.
Using my intense strengh I dragged her away. It was only after we were five miles away from the Glade that I realised that I'd managed to get the same girlfriend that I was going out with this time last year. But then I didn't complain; it was too far away from the Glade for me to be arsed to go back, and as girlfriends go, Lucia isn't a bad specimin. Perhaps a bit thin, perhaps. Plus, her clothes are a bit kooky for my tastes and she always looks cold. But no, it was a pretty good catch. And consider what else I could have pulled out of the throbbing mass of femaledon that was the Glade of the Girlfriends. Just imagine...


DAVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINA.
Argh get away from me you facepulling overenthusiastic pregnant apple-bint. Eugh.

So that's the girlfriend angle pretty much covered. Now to discuss everything else that has happened to me recently...

2: ALL THE OTHER STUFF
School ended, I visited Cambridge University, I was disgusted by nerds, I went swimming, I saw Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Macguffin, I tried to get a job at WHSmith, I was unimpressed by the World Cup, I booked my practical driving test, I'm going to Durham tomorrow, I blogged. The End.

Shit, I forgot to include a sentence when I assert my amazing aesthetic and reproductive superiority over the rest of you. After all, my sense of humour and my brilliant personality (which has been hardened, purified and honed by years of rowing) has won through again, AND I HAVE A BUFF AWESOME TUBOCHARGED GIRLFRIEND WHILE ALL THE TALL RICH HANDSOME VANILLA-LOOKING MEN AROUND DO NOT. I win yet again. Mwahahahahahahaa!!!11!! Take that, internet!!1!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No but seriously, I hope you all find love wherever it shall appear from. Except you. You know who I'm talking about. You back there. You. Yes, YOU. No girlfriend for you, grimy.

And they lived happily ever after until she dumped him over MSN again when she realises what a crap boyfriend he is.

Seeing as so much exciting stuff is going down in my life at the moment...

I figured that it was a perfect opportunity to post a blog I wrote like a month ago and forgot to put up. There's nothing like a woefully outdated report on what I did after finishing my history exam ON THE SEVENTH OF JUNE. Enjoy.

• I played Legend of Zelda: Master Quest on the Gamecube for about three and a half hours. I killed the boss of the water temple without even losing a life! But I did have to use a fairy.
  
• I then played the fishing game on Zelda for a further 35 minutes, sitting in the dark. I caught a 13 pound fish! I was quite happy. I then saw a bigger fish in the water and spent like five minutes trying to get it. It did actually bite the hook but then it swam away and I never saw it again. Then the sun came up and I spent a few minutes trying to hook the hat off the fisherman's head.
  
• I revised topless in the sun. My torso is now pink. God damnit, Sun. What the fuck? Why did nobody other than the fifteen thousand adverts every day tell me that it's a bad idea to sit topless in direct sunlight for an hour and a half without suntan? WHY WASN'T I TOLD? Cunts.
  
• I watched the finale of Prison Break: Tale of bald men. I guessed correctly that the fat guy was gonna break the wires. AND HE DID. I didn't predict that the plane was going to take off and just leave them in the middle of a field. lolz rinsed.
  
• I TALKED TO A GIRL ON THE PHONE. A REAL ONE WITH TEETH AND EVERYTHING.
  
• I made myself a little crown with the words "Essay King" painted on them, and I ran around the house playing the clarinet and shouting I AM THE ESSAY KINGGGGGGGGGGG.
  
• I was revising and I found a comic strip that I drew ages ago and I put it at the bottom of this post.
  
• I set up a tent in my bedroom!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then I took it down again because it was boiling hot and I was unable to move anywhere. That, and it made my room smell weird.
  
• On my day off school I wore a school shirt and school tie, just because they were lying on the floor and it would mean I didn't have to put in the effort to actually open the drawer and find real clothes.
  
• I went to bed at 12.30. I woke up at 6.10. I then went down and sat in the garden AND READ A BOOK. It was quite a depressing book; at the end the entire family dies, except for this guy and his baby. He drops the baby in the garden and goes to visit a prostitute. When he returns, ants have killed the baby and have carried it to their anthill. He then goes mad and gets blown away by a tornado. The End.
  
• I wrote a blog talking about how awesome I am at writing essays.

One of those activies did not happen and was just made up occurence. Can you guess which?

And no, you don't get to see the cartoon that I drew. Fuck you, America.