29 minutes ago

I turned 18.
I became a man.
I am no longer in my larval stage, I am ready to spread my wings and fly about the world, kind of like that boss on Metroid Prime 2: Echoes. You know, that annoying one with the three stages. I have just completed stage one, which involves shooting myself in the tummy with missiles a few times. Now I'm gonna flap about pointlessly firing purple semen about willy nilly, before spasming randomly and flashing red AS THOUGH I WANT TO BE SHOT IN MY ONE WEAK SPOT. And then I'll go all black and nasty and spout out very useful babies all over the arena until I die and give up my prize possession of the Dark Visor.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this analogy, but I AM EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!

I should be more zinged about the moral and emotional ramifications of leaving my childhood behind and enjoying the world as an adult from now on. But really I'm just excited about the current state of my fridge.



LOOK AT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From now on my posts will be much more mature to show off my new adult viewpoint of the world.

POLITICS

I am a bitter bastard

There's a new TV show on the BBC. Entitled "How do you Solve a Problem Like Maria?" (HDYSAPLM?), it's basically the story of penguin-faced freak Andrew Lloyd Webber's attempts to cast the role of "Maria" in his new production "The Sound of Music". Now, many a penguin-faced freak would simply hold a series of anonymous auditions to choose the best actress for the production. But not Andy. Oooh boy no. No, Lloydy-W decided that naturally the best thing to do would be to hold a series of highly publicised TV auditions, a la Fame Academy/Pop Idol/X Factor/Who gives a shit and whittle down 2000 prospective Marias into one perfect specimin who he will then molest and impregnate with his future spawn. Lloyd does this for simple reasons; to entertain the general public, to give a chance to new up-and-coming talent, and to give us an insight into the harsh and difficult realm of theatrical auditions. Not to simply give himself and his new production lots of free publicity. Oh no. Definitely not that. He wants to help new artists. He's an angel. A total angel. A fucking saint. He makes Jesus look like a prick by comparison.

That's your introduction. Now, I'm a pretty balanced and even-handed person, so I won't bore you with my thoughts about The Sound of Music as a piece of art. Suffice to say, this picture that I made for an unrelated piece a year ago pretty much sums up my thoughts:



Usually I would be able to just ignore such a television program, just like I did with Love Island, The Salon, the entire last half of Big Brother and the 9/11 terrorist attacks. However I'm not allowed to skip this show because of one simple reason: I am going out with one of the finallists!!!!!! Yes, she's my girlfriend!!!! Or rather, a girl who my girlfriend's best friend once went to school with apparently auditioned and was told that she was very good and could be Maria. I can't remember what her name was. She might not even be in the show any more. I don't care. But in conclusion: I watched one episode last weekend, just to see what it was like. I managed to watch literally ten minutes before switching off in disgust and going upstairs to spray paint my hand.

Do you know why I turned it off? The answer may surprise you. It wasn't because the girls were particulary ugly. Indeed, many of them were very fine looking, of a pedigree similar to a well-bred racing horse, with fine cheekbones and kissable forearms. Was it because the singing was terrible? Nay, in fact many of them sang excellently. Was it due to Andrew Lloyd Webber's disturbingly eyebrowwed action-man-in-a-microwave visage, and his ruby red "I just ate my own genitals in beetroot" lips? NEIN. In fact, like many red-blooded males, I'm partial to a bit of the Andy Loyd-Webs; I think of him as something of a style icon, and I often spend hours photoshopping his head onto the bodies of fit young men.

No, the real reason that I switched off was because all the girls were too FUCKING YOUNG AND TALENTED. Yes. It seems that I have an aversion to young talented people. This is why I switched off HDYSAPLM?, why I drew moustaches and cut out the eyes of the pictures of the girls celebrating their GCSE victories in the paper, why I cheered when I heard about that paedophile murdering that beauty pageant girl. Although to be honest she had it coming. Little freak.

But all the girls on this show were just so fucking GOOD at what they were doing. It just highlighted to me the fact that I spent my childhood not going to music practises. Usually this makes me feel smug and superior, but then I realised that I do seem to be somewhat lacking in talents that I can use to make quick money and amuse myself with. It looked like they were really enjoying themselves too. They all had that healthy middle-class gushing 'We love to sing and dance we are just sooooo talented look at us with our awesome genes' thing going down. Not a care in the world. They obviously had already decided that they were to be our new rulers, the ones who would show us all how good humanity would be while we sat at home in stained whitey-tighties eating Ben&Jerry's with clenched fists and drooling into our porridge.

"Oh it doesn't matter if I don't win" gushed one. "I just love singing and entertaining millions of people every night. What more could you ask for?" FUCK YOU BITCH just becuase you love your job it doesn't mean that you have to rub your moral superiority in with the rest of us. Suuure you're awesome at singing, sure you love to entertain which is why your multiple appearances on TV are so good. Not publicising yourself and furthering your no-doubt glittering career in the West End. And are you sure you don't care if you win? Not even when you find out the twist in the show- if you get voted off YOUR LUNGS ARE PULLED OUT WITH A RAKE. That would really improve the show. Either you sing well Or You Never Sing Again. We'd get some passion out of those girls then. Because at the moment, they were so comfortably enjoying themselves that they seemingly forgot to inject any passion of any sort into their singing. This one girl was singing this song that required dancing, and all she did was kind of jump around the stage waving her arms in the air like a tiny scarecrow in a huge hoover. She didn't have a clue. "Sort your fucking life out!" I felt like yelling at the TV screen. I didn't.

I guess I just don't like talented or smart people full stop. They irritate me with their eternal earnestness and love for their talent. You know what? I bet they're full of flaws that I dont see on tv. I bet that singing is all they talk about. I bet they have no sense of humour. I bet that girl I was talking about earlier has a vagina shaped like a teacup. Ahaha I just realised, they're all gonna be out of a job in like a year anyway. Nobody goes to watch West End Shows anyway!! They're miles behind the times! Hardcore music is where it's AT. If any of them ladies started layin' down some hardcore tunes about being a shooting star or time periods or really being in love with a guy then perhaps I'd be worried. But as things stand, they're singing some shit about the hills being alive or something. Losers.

You know, that actually made me feel better? I no longer feel so bad about not being a virtuoso opera singer by the age of 18 now I've rinsed them on my blog. Take that, you super-happy ultra earnest bitches!! You got owned ON THE INTERNET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I just realised that I am going to die alone). Perhaps it's earnest people I don't like. I guess I'm bitter because I can no longer get enthusiasic about stuff. I wish I could, but unfortunately, in my mind, everyone should be jaded and sarcastic by the time they're 18 or They Will Fail At Life. Like me. I'm jaded and sarcastic and I'm gonna be 18 in four days.

HOLY SHIT FOUR DAYS

And what's my special talent? I cannot sing or dance or whittle little men out of wood like those twats on TV. I'm pretty good at writing semi-ironic stories about small inanimate objecting coming to life. Wait a second what am I saying? Writing stories? That's not a marketable talent. And neither is blogging. Blogging fucking sucks; who ever got rich and famous off blogging? Hmm. Perhaps I could be a grafitti artist. My spray painting is awesome. I mean look at this picture I did of my girlfriend:



Man my spray-paint girlfriend is hawt. Much hawter than yours. Your spray paint girlfriend looks like a fish. You loser. So yeah perhaps I'll make my money and name out of spray painting stuff. Like Banksy. Now if only I had the fortitude to go out and vandalise summat with pictures of my girlfriend and Harold from Neighbours. That'd be sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet. Oh well.

FUCK ME I BECOME AN ADULT IN LESS THAN A WEEK. I'D BETTER GO EAT PENNY CANDY WHILE I STILL CAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

EDIT: I just saw this article in the Sunday Times about this girl who plays the violin or something: "She has played the violin since the age of two. She begin training as a professional at seven, and started recording at 13. In 2003 she won the Classical Brits Young Performer award. Her third album is released tomorrow." ... "By the time I was 10 I was taught at home. I did my GCSES in music and German at 11 and got A* for both. I took German A-Level at 12, and my music A level and Spanish GCSE at 13... when I was 13 I had my debut at Munich..."
Fuck off.

Plug a wire into my brain and power Swansea!!!!!!!

My AS/A Level results

(NB: the 'A' mark for each of the AS levels is above 240/300. The A for the A Level proper is 480/600)

Critical "Who ever gave a shit about Critical Thinking?" Thinking: 254 (which is an A, but literally, Critical Thinking is the most pointless subject ever and I don't even want to include it with the rest of my 'real' exam results... screw you, Cri'ical Thinkin'. Tu quoque my ass)
History: 283/300 (A. A A A A A A A A A A. In case you were wondering, I got 90/90 on World War One. WORLD WAR ONE. THE SUBJECT THAT I LITERALLY TAUGHT MYSELF FROM THREE WORK SHEETS TWO DAYS BEFORE THE EXAM. I also got 81/90 in the Empire section, which pleased me because Empire is literally the hardest shit ever)
English Language: 293/300 (That's an A, in case you were wondering. Wait... did I... only drop... SEVEN MARKS? Out of three hundred? What the fuck? But that's like a score of 97.666%!!! Surely that's not possible? Except it is, apparently. And how. I'm so good they should drain my blood and sell it in tiny vials on street corners.)
English Literature: 270/300 (A. Duh. But it really says something that this was my most disappointing result. And I know that I should've done better. If only I could, somehow, do some other EXTRA, possibly ADVANCED EXTENSION exam, to prove to the world that I really am the King of English Literature. But what sort of exam could there be, that was both an extension of Literature A level, but also in some way... advanced?)

English Advanced Extension Level: Distinction (Oh yes, this'll do. in case anybody was wondering, yes, that was actually the highest possible mark that could every possibly be achieved in the Ol' English AEA, most difficult English-related exam ever. Yes, Distinction. I distinguished myself. I didn't get none of that pass or merit shit. No doggy, it was Distinction all the way. Ooh I'm so hot I'm just burnin' up. Kind of like Oskar Matzerath/Bronski's mama in the book "The Tin Drum" after she caught the fish-poisoning fever. Yes, that was a literature reference. Thank u 4 noticing.)

French A Level: 520/600 - A

YES YOU HEARD ME I GOT AN A AT FRENCH A LEVEL. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS??? I NEVER EVERY HAVE TO DO FRENCH EVER AGAIN!!! I CAN DROP IT!!! THIS FRENCH SHIAT IS OOOOOOOVER!!! NO MORE TENSES! NO MORE LE, LA OR LES! SUBJUNCTIVE, YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF! NO MORE COURSEWORK!!!! HURRAH FOR BEING ABLE TO REPEATEDLY RETAKE AS LEVEL AND THEN JUST GET SUCH A HUGE MARK ON THE FIRST HALF THAT I COULD TO FUCK UP A-LEVEL AS MUCH AS I WANTED AND STILL SCRAPE THE A!!! YAY MATHS!!!! And my mum (who likes to pretend that she made a contribution) worked out my score and told me that I was still technically part of the theoretical French A* elite. My question is thus: HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? I'm CRAP at French! I can't believe that nobody has noticed this for the past years of schooling. I just sat in the classroom sinking lower and lower into my seat wondering what the hell I was doing. I think that my french teacher no. 2, who actually is French and thus is more capable of seeing my utter ineptitude at her subject, clocked that I had no idea what I was doing towards the end of the year. I mean, check out my report:



Although that doesnt seem that bad, to be honest, compared to the rest of my report (which mostly consisted of the words "Very good", "Nonchalent", and "Coasting", that was a PASTING. I got RAPED. But thinking about it, I sure showed her.
"Not really achieved the linguistic standard"? Yeah whatever I'll see you in court with my 86% TOP TIER A. And to be honest, who needs linguistic standards when you can retake the first half several times until you get the score you want? Although, thinking at it, I didn't even need to retake as I would have got the A anyway. Hmm. So there was no point in learning that fucking Luc Besson oral presentation a second time. Intriguing and annoying.

(The part in italics was basically me thinking out loud. Or typing. Out loud.)

And ANYWAY, while she's mocking my inability to speak french (which is... obvious and quite embarassing), what the FUCK is "God luck"? And do you "no think" that I'm good? I'm not bein' funny but you should get to work on sortin' out your English before you get started on my french. People in glass houses, love. People in glass houses.

So in conclusion, my exam results were acceptable to me. Not to my mother, who apparently thinks that getting 77/90 on a Shakespeare paper is some sort of major cussage. Whatever. Man I am SOOOOOO smart. You people must be getting more intelligent by just reading my words on a piece of paper.

Does this post sound smug? Good. It should.

Next on the agenda: Failing my driving test.

Me vs Fly

I was thinking about writing a long political diatribe about the attempted terror attacks on the planes and how exciting it would be to have another big-ass terror attack on Britain. Then I'd try to imagine some of the awesome nicknames and conspiracy theories that'd evolve around the 16/8 (or for you Americans, 8/16... morons) attacks. I bet The Sun would run some sort of "The Sky is Falling" headline, and then people would be like "BUT EIGHT IS HALF OF SIXTEEN!!! CONSPIRACYS!!!!" and I'd just sit back in my chair and enjoy the 24 hour news coverage with the reporters trying to stretch the same ten second press release out into a whole weeks' worth of programming. I do love it every time a major catastrophe occurs. It's just so exciting; television gets a party atmosphere. Ideally, I would have one happening historically every month which would be a cause for lots of interesting documentaries... a best case scenario would be a terror attack that kills like four times the number of 9/11 so that the Americans would finally shut the fuck up, but I fear that that ship has sailed. Especially now we're protected against arabs weilding iPods on planes. Unless the arabs can get hold of a nuclear bomb and take out Slough or something. That'd be cool. Alas, tis not to be.

However I realised that nobody cares about terrorism and anyway there are plenty of really smart people out there to write really intelligent things about it anyway. Like Oli Gill, that crazy bong-weilding hair-negro. So that base is covered. However, last night I realised that there are literally ZERO political commentators talking about the big-ass fly that flew into my bedroom at one in the morning and kept me awake for a whole thirty minutes of hardcore fly-hunting. Because, you see, it's major news, and is the reason that I was half asleep at the wheel today and I drove OVER a roundabout, started cackling, then bunny-hopped the car for fifteen metres. I didn't get much sleep last night. I can't just let a fly be. I can't just say to myself "Oh he's not really hurting you Thomas, just let him buzz about". I CAN'T!!! YOU KNOW WHY???

1: This fly had decided to buzz really REALLY loudly which was just annoying
2: I was baaaaaare tired blud. Being, as I am, a really cool guy who has his own non-plastic girlfriend and a burgeoning social life, I had spent the previous evening at a high-class cocktail party, sipping martinis, hanging with high-profile authors and dancing the night away. The previous sentence was a lie; I was in some flat drinking Fosters, trying to stop a drunken teenage girl from throwing up, falling over, or doing both simultaneously, and I slept on a sofa with a dog. An actual dog. His name is Rufus and his eyes are bulgy. In conclusion: I'd got like four hours of sleep and I was very much in the mood to kill something.
3: I have this thing about flies; my theory is that if I go to sleep with a fly in the room it will shit all across my face, drink my phlegm and possibly lay eggs in my mouth. Then I'll wake up and there will be a bunch of motherfucking maggots in my face eating my lips. AND I WON'T BE HAPPY AT ALL. AND NEITHER WILL MY GIRLFRIEND. Unless maggot-mouthed boys are a turn-on for her. Which is a possibility; we all know about Catherine Zita-Jones and corpseman. I'll ask her if me eating a bunch of annelids would turn her crank; I'm willing to experiment for love
4: I'm basically Turok the Dinosaur Hunter (except with flies); if there's one in my room, I consider it a personal mission to wipe that motherfucker off the face of the planet using whatever comes to hand, be it DVD case, flyswatter, or Cerebal Bore.

In this case the first item to hand was a copy of The Tin Drum, a very scathing book by a german man called Gunther G-Dizzly. It was ironic to be trying to crush a fly using literature concerning the Nazis. I'm not sure HOW it was ironic, but it probably represented the struggle of humanity against oppression or something. Give me ten minutes and I'll write an English Literature essay on it. So, wearing nothing more than a pair of boxers, I seized my Modern Classic and sprang lithely from the scummy mattress that serves as my bed. I tell you, it was pretty erotic, me leaping left and right, the fly flipping about like a crackhead irishman with a jetpack, easily avoiding the heavy hand of the book. Eventually I realised that, in fact, it was a total waste of time to try to destroy the fly using conventional methods; I'd have to use every ounce of my cunning to kill this flying mollusc.

AND THEN IT STRUCK ME. Light!!! The fly was only going into the BRIGHTLY LIT part of the room!!!! If I utilised my abilities to turn on and off said light, I could somehow ambush and trap the little cunt then kill it to death!! It was a long shot, but it just might work... (By the way, if you are expecting this blog to go somewhere, rest assured, it doesn't. This literally is just the story of me trying to kill a fly).

So with no further ado, I constructed a rudimentary trap out of the anglepoise lamp and my rowing hat (famed as the most ugly piece of habidashery on the planet). With all the lights turned off, the anglepoise would be the only source of illumination in the room. The fly would go INTO it, and I would then raise the hat, trapping said fly inside said lamp. Then I would somehow find a way of smooshing it, possibly with the use of my fist.

For the next fifteen minutes I sat motionless, staring intently at the lightbulb and wondering balefully why my plan was not working. The fly was just zooming merrily around in circles above my head, occasionally going next to the anglepoise, slowing down, before fucking off for another twenty laps of the room. To be honest, it was taking the piss and I was Not Amused. Not At All.

However EVENTUALLY my waiting paid off. The fly flew towards the anglepoise... went inside it... stopped... I RAISED THE HAT... THE COCKMONKEY WAS TRAPPED WITHIN! I whooped just a little and tried to crush said insect, which was, I am pleased to report, panicking and ramming the lightbulb, in the inside of the hat. After a good thirty seconds of hard smooshage, I slowly, cautiously, lowered the hat, and peered within, confident of seeing some flyguts crushed across the lightbulb.

There was nothing.

The fly flew past my ear.

Who knows how the bastard escaped? Some things will never be understood by science. But that more or less did it, I said 'fuck it' to the plan, turned on the lights, and chased the fly about with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Needless to say, I did not manage to smoosh it. I tried to trap it ONE MORE TIME using the anglepoise and a carefully placed bit of paper, but that fly wasn't having any of it. I had to admit defeat. I couldn't kill it. And I was literally on the verge of exhaustion-begotten tears. So I turned off all the lights in my room, turned on the ones in the toilet, and waved fondly as flyface followed the light signatures to its new life downstairs. I collapsed into bed, a beaten man, and had a series of dark and disturbing dreams about fish-faced penguin-donuts, skyscrapers filled with skips filled with chairs, and gardens sheds containing old people dressed in lederhosen.

BUT THE STORY DOESN'T END THERE ...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

I awoke the next day feeling refreshed and ready for adventure. So I consumed a repast of coffee and Weetabix and decided to have a shower, to really buff my carved-outta-wood physique to its maximum shininess. I tell you, Lucia is a lucky girl. I stripped down to the requisite boxers, and was about to go nude and shock the mirror, when I heard a sound. A familiar sound. A BUZZING SOUND...

Guess who had turned up for round two? Yes it was Mr Fly, having a good leer at my nearly-nude body. But he'd made the fatal error of choosing the toilet for our second fight. For the toilet is smaller than my room. It lacks the multiple nooks and crannies for a wily insect to perch upon and hide in. The fly knew this, natch, so it flew up to the ceiling and hung there as if to say "Come and get me, coppa". So I grabbed a cup and climbed bravely up onto the toilet seat. NB: my feet were actually soaking wet at this point and I could have easily lost my footing, slipped, smashed out all my teeth on the sink, fallen backwards, broken my neck on the step to the shower, which would somehow overheat and spray petrol on my body and roast me like a duck in a genocide. Which would have counted as a win to the fly. This raised the tension as I reached out to the fly with my cup. Seeing my opening gambit, the fly hid INSIDE the light fitting, which in my opinion was a bit of a cheap move, especially as it couldn't get out again. Now I could've just left it there; it would have basically starved to death if I'd stood there long enough, but was that sporting? NO. I had to give the fly a fair chance, so I half ripped the light-thing out of the ceiling to give Cecil. A. Fly his freedom. But as soon as he was free, BLAM, I trapped him. It was bare exciting.

But then I realised that I was standing, full stretch, on a toilet seat, supporting the cup with the tip of my fingers, and that I had no way of trapping the fly IN the cup. As soon as I tried to pull the cup away the fly would escape. Which it did. Twice. On the third attempt, I, still balancing precariously with wet feet on the slippery enamel toilet seat, managed to pick up a toilet roll with one foot, and bring it to my free hand. Then, using my teeth, I managed to rip off a bit of paper and try to use it to cover the opening of the cup as I drew it away from the wall. It didn't work. The fly escaped. I fell off the toilet seat.

RIGHT this meant war. So I grabbed a handy a packet of sandpaper from the shelf (Please don't ask why there is sandpaper in my bathroom... SOMETIMES A GUY GETS LONELY, OK?) and re-captured the fly, which had fucked off under the light fitting again. THEN I managed to get the sandpaper packet under the cup and trap the fly. THEN I thought to myself "I'll scan the fly". So I scanned the cup:



... before deciding on ways of killing the fly. Should I just crush it into paste? Or make a tiny hole and pour a load of water inside? Boiling water? WAX? Glue? Paint? Pull off its wings and use it for pleasure? Should I set fire to it, or asphyxiate it? Or lock it in a hotel room for fifteen years, let it out again, trick it into having sex with its own daughter, then tell it and laugh as its commits suicide? WHAT? WHAT? WHAAAAAAAT?

I let it go. This is because deep down I am a really nice person and any woman would be proud for me to be the father of her babies. Especially YOU. Plus, it had been a good opponent and had earned its life. This way, I got to be the undisputed victor and also a king of kindness. I'm going to heaven. ARE YOU? No. Fuckers. I WIN!!!!

The End

Hey, check it out! It's your bi-annual Serious Post! (with added hatchets)

I think I'm having a midlife crisis. And I'm only 17. Fuck.

In TWENTY SEVEN DAYS I will become 18. An adult. A MAN. I think this means that I'll suddenly grow a long bushy beard, will develop a taste for fine ale, a love of red plaid shirts, and an appreciation for the soothing music of Simon (but not Garfunkel, the cunt). This has caused me to have many deep philosophical thoughts about my own existence vis-a-vis the ending of my childhood and the spending of my youth. And let me tell you I WAS NOT IMPRESSED WITH WHAT I SAW. The more I thought, the more of the adorable little experiences of childhood I seem to have totally missed out on. I never ran barefoot through the fields wearing a straw hat and tattered dungarees to catch a fat juicy trout for dinner. I never got a girl pregnant and then had to get my father to beat her to death with a golf club to protect the family honour. I never even ODd on drugs and collapsed on the beach, only to be rescued by my lesbian lover. Never gone to a concert. Never thrown a wicked-awesome party. To be honest I have totally wasted my childhood.

I think the depression started when I got the girlfriend back again. YEAH THANKS A LOT LUCIA YOU'RE DUMPED. No I'm kidding. Or am I? Yes I am.
For some reason, I have somehow been lucky enough to lassoo the 17 year old female version of Superman - she just flies about doing millions of awesome things and living Life To DA FULL. She's like a Diet Coke advert. Except she's not a tortoise. This makes me sad, because I tend to be quite an inert person. I don't like being inert, but goddamnit if I have nothing to do, I'm not gonna go skateboarding; I'm going to sit at home staring at the wall complaining to myself at having nothing to do. I always do this on Summer Holidays and so far I've enjoyed it fine. But now I'm spending my time with The Most Active Girl On The Planet, I have been doing some comparing and I'm not gonna lie, I'm not impressed with the relative emptiness of my own existence. For fuck's sake Thomas. PEOPLE MY LIFE IS HOLLOW AND MEANINGLESS. I tried to fill the void (heh, fill the void), with a variety of activities. Art, for example:



Yep.

Then I tried to get a job and realised that after more than a decade of expensive schooling, I have literally no marketable skills. Everyone else I know is a super-qualified musician or windsurf instructor or makes opium in a secret drug-lab in his attic. I have ten A*s at GCSE and I am refused work wherever I go. Although my theory is that HMV probably rejected my application because it featured the words "I have literally no retail experience whatsoever," followed by a little picture of a smiley face, and contained a claim that I'd managed to revolutionise anglo-romanian relations by teaching the Romanian art department French (nb: is a lie).
BUT THIS DOES NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT I HAVE DONE LITERALLY NOTHING WITH MY CHILDHOOD. What can I put on the CV? "Quite good at English and blogging and sarcasm". And even the blogging seems to have taken a nose-dive, especially following the total lack of response to the last post, and the drought of inspiration I've having right now. So then I found myself questioning the very core beliefs of my existence. Am I really going anywhere in my life? PERHAPS I'm not as good at everything as I think. Perhaps I'll just end up wasting my life in a boring office job because I'm too damn useless to get up and do something exciting. I was basically staring at a dark abyss in which all my dreams and aspirations were being eaten up by my own mediocrity.
I'm not gonna lie, I considered taking the ultimate step. Yes, I was gonna go emo. I ponced about wearing skinny jeans, and I stabbed myself in the eye with a paperclip listening to Hawthorne Chemical Height Romance. It didn't make me feel much better but it DID give me a really interesting story to tell my optician (nb: is a lie. I don't have an optician. My eyes aren't retarded like yours).

What else? Oh yeah:

• I'm broke
  
• I'm never gonna pass my driving test
  
• My life is empty and meaningless
  
• I started listening to Kosheen which to be honest is never a good sign
  
• I'm gonna fail A-Level French and have to repeat it next year. MERDE
  
• Everybody I know is fucking off on holiday again
  
• My goldfish died and I tried to bury him but then it turned out he wasnt dead and he leapt out of my hand and landed in a lawmower but even then he wasn't dead so I tried to recussitate him using a lightbulb but then it turned out that it killed him and cooked him and then my grandad ate him while I was weeping over his corpse
  
• I have a heat rash on my stomach
  
• WHINGE WHINGE WHINGE. IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL CRY IF I WANT TO

So basically I was at a very dark and quite disturbing spiritual crossroads. On the one hand I could choose the path of the nihilist, making a proactive attempt to better my life by striking out on my own, making something of myself and becoming a success on my own terms. On the other, I could accept the fact that my life is never going to amount to much and sink into a depressing bile-filled swamp of mediocracy. There was, of course, a third option, which was to make some really shallow and aesthetic changes, pretend that I'd somehow struck out on my own without doing anything major, and continue to float through life in my own slightly depressed bubble. To be honest, the correct path sticks out for me like a shining lightbulb of beauty.

So, with no further ado, may I present... MY NEW BLOG!!!!11!!!!!

HATCHET ZOMBIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hatchet: a single handed striking tool with a sharp blade used to cut and split wood.

See what I did there? Hatchet? Chainsaw? Hatchet's like a smaller version of a Chainsaw, which suits Hatchet Zombie's status as the Lite version of Chainsaw Zombie? You get me? It's funny, innit? I'm so smart. In case you are worried (why would anybody be worried about an internet blog?) the current blog will still function as normal (ie: me posting a 500 million word long post every week which nobody's going to read anyway). However, Hatchet Zombie will be a spawning ground for all the other shit that pops into my head in the meantime - three line posts, pictures of my penis with a little smiley face biroed on, reviews of Panic! at the Disco songs etc etc etc. Think about it this way: if Chainsaw Zombie is the Atom Bomb of comic blogging genius, then Hatchet Zombie will be, like, the Sub-Machinegun. That's a metaphor which I don't expect anybody to understand.

So in conclusion, yes, my genius requires TWO lame blogs to completely contain it. I'm that smart.







Sigh. Oh well, at least I'm not the guy hosting the remix show on XFM. What. A. Twat. "Mash-up" indeed. Wanker.

A bird? A plane? Who the heck cares?

I saw Superman Returns (Aka Superman 5: Lots of Shots of Things Vibrating and Lights Inexplicably turning Themselves Off) last night with the squaw. At the cinema (that's right, none of those Pirate DVDs for me - that's stealing and STEALING IS A CRIME). I'm not gonna lie, I was quite excited to see it. I mean, I'm a huge fan of the original films (I saw the last five minutes of the first one at the dentist's one day, and I swear there was another one where Supes was getting beaten down by these three other guys and I definitely watched a good five minutes of that and being slightly amused) and I had heard nothing but good things about the latest incarnation. So I was pleasantly anticipating an enjoyable evening's entertainment in the company of everyone's favourite man of steel, flying about, saving the day, and generally being an all-round do-gooder.

I left the film with a very unpleasant taste in my mouth. No- not Cilit Bang (although that does taste pretty foul, even while mixed with Pimms, most delicious thing ever), but the bitter taste of DISAPPOINTMENT. And DISGUST. And, worst of all, DISAPPOINTMENT. For I felt let down by Supes. He wasn't the all-American rampaging hero of fortune that I had expected. No. He was a pointless boring selfish racist child-molester. Yes, you heard me. A BORING POINTLESS SELFISH RACIST CHILD-MOLESTER. HE KIDDY-FIDDLES!!! HE HATES THE BLACKS!!! RAAAAAACIST!!! I should write to someone to complain.

(By the way, this post contains spoilers about Superman Returns. Like the fact that Lex Luthor turns out to be Superman's mother. And Superman ends up with some ugly son who needs a super-haircut).

But surely Thomas, you are saying, Surely you are mistaken? Superman... he can't be a boring selfish racist child-molester! That makes no sense! No sense at all! He's the man of steel! He can do anything! He saves people from stuff! Surely he's a useful exciting selfless non-prejudiced child-SAVER! You have no proof! You must be wrong!

See, that's an interesting point of view, and I know that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I really have two main responses to it. The first is to bitch-slap you and say YOUR RONG. I am never mistaken - there are Ten A*s at GCSE backing me up on this point here. The second is that actually, yes I do have proof. Well, I say proof. I mean rhetoric. But they are both equally valid in a court of law. I will now argue my points:

Superman is pointless
This is a bit of a controversial point but I'm going to argue it anyway because I have nothing better to do. Now I know at first glance Superman would appear to be anything BUT pointless - after all, he flies about the world saving people from falling down buildings and shit. But when you really think about it, does he ever make a significant difference to anything? I mean, Superman's dad said that Superman would be a 'guiding light' and lead humanity to greater things. Superman don't do none of that shit, he basically just saves humanity from things falling on them. Woop, big leader, you prevented like ten or twelve people being crushed by a giant metal globe. I'M REALLY IMPRESSED. ZZZ. Now balance the budget if you want to impress me. Or secure world peace. Or cure cancer.
We never see you do any of those things because basically your entire job is to provide a big springy safety-net for careless people. You know what I think? If you're dumb enough to build a huge easily-toppled brass globe on the roof of your skyscraper then you DESERVE to be crushed when it fall off at the slightest provocation. All Superman does is provide a get-out clause for idiots. Guiding light for humanity my ass.

Superman is boring
The thing about Superman is that he's a really shit comic-book hero, just because he's so good. The guy can fly at supersonic speeds, hear anything, is bulletproof, has ice-breath and laser-vision, and is impervious to everything except kryptonite and, apparently, horses. None of his enemies even stand a chance. At least Batman can get beaten up by some skinny psychiatrist with a bag on his head. Spiderman gets bumraped by a train and gravity. Daredevil got his ass kicked by a fat black guy (although Daredevil is crap). But Superman can just fly off whenever he wants and melt his enemies' heads from afar. None of the bad-guys stand a chance, which thus reduces all the tension in the film down to 0. Oh look, he's going to shoot them oh no wait Superman saved the day. Oh christ the fire is about to burn down the oh look Superman saved the day. Jesus watch out he just fell off that balcon oh look Superman saved the zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Although it sure is lucky that Superman returned, like, the day before every screw in the city simultaneously exploded and everything starting falling off high places. Cough the scriptwriter is a moron cough.

I mean, I would be slightly placated if it turned out that there was ever some real threat to Superman's dominence. It would be ok if Superman's arch enemy, Kevin Spacey, had some kind of awesome plan to destroy humanity that could theoretically work. But what is Spacey's plan? I'll tell you what: Spacey's plan is to use magic crystals to make some huge island right next to America, which he will then sell or something and make lots of money. Unfortunately, in doing so he will also destroy all of America. Ok. Good plan Spacey. A few problems though:
1: Your plan sucks.
2: There's an entire fecken Pacific ocean, why make your gay little island right next to America, where you'll kill loads of people and piss off the rest of the planet?
3: How the hell are you going to assert your leadership over your new continent? Are you just gonna be, like "Hey check it out I'm Kevin Spacey you have to pay me a million pounds to live on my island. And no girls allowed," to the police? Good luck loser.
4: Your new 'continent' is like half a metre wide. It's not gonna be knocking down America any time soon. And then Superman can just lift it up and throw it into space. GREAT PLAN.
5:Your island looks like shit. Nobody's gonna wanna live in a huge black crystallised pit in the middle of some rubbish sea.

So in conclusion: Superman is boring and his enemy is rubbish.

Superman is selfish
Superman is a selfish cunt.

You know in Spiderman when they go, like "With great power comes great responsibility", yeah? That means that you always have you use your powers to help people. And if you're Superman AKA strongest man alive AKA man who never gets tired AKA man who needs to rest AKA man who can go around forever, saving people 24/7, that's exactly what you should do: Devote ALL your time to helping people. You don't save people for like two hours a day, then fuck off and go to work in some office, pretending to be some bumbling crap guy called Clark Kent. That isn't acceptable. You are Superman; you have literally no reason to have an alter-ego. You don't need the money. You never even do any work you lazy shit. The only reason that Superman goes to work is to hang about with Lois Lane.
Let's compare superheroes. Spiderman is poor, he's failing university, he can't get a girlfriend, he's a loser, but HE STILL GOES OUT TO SAVE PEOPLE AS MUCH AS HE CAN. Now imagine all the hundreds of people who are crushed by falling objects while Superman is poncing about ogling Lois Lane in secret. You know why those people died? BECAUSE SUPERMAN WANTED TO GET LAID. Selfish bastard.

Superman is a racist
In this film, they try to give Superman a more wide-ranging and worldy range of skills. So you see him saving Germans and French people from falling objects and there are news reports from across the globe about his skillz. But you know what you never see? That's right. Superman saving Africans. There are no shots of him drop-kicking man-eating tigers across the Serengheti, or throwing machete-weilding drug-traffickers down the Victoria Falls, or doing any of the awesome stuff that he could do in Africa. And actually, thinking about it, if he's so fucking good why doesn't he try to solve all the environmental problems that the Africans have? Just off the top of my head, I say he could use ice-breath on the sea, create a huge block of ice, then use his super strength to lift said ice into the fields of the farmers. Or he could use his fire-eyes to melt everyone who has AIDS. He's Superman. He can do that. But does he? Does he FUCK. (I don't think we see a single black person being rescued in Superman Returns. In fact, I don't think we see a single black person at all FULL STOP. It's like the whitest film ever.) No African kids get to eat anything, but Lois Lane does get rescued like fifteen times. What would you rather have, Lois Lane, or the entire country of Ethiopia? Thanks to you Superman, you racist gringo, millions of cute black kids are dying. Bastard.



Superman is a Child Molester
Near the end of the film, Superman is in some random coma (?). Lois Lane and her son come and visit him. Now Lois - who is admittedly not bad looking for a whitegirl - bends over him, shows some cleavage, gives him a bit of a smooch, and what does he do? Naff all. He just lies there like a super-vegetable. But the moment after her cute little son (with a nice pink arse and no hair on his balls) runs up and gives him a kiss, well LOOK AT THAT he's straight out of bed and reporting for duty, the dirty bush-badger. And what does he do the moment after recovering from hospital? Does he go save some people? Does he catch Lex Luthor? Does he FUCK he flies right into the bedroom of said sleeping little boy and perves over him. Then he zooms off just as the boy awakens. Well I don't know about you but that screams PAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOPHILIAL SONFUCKER to me.

Thinking about it, Superman would be a really good child molester. Mothers would willingly leave him with their children, then he could just fly off with them and bugger them on top of Mount Rushmore or something. He'd be like Ian Huntley but with powers. That'd be a well good film actually. About a superpowered child-molester and the heros who have to stop him. I think we should get perverted-justice.net involved. They're the only ones with the suffient skillz to put superperve in his place. Hmm.

* * *

So yeah, we can conclude that the character of Superman is total rubbish. But that's not to say that the entire film was unimpressive, the pacing was off, the romantic subplot felt forced, there was a total lack of suspense, mystery or tension, the plot was boring, the characters were stilted, one dimensional and unappealing, and Superman had no personality and just acted as a cypher. All those points are also true.

So in conclusion: Superman Returns is shit. Don't go and see it. I certainly won't watch the sequel. Unless, of course, they do a film version of this lesser-known plotline from one of the classic comic books:



I think I speak for all of us when I say I'd pay good money to see that.