| Lissen up, flakes! |
[21 May 2007|07:38pm] |
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Can everyone just stop making records? You're not Frank Zappa, and as such, are just getting in the way.
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| A thing |
[09 May 2007|06:13pm] |
Dope sticks run on to giggling good licks,
and everyone is totalled on the road to high bliss.
Eagle claw romance with Denver High honey charm attrition,
The formulae are complex, mangled beyond all recognition.
Like fields of fire and what could be better than lust,
but with the automated God delivery system, it's in ESP we trust.
Harmless and sedate, with ten clear kilometres to gain
Awful kicking backdrop fly near to clear hairy drain.
And round buzzing fatted cash calves in Notting Hill Gate,
bean weapon ill-judged to set records straight.
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| Don't lift your foot off of that land mine switch till I make the 20 yard dash and cover my eyelid |
[20 Apr 2007|01:36am] |
Here's me!
Been training all week to be a consultant. They're not going to make me a consultant, which is great because I can just shout shit at them over video conference because I have have nothing to lose. I can also drink heavily at work, as it's till eleven, and all the other fuckers have gone home.
Leona's still in Barbados, we're both gutted about the re-demise of English cricket, but you'll all just find that a bit funny.
Annoyed at people not chatting to me, no-one calls me except Guy, Leona and Jenny, and it's not like I haven't tried, those stupid bastards. Don't know a good thing when they sit on it.
New good music is mainly El-P's new album, which has become the best record of this year by 15 kilometres. Oh, and every review I have read agrees with me, which is a potential first. Also Infected Mushroom, a psychedelic trance band from Israel, and Karp, an old noise rock band who broke up. Well done and hats off to all of you.
Oh, and stupid props to Devin Townsend, who I thought would never interest me again, for making perhaps the stupidest album of this decade. It's called Ziltoid the Omniscient, and you can all scramble madly to follow my instructions as per usual, only you shouldn't, because in all honesty, you guys, I am not really the cultural guru you all imagine me to be. Fucking sarcastic jokey face.
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| Review - Pop Will Eat Itself - The Looks Or The Lifestyle |
[21 Mar 2007|01:41pm] |
It's time for a critical re-appraisal of PWEI, because for the longest
time, everybody hated them. Everybody, that is, but their fans. It is
a mark of true distinction to be one of those bands that people loved
or loathed. It is not a mark of true distinction, however, to have the
criticism "better t-shirts than albums" pointed at you. But with Clint
Mansell, who has persistently recorded under the name Vestan Pance
(Why, Clint, why?), churning out quality, celebrated film scores for
well respected films, and Robert 'Fuzz' Townshend working with the
well-good party reggage outfit Pama International, not to mention the
others' good works, the question we have to ask is, "How did it come
to this?"
What did the Poppies do to offend so many music lovers? Perhaps it
didn't help that they were Brummies. I mean, who takes a bunch of
idiots with serious image issues, from Birmingham, singing about the
most preposterous imagings, seriously? Step forward, Black Sabbath.
The comparison is perhaps not so facetious. Both bands did stupid
music. Often, very stupid music. Both bands also hit occasionally
serious themes, like drug or alcohol abuse, or in the case of PWEI,
even the resurgence of Fascism in Europe during the nineties. But the
comparison is also limited. Because while Sabbath leant their subjects
a serious tone; all weighty drawn-out epics and pained, gurning,
hair-metal vocals, Clint Mansell bobbed about with floppy
multi-coloured dreads offering up middle-class white-boy rapping
(Mmmmm, my favourite kind of rapping), over jaunty, chirpy, 80's
synth-rock and cheesy dumb riffs. How dare he sing about Miles Hunt's
alcoholism on the same record as a song with the refrain "Get the
girl, kill the baddies, and save the entire planet!"?
So there is perhaps then no defence for them. Except that, despite giving the impression on paper of being the worst possible combination of musical idiosyncracies of late 80's Britain, they are unfathomably lovable. Because for every ten people who think the Poppies are a joke and hate them for it, there's one who knows they're a joke and loves them for it. The styles they use range from pre-industrial pop riffage to dub styles bass lines, though eighties synth banging to the very edge of early rave. And they don't even do any of it particularly well. But the appeal of The Looks Or The Lifestyle is embedded deep within it's own self-revelling stupidity. The very fact that the first song finds them promoting themselves as "England's Finest" and then submitting us all to a gang chorus of "P.W.E.I." does not sit well with anyone who might take music vaguely seriously. Or Urban Futuristic, a thoroughly moronic and fun as hell thrash metal/techno lite stomp, with a chorus of "No More Mr Nice Guy!", schismically sung somewhere between arrogant punk and total bedwetter-ism. And for every dumb or weak rhyme, and there are plenty of those ("You and I! Unify!" truly belongs to it's age), or angsty nuance of self-indulgement ("My life's a private Hell" could never be heard without derision or scorn from a modern cynical audience) there's a pervading sense of earnesty. It feels like they've tried really hard, and they know they're not very good, but does Bulletproof make me dance around my bedroom like a total prick? A bit.
To sum up, it's a record as good as any T-shirt. If you can suspend that Uber-cool cynicism for an hour, it becomes a great antidote to po-faced post-modernity.
And you can even trick yourself, as I do, that by liking stuff that everyone else hates, you are the coolest human there is. Although, that depends on your definition of cool. See, it's so difficult to avoid this cynicism, and that makes this record all the better.
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| That was OK |
[12 Nov 2006|07:18pm] |
Plainclothes in hedgerows,
I've done a lot more for protection in dust bowls.
Wishing for in to the rickety rackety,
short skirts in triplicate, throw the book at me.
Transfer to nacotics,
links to all modern smear,
I waited for this all last year.
It's easy to get hurt, it's hard to put in,
wired to Serpico, a lamb dressed as mutton.
There was only one peanut left,
you told me I couldn't have it,
but that was OK, the last one stuck my throat
like a splintered bone fragment.
You wouldn't even visit when I got shot in the fucking jaw.
And that was OK, you wouldn't have got past the two cops on the door.
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| A Music Review |
[15 Oct 2006|05:22pm] |
OK, that new DJ Shadow album, The Outsider, has been around for a bit. And it's had a lot of attention, because he's a very highly respected underground hip hop DJ. But not all of that attention has been good. In fact, plenty of it has amounted, more or less, to outright hatred.
In all fairness, this album does kind of smack of a 'why have you done that?' paradigm. Much like when Primus covered all of Pink Floyd's Animals live, note for note. Perhaps not such a double-take-athon as THAT John Zorn thing with duck call that hasn't been released yet. But then you kind of come to expect those things of those people, don't you? DJ Shadow is not known for his complete insanity, but he is known for mashing styles together in a way which makes something greater, or at least different to the sum of its parts, which makes this album more interesting.
Further explanation is needed. What he's done, more or less, is made an album that's a fifty fifty split between his recent sound mashings, which despite 'Yawn, it sounds like Radiohead' detractors putting it into little boxes not completely understanding, are actually good, and a crunk album. I admire this. What is going to fuck off your pseudo-intellectual artsy underground cult following more, than making the first half of the CD about turf wars (apparently) shagging birds, and filling dance floors? It shows a greater challenge than making it a noise record, I reckon.
That out of the way for the time being, are the songs any good? Emphatically, mostly. The hyphy stuff is heavy and punchy, without being completely and nauseatingly stupid. For example, 3 Freaks has the kind of bass line that I hear in my head during a particularly elaborate rude dream. The production makes it so deep and wide that it's solid and convincing. Actually, that's notably true for all these crunk songs of this record. It's a total party on a shiny piece of plastic. There are little clever breakdowns; little melodies that serve as just a hint that this isn't made by any Lil' Jon. Of course you'd never notice on first listening, but that's usually the sign of a successful disc, unusual parts that work despite themselves.
Turf Dancin', Keep' Em Close, and Seein' Thangs are thematically similar, all balls out, masculine hip hop with plenty of shouting and presumably, fronting and gurning. Then it all goes a bit bananas. Out of the blue there's some twiddly soul and blues guitar which seems like a bridge to the other side of the record. Then Artifact, which I think is a particular high point of the record, where Shadow really flexes his spinning arms, to the gonzo effect of Walkie Talkie from The Private Press. Except that this is a moderately thrashy punk number, all double speed drums and savagely discordant guitar stabs at all the wrong (right) moments. Until some prog keyboards swirl in, and he starts to treat it like a lunatic dance number. It epitomises what cut and paste is all about; taking wildly diverse influences, putting them together and saying "Don't box me, I don't have to justify what this is, it's just good."
Then some funky hip hop. Actually two highlights of the record are Backstage Girl and This Time, some very funky sounds. They're not the kind of thing I'd ordinarily listen to, perhaps, but in context, they're extremely infectious grooving music.
Then some of those Japanese pipe thingies over some moderately dull guitar plonking. Still seems a bit unnecessary to me, maybe I just don't get it. Maybe it is just a boring bit. But The Tiger ("Yawn, it's Radiohead all over again.") is elegant and strong, all ancient percussion and nibbly guitars, although the voice sound again a little boring to me. The backing all makes up for it, however, in my book. Erase You has some of those drum loops the Shadow is so famous for, 50's jazz break beats and very excellently done they are too. And fuck me, does Cris James sound like Thom Yorke. Only why would that matter? This is proper good, with it's gnarly feedback impinging of your frontal lobes.
And you're left still trying to organise it in your head. Only you're not, because it all makes a kind of sense. It depends kind of how you view music, in a way. Sometimes I'm blue, som I lsten to something soft, sometimes I'm perky so I take something a little more challenging. This, this is a musical journey of sorts, and you just have to put in whatever it is you want to get out. Which is no bad thing, but it does mean those with puny brains probably won't 'get it'. This is perhaps not helped by the fact that the hip hop / weirdness divide is not perfectly fifty fifty, just broadly. So you get some ridiculously and joyously overblown intro into some funky soul number, then on with the crunk. It's almost been designed to stop people analysing it, second guessing the motives for the tracklisting.
All in all, this album is a story about idiots and pigeonholes. DJ Shadow gains strength through sticking to his guns. He seems to be unmodestly blown away by his own handiwork in interviews, and fair enough, it's a rich and interesting body of work.
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[13 Oct 2006|08:30am] |
OK, this gig's going ahead. Er, there will apparently be an actual Ram Raid 'live' set, although I knew nothing about this until yesterday. Do most bands practise for more than a week before they play? Anyway, it's fine by me, cuz I have pretty much nothing to do with it. I don't think we're anywhere near good enough yet to be playing before anyone, but it gives me an excuse to have a go. You'll all just have to be tolerant. Anyway, Illaman and Mendoza are both good, so you'll enjoy them. And you pretty much have to come cuz Guy's spent two hundred quid on the PA, and he's agreed to pay Illaman's bar tab, which is surely dumber than a box of rocks. No upper limit. He might do some freestyling if we get him good and crunk.
So yeah, come if you want to see some idiots noodling without any real idea what the Hell's going on, and then some good music. I'm thinking of it as a non-interactive party system.
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[06 Oct 2006|08:31am] |
Guy is trying to arrange a gig for us to play. Which sounds like a charming proposition, excluding the details. Details such as, we have no music to play, we cannot play live, he's double booked the venue, the headlining act has broken up, and the supporting artists are known as Love Death Dreams. Jesus, if that's their name and presumable mission statement, I imagine we'd be playing to a bunch of right warmed up happy campers.
Of course, it'll never happen, so it's all rather academic, and a sodding good thing that is too. I'd feel quite happy to be dragged in, to stand (preferrably sit) somewhere and press Play, but that's as much as I expect to be expected of me, and about all I could productively achieve.
Just given three pounds to the breast cancer fund. Which is fine, I'm happy to do that, but I do consider it a parallel to giving three pounds to the Aston Martin fancier fund. Because I quite like to look at them, but I never seem to get to drive one.
Here's a fact, WG Grace left the field during one of his later one dayers, in order to compete in, and win, a four hundred meter hurdle race.
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[05 Oct 2006|11:55am] |
Well, the ginger beer was, and continues to be a qualified success, being as strong as shandy, but much more tasty. With no explosions or death.
I was invited to Spain to visit Caroline, but then was subsequently disinvited; she cited lengthy hours of study as the reason; the boredom afforded me by this situation is palpable. I mean, I could be disappointed that I now have no reason to spend a weekend in the Sun, drinking cold cervezas with a lady with whom I'm very much in love, or even gutted, in the vernacular. But it's just all rather boring, isn't it?
The computer also exploded yesterday taking with it everything Ram Raid has done, which is probably no great loss. Dr Adam's been doing a sterling job of attempting radical surgery, but the issue remains as misunderstood as cirrhosis of the eye.
I hope to go to Dublin with Dolores later this year. She has visions of cycling round the place. Me, I see it more as an excuse to challenge myself to endless bouts of guinness fever. I'm certain a compromise will be reached, providing my passport gets renewed for less than 200 pounds, and she gets her holiday approved. Heaven forfend that two members of staff here enjoy themselves simultaneously.
I do have a week's holiday for every month for the rest of this year. I plan to go to Spain (no chance), Dublin (slim chance) and Hereford (for chrissake's).
Anyone who wants to see me should let me know, I'll come visit them presuming you don't all rush at once and demand my immediate attention like fawning blubbing kids. (Fat shrieking chance!)
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| Genius |
[29 Sep 2006|10:57pm] |
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I've begun a ginger beer plant. Which possibly means alcoholic ginger beer in perpetuity, thanks to the powers of yeast. First batch in one month!
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| Burnout Revenge |
[30 Aug 2006|11:58am] |
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Attempting total completion may take me a while. It is a game so fast that frequently I get messages telling me "Great!" for amazing activities I have accomplished within the last three seconds over a display of my car slamming into the back of an Eddie Stobart's.
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[22 Aug 2006|09:39pm] |
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I quite like hospitals. I've often had to sit in the way a little bit, like now, to get some
typing privacy, but that's probably demonstrative of the nature of hospitals. In some way.
So why do I like them? The reasons are several.
I like the idea that we can all go to them and expect to have our problems dealt with. It's
kind of relaxing for someone as nervey and incompetent as me, to know that should I bugger
myself up in some minor way, there will be someone else to fix it. In the 'big plan', I know
that the base level things that I need will be taken care of, because I've paid some tax.
That's worth it to me.
In this way, they're also a bloody marvel. Our society has created for itself one sodding
enormous infrastructure that can see millions (maybe?) of patients a month, nationwide,
performing everything from endoscopy to chiropody, with departments as obscure as "ENT"
(Extreme Noise Terror?) to "Appliances". I don't know how you need to have buggered yourself
up to get in there, but I never want to bugger myself up that way. People are referred from
department to department, and all they ever needed to do to find themselves in this fantasy
land of jazz interpretations of Western measurements of time was to turn up at A&E and say
"I've buggered myself up", and the triage nurse has sorted it out for them.
You don't even need to guess what you might have done, indeed, they really don't like it
when you do. "I think I've buggered my hand up", I tell the triage nurse. The ancient and
maternal "We'll be the judge of that, Mr Turvey" is immediate, and it's welcomed. They're
right, they are the specialists, and I feel much more secure that they're looking down at
me. It gives me faith in her knowledge. Only an expert could be that condescending to it's
clients, right? I just tell her, "Well, I know it's my hand that's buggered." For a moment I
half think she'll react to that by saying "Well, you think it's your hand? In that case,
we're going to have to do an all over body x-ray and endoscopy, because you're such a
fucking moron your brain probably sends messages from your arse by way of your hand", and
I'd like this because it would be so reassuring. But she doesn't, I just have to follow the
Red Line.
Excellent, I love this. We know so little as patients that we have a line to follow. I still
need directions. "Does this Red Line stop here?" I ask, feeling like a tourist on the Tube.
As I sit and write this, I can hear someone being offered a variety of colours of bandage.
"Navy blue scraps, or the red?" I'm going to have the red. People believe you're ill if it's
red.
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| Pulse of the nation |
[20 Aug 2006|02:02pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 apathetic |
] |
Eyes test time again. I'm not going to go; I just had them done, and it costs twenty quid. Not that the money bothers me, in and of itself, but I consider it an anomaly. I could go to a national health hospital, ask a man to put on rubber gloves and stick his finger up my anus. For nothing. I wouldn't even have to hand over a National Insurance number. Just ask if he can check for polyps or such. But I'd have to pay to go into an opticians and get an eye examination. I don't want to have any part in a system where you can get anal penetration for free, but it costs to have someone look you in the eye.
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| Glory sought, death was nought |
[20 Jul 2006|11:55pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 crushed |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Audience - Right On Our Side |
] |
I've been listening to Audience, I've been trying to find this album since I was a kid. Why? Like Ozzy Osbourne with helium, and an insane sax stack, making the kind of row your Mum would like. Er...
And the drugs.
Zoot flute solo anyone?
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| Second Continuing Sections Of Interstellar Space Love |
[19 Jul 2006|11:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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predatory |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Dr Octagon - Aliens |
] |
Anyone else amped by the idea of the new Dr Octagon set? I am; I heard the new video and it's crackers good.
Also new DJ Shadow soon.
I've been playing lots of Manhunt. It's very good, in a sociopathic way.
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| The glums |
[18 Jul 2006|09:03pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 grumpy |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Royksopp - Someone Like Me |
] |
Sorry to see England only able to muster a draw against Pakistan, albeit a strong Pakistani team. Strauss declared too late it appears, but logic is with him; always hard bowling on a last day, on the Lords slope, with the ground keeping it's integrity.
I'd still like to share a few choice descriptions of the wickets lost from the Guardian's sport section. If you don't like or understand cricket, I think that makes this much more fun!
Trescothick (16) Loose waft at one the left him
Strauss (30) Pitched leg, hitting middle, plum
Collingwood (186!) Lured forward, beaten on the outside
Hoggard (13) Played round one that straightened
Harmison (0) Beaten by a pinpoint return coming back for a second
Farhat (33) Left alone one that jagged back and hit top of off
Yousuf (202) Nibbling at one that swung away
Ul-Haq (69) Bowled round legs after walking across stumps and losing balance
Afridi (17) Mindless loft to deep mid-off
Farhat (18) Flat-footed squirt to third man
I liked it.
I also like Royksopp.
Oh, and I asked that girl at work out on Friday. She said she wasn't blowing me out, but that her life was 'complicated', so she'd tell me all about it. I told her I was going to have a chicken sandwich, and that I looked forward to that. Which was entirely half true.
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| The Boss |
[17 Jul 2006|10:51pm] |
I've broken my hand by punching a bus stop; I think I should deal with my rage better. Feel like a child. (No gags please, we're ALL being watched).
Been blubbing my eyes out listening to Tunnel Of Love by Bruce Springsteen. Found out he wrote it after he got divorced by his wife when he was cheating on her with Patti Smith. That brought out a lot of the meaning in the record. It's very good, and singularly earnest.
So my life is pretty much over.
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| The thing |
[20 May 2006|12:51am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 horny |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Neuraxis |
] |
Unedited first draft.
The Headmaster's office was an austere but sterile environment, and Cyril liked it not one bit, one iota, or one jot. The bookcases and those books contained within, all leather bound and perfectly alphabetised, reminded him of his Father's study, a place which he only knew during those most severe of remonstrations. In fact, the further around the room his eyes flitted, the more ancient and crumbling he realised that old people are. Dull, dull, dull.
Until at last, further scanning let his unfazed gaze rest on an old picture, a painting of Bloonesbury the Second, the ancient and crumbling previous Master of Belchley Halls. He was, with the greatest respect that Cyril Bogges could part with, a beaky man. Noble, and beaky, with his harsh eyes trying to pare Cyril to his finest parts. Cyril imagined at that time, looking at that most great art his fine school had to offer, that Bloonesbury the Second was making a most stern attempt to discern individual atoms at the end of his nose. Several seconds passed until more seconds passed, and Cyril realised that the room had become most cold. Most cold, and most silent.
"So."
Cyril's eyes phased from the direct stare of one beaky Bloonesbury, between that fog from which he had been shocked by mathematics teachers with bad breath, physics teachers with harrowing screeches, and a particularly repellant art teacher who smoked 64 cigarettes every day, to the direct stare of the current beaky Bloonesbury. This most current of Bloonesbury's, an ancient and crumbly English teacher known only as Bloonesbury, had put down his pen, and was directing his most beaky of beaky gazes directly at Cyril, in a most deliberately discomforting way.
"You don't want to do Cross Country. Am I right?" Bloonesbury's voice was laboured. Masters were always at their most dangerous when they spoke with that kind of voice, Cyril knew. The Screamers, and the Swearers, they always appeared most preposterous to Cyril, and as such were open game to be dealt with as he saw fit. Elsewhere, the quiet gentle lapping tones of music teachers were only ever an invitation to Cyril to make havoc, the loving lush words from the scintillatingly beautiful geography of the geography Mistress with whom he shared two hours each Tuesday even more so. But this sound appeared to mean something to Cyril; a call to reform, or at least a reason to pull himself together and 'make something of himself'.
"Yes. Sir."
"And I hear that it is because you claim to have a... what is it now..." Bloonesbury pretended to move some papers around. A good pretense at lending gravitas to the situation, and Cyril noted it as such. "A shonky ankle." Bloonesbury did not seem sympathetic with Cyril's cause.
"I do, Sir. Look!" Cyril gestured down to his foot, and cocked his ankle on his knee. Then he proceeded to feign a wince with considerable skill. Bloonesbury's murderous eyes, however, did not adjust. After some time, Cyril gave up wincing, placed his foot flat back on the thick brown carpet, and said the plaintive admission, "It is wonky, Sir."
"It is not 'wonky', boy." The Head's voice had not altered yet, but now Cyril was taking it as a signal to step up his campaign.
"It is wonky, Sir. It is wonky and shonky, Sir."
Bloonesbury's mind was not composed in such a way to take direct confrontation. Yet when he 'lost his rag', it was always in a voice loud, clear, and carefully administered, designed to turn errant schoolboys a nasty shade of sweaty pickle.
"If it's bollocks, then it's bollocks, and that is bollocks, sunshine! Now you've been here two weeks, you're a clever lad, and I always appreciate your company at times like these." Irony was one of Bloonesbury's sharpest spears. "But while you are here, you will take part in all aspects of our syllabus. And if cross-country is part of that, then you will do that."
"But it's bollocks, Sir." Cyril knew when to take cues well, and he knew that imitating the language of furious teachers was also an effective smite. But Bloonesbury was a great man too, and he knew when to let minor transgressions slide rather than making a spread attempt to win on every front.
"IF it's bollocks, then it's bollocks, but this is not bollocks. The cross country run? No! This is not bollocks. This is essential stuff, designed to make a real character of you."
"I have a character, Sir."
Bloonesbury relaxed a little, as if coming to a particularly lengthy explanation which would convince young chaps of their mistakes. "You have a personality." This last, he spat from his mouth as if it were a seed he had just unexpectedly crushed whilst chewing a grape. He only continued once his grimace returned to a thin slit. "You have a personality, and one which is not congruous with character. Only one thing for it. Teamwork for you, you will join the brass band for a period of not less than one month."
Bogges' heart sank. "Sir! I don't play!"
"You will, my boy. You will."
When Cyril got back to the dorms, it was not with pleasant thoughts. He was even less happy, therefore, to find Sidney 'Dogsbody' Durning sat on his bunk, reading some infantile comic or other. "'Lo Cyril."
"For blood's sake, Dogsbody! Have a wash."
Dogsbody was something of an anomaly at Belchley. While he had a mental age a good three years below his peers, his body had physically aged at an accelerated programme. To put it mildly, Sidney stank. A permanent funk of fetid sweat shrouded him despite his most assiduous cleaning schedules. Matron had given up on him,, a cause lost to olfactory insolence.
"I just have, Cyril. Is it that bad? It can't be that bad!" It was true as well. No matter what Sidney tried, that odour returned to his body within minutes of any military scrubbing. It was this unfortunate characteristic, combined with a thick layer of scuzzy, patchy hair which covered eighty percent of his body (much envied through the Belchley Halls, it can be said), and facial traits reminiscent of a Great Dane that had earned him the title Dogsbody. Right now, he looked crest fallen, and understandably so, considering the bane of his life had returned to him minutes after a self-inflicted military scrubbing.
"Hen's teeth it IS that bad. Go sit at the other end of the room, can't you?" Cyril knew he was being cruel, but he was in no mood to be assaulted about the sense in this manner. Dogsbody clambered from the bunk in a manner so ungainly it was uncomfortable to watch, and dragged him spindly legs and disproportionately long arms over to a chair further down the dorm. From here he spoke louder to Cyril, purposefully emphasising his lonely hand in life. Cyril was now on his bunk, hands behind his head, sucking on a bulls eye retrieved from his second most secret cache.
"What's up then, Cyril? You look like a wet weekend at Wimbledon."
It's not finished.
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[14 Apr 2006|12:14am] |
Again, I'm very cross. Ordinarily, I can put this down to my abusively cantankerous attitude to The Day. In this case, as with virtually all things, as my Dad once taught me, the causes are numerous and several. Sitting on a train to visit my Aunt, which should be nice. But I've been put all out of kilter by a nauseating environment I have just escaped. To whit, three indepedent fracas in the train station. The shouting always upsets me.
Yeah, so I have to 'express' some things, and the usual way of 'emoting' these rather gay self-involved opinions is to write them up here, so noone actually HAS to read them. Of course, you're all 'friends' of mine, so you're kind of bound to read it (Q.E.D. for a shitty, used up post modern observation), so really, it's just as self-indulgent as actually shouting this at your faces, the only differences being that I'm not spannered on processed ethanol (a good thing), I'm encouraged by livejournal idiots into convincing myself that this is a less gash way of communication (untrue, as stated above), you can stop at any point (although I'm trying to write in a moderately entertaining way to kind of 'hook' you, which is pretty bloated and pompous in and of itself) and of course, I get to illucidate certain things to pepole that I daren't say to their face.
I'm hacked off with people saying I should 'cheer up'. You're fucking idiots. What do you know? Fucking idiots.
I should probably expound upon that, although I don't really want to particularly. I never get to find out exactly why the things that I've done or said have offended anyone, so I don't know why you should, or how anyone expects me to not do it next time. But hey ho. Put it this way, when you say 'cheer up', of course you mean 'If I were you, I'd just cheer up' right? That must be what you mean, otherwise you'd be a fucking hypocrite, right? You're not a fucking hypocrite, are you? Just checking. That being the case, if you were me, you'd be doing exactly whatever it is I'm doing, and proceed to do whatever to may be that I am about to do. Why? Because YOU'D BE ME! We covered that bleeding obvious assumption in the last sentence. So yeah, don't tell me to 'cheer up', because you wouldn't if you were me. If you were me you'd scream at inanimate objects, gripe about things you have no control over, engender a bilious attitude and masturbate eight to fifteen times a day. The only reason you can say 'cheer up' to me is if you have a hidden meaning hinting that you're just getting fed up with my incessant Harrumphing. Even so, this is a strategy which garners much scepticism from my camp, as I am unable to take any form of hints, nor would I want to. Fucking bitches.
So that's point one on my graded system of cathartic self-purification. But fret ye not, there are plenty more things. A brief aside, so far this is having limited success, given that I am now at Holborn, crammed into a tube. I am hot and hungry. But this may improve, and I may begin to appreciate the point of this.
Thing number two; will people stop offering to get me drunk and help me fuck some daft bint. No interest in this. I can't really explain this any further; I have no need to perform this act of degradation, any more than I need to lie prone and allow Timmy Mallett to crush my balls with stiletto heels. Whatever my issue with women is right now, this is not a viable solution. Furthermore, get it through your fucking skulls and into whatever crushed pulpy grey bilge you keep in there and accept that not having had full sex in eight years is NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME. OK, I grouse about it a fair bit, but only because it's rather more demonstrative of a problem I feel I really have; women find me utterly intolerable. It is not a complaint against the lack of shagging, it is a complaint agaisnt the fact that I have as much chance of settling down with a girlfriend, buying a dog, and owning our own house, as 50p Lil. Saw her in town on Saturday actually. No, no blowjob, any more proof needed that I'm really not that interested. Jesus, why do you all think God gave me a fist? Fucking hell, He even gave me two in case one got tired.
Added to this general ennui with the concept of nobbing, why does anyone think it would be a good idea for me to attempt this in a nightclub whilst hammered? Tried it, the results are usually that I go home, drink whiskey, smash all my furniture, and break my toe (My Life passim). Anyone who has seen me chat up ladies appears to be dumbstruck at the results. My first symptom of being in a room with someone I fancy is to find everything preternaturally interesting, and to incessantly point these novelties out, avoiding genuine conversation at all costs. Any girl who survives this bizarre phase of garbled drivel is usually put off by phase two, a genuine inability to communicate with words. Sentence structure, syntax, often vowels themselves go sailing from my parser. Phase three can vary, and is often the least palatable of the evening's moods. It is genuinely hard to write much about it, as I have for the most part blacked it out of my experience. Notable memories include the former smashing of things. Notably, and due often to the persistent symptoms brought on by phase two, phase three has NEVER encompassed actually asking a girl out, obtaining a phone number, or securing any kind of hanky panky. It HAS included girls crying on my shoulder, my feinting, asking her if she can lay eggs (had to be mentioned somewhere) and of course, vomiting. It is important here to note that the final "bilan" if you will, of my attempts to engage the interest of a female, has never been any form of spiritual, physical, or any other kind of connection. Not once, not any kind. Usually, I wind up drunk at my, or if I'm lucky that night, a friend's house, drunk and maybe even high, always with a slight bitter residue on my mind's tongue of 'For fuck's sake, it was a nice night, but you really shouldn't have bothered talking to that chick", ie, always a downer on an otherwise reasonable evening.
Another issue is that I don't like to stay out past midnight, because I get grumpy, and/or battered, neither of which are good for anyone around me. I quite enjoy both of them, but then so often, my interests are in direct opposition to those of the outside world. I'm told that after midnight is the time when ladies get more open to chat and banter, which are my only two tools of datesmanship, but that's is the time I am most prone to intolerable behaviour. So go figure. The stars are not exactly aligning.
Fuck the stars though. I'm doing what I can. I used to have no right to grumble. I used to just sit on my high, drunk arse, and pine like a punctured garden frog; pierced through the lungs by a typically feminine cat. However of recent months I have taken the challenge and actually attempted serious engagement; genuine forays into wooing. Again, this has met with mixed reactions, which can be summed up in several ways. Often, I meet the polite but firm 'I'm busy with my campaigning for the Liberal Democrats. And I'm NOT interested' (OK, my emphasis, but her words). Not too bad. Most recently I have met with a complete lack of understanding; basically due to the feared effects of phase two. In this situation, the Wooee as I shall call her, was completely unaware of my attempts to engage in 'witty repartee', and appeared more concerned that I was gurgling on a fish bone. When I finally managed to explain my intentions, we were involved in the seizures of phase three, and all hope was lost. The wooee (I'm regretting that nomer now, I think victim would be more appropriate) could do little more than stare dumbly at me, uncertain what to do with this 'spam' of conversation. Finished her pint and another, mind, so presumably she had a high tolerance level to garble. And the third reaction; physical repulsion "I don't want to have a conversation with you" is a common response, with physical actions often akin to the fingers down the throat and so on.
Now my point is, that I'm not just feeling sorry for myself. I've tride, and so far I have done poorly. But noone can accuse me of moaning about something I can change. I'm just fucking furious that I've been lead down this path of putting in the effort; of letting down those fences, by well meaning friends who appear to believe in all honesty that one day that will actually work. Yeah, well you fucking do-gooding bastards, I fucking told you. I was right about it all along! Yeah, fuck you! I'm the winner.
I'm the winner.
Yours bitterly, ingraciously, and with a flagrant lack of dignity,
Turv
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| The work of the Divil |
[30 Mar 2006|10:24am] |
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I have won a free laptop, using the skill of 'The Blag'. I went to fix Ellie's PC, and asked if she had any 'stuff'. Turns out she had a slightly crappy laptop she didn't use any more, so I had it away.
It has made me really very happy. Now I can read comics on the tube, and play Diablo 2 at work. As a result, I have one man press ganged Adam into installing it on his work laptop, so several hours have already been spended battering the unliving daylights out of zombies and such. Anyone who wants to should join our quest for the win. In fact, YOU probably should, even if you don't realise you want to. Lots of online play, all for FREE! (Once you've bought the game).
Also, Ram Raid is shipping along smoothly, we have spoken to Illaman who says he'll do some words for us, and Machinochrist says he's interested in doing some mutual remixes. Should be phat. As in good.
The end to the dreams of rollerblading romance has been brought about all too prematurely by She, which obviously leaves me a little fed up. Resulting in 'whiskey fits' and shouting. Still, we must abide. I just made work shell out for decent tea and some biscuits (ginger creams and yorkshire, irrespectively, if you must know) so that's a little positively revenge for the world at large.
Guy's in the States, hoping he'll bring me a present. About 5' 6'' and shaped like an hourglass ideally, because a five and a half foot tall hourglass would be perfect for the front room, I reckon.
Anyway, that's all for the moment, more as it happens. Well, more likely just afterwards.
Cheerio.
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turv's journal