I wish you could be my best friend

Walker's Crisps ain't got shit on this

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 19:03:19 GMT

It's been a while since I've done anything music-wise, but now that I've got a computer that doesn't hate me and die like my suicide-bomber laptop, I can finally get back on the fun train.

To that end, here is a dedication to my friend Tom Walker, who is a good chap (and also drummer for Kotki Dwa, if you prefer to listen to music that actually appeals to people). All of the lyrics are completely true, regardless of whether they contradict common sense, the laws of physics and/or each other.

Listen to it here.

Sarah Palin Be Buggin'.

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 14:23:11 GMT

Everyone is apparently very excited about Sarah Palin. She was a model! She's a single mother! Her daughter's pregnant! I don't care about any of it!

The trouble with this election (as I am clearly in a position to point out, being a person who sometimes writes things on the internet for no clear audience) is that it is the culmination of image over substance; a battle of 'who looks the most down-to-earth so that people can identify with them'.

On the one hand, it is encouraging that America is apparently willing to elect people to positions of power who have been previously overlooked - in this case, a single mother (and more importantly a real life woman, with breasts and that) and a black person (well... café au lait. Let's face it, Obama Barack is not all that black. If a person being black is your main concern, elect Michael Clarke Duncan. He is super black and has a voice like porn-funk distilled into a larynx). However, it is unsettling that, especially in Palin's case, that seems to be all that the focus is upon.

What being willing to elect people who belong to previously-under-represented demographics to high positions in government is meant to mean is that the voting populace is sensible and reasonable enough that the demographic a person belongs to doesn't matter a damn. In this election, this is not the case. These politicians are still canvassing votes based on how they look and their pesonal situations rather than their politics. A sensible person shouldn't give a toss whether the person they want to vote for is an old white man or a young black woman - just whether they are going to do a responsible job.

Presumably Palin is there to detract from all the 'old white man' allegations being tossed at McCain like old milk bottles - but considering that she is going to be there for a good 4 years at least, if elected, surely people ought to be looking at her politics, not her personal life. She has done little to dissuade anyone from doing just that, whereas Obama does occasionally at least protest that it shouldn't be about his skin colour (although, let's face it, the media concentration on that aspect at the beginning of his campaign didn't exactly hinder his prospects).

John McCain, while better than Bush, is still too damn Republican in all the main issues for my liking. Although he does endorse nuclear power, which I am down with, yo.
Sarah Palin is still a pro-lifer who wants to bomb people, which is a confusing sentence. I guess that the sanctity of life doesn't apply to foreigners. If you vote for McCain because of her, you are voting with either your libido or your trigger finger.
Barack Obama, while better, is still okay with killing people.

In what shouldn't be but is a two-party system (much like in the UK), I'd vote for Obama. Let's face it, though, they're all pretty mental. I woldn't let any of them into my kitchen.

I'm pretty ignorant about American politics, British politics - all politics, really, and I usually refrain from shooting my mouth off on subjects that I don't know anything about. But today is different. I don't know why.

Wearing a hangover like a hat

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 23:17:31 GMT

Hello everybody! I am now without an occupation but with a degree (2.1 - that's right. I'm number ONE among the number twos), so that's okay. I've got a CV written and a few jobs that I'm intending to apply for tomorrow, but that was true yesterday, so who the hell knows?

I'm a bit drunk on fine whisky, which has been true every night that I've been home so far, and it's entirely my fault for skipping through the duty free.

I visited the duty free shortly after I visited America.

I visited America shortly after I came home.

I came home shortly after my exams were finished.

Things happened quickly, and for somebody slow on the uptake and the dropdown, like me, things happened even quicker.

Things I'm doing: scanning for jobs; meeting up with friends; writing a couple of new stories.

Things I'm not doing: actually applying for jobs; having a girlfriend; makin' any sort of headway.

The main story that I'm working on is thematically about human perception, but plotted around a boy who has synaesthesia. I'm trying to write it detached and satirically, and hopefully that will work, since I'm a detached, satirical person. I just have to stop grinning like a goofball.

'Goofball' is an Americanism, but I kind of like it, so that's okay.

'I could care less' is an Americanism, and I hate it, so it isn't okay.

Neither of the above make sense, but it's only okay for one of them not to do so, and I hope you agree.

America was hot and housed fewer fat people than I expected, but more fat people than should be expected to exist, purely in medical terms. I stayed with Claire, and that was great, bummed around alone for a bit, which was either fun or lonely, then stayed with my friend Vicki, which was great, then came home. I have photographs to prove it, but and maybe I'll invest in a Photobucket account to prove my proof.

The future, for me, is right now, right around the corner, right above my head, but I'm still pretending that it's just soon, down the road and somewhere in the clouds.

I expect that everything is going to crash into me very soon.

I'm drunk, and this is bitty. And that's how I like it.

Wango! The mango with a wangy tang!

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 09:48:01 GMT

Islands' new album has leaked onto the expensive rug of the internet, which is exciting since their debut, Return to the Sea, was just tip-top. I've only listened to this one through a couple of times, but it has more of a modern indie feel to it. In a good way though. I think if I listen to it another five times through or so, I'll be hooked. Give it a go! What's the worst that can happen? Some sort of internet virus? Oh, you are living in the future now, with your technology and cyberpunk crime!

I had a cock-kick of a day yesterday, involving lectures cancelled just slightly too late, hours of wasted work, pens exploding in pockets and burns from raging hot ovens. But it's another day now, and that means it's a whole fresh start for the universe to HATE ON ME. Just try it, God! I got my dukes up!

Currently reading the first in the Northern Lights series, under what can only be described as devastating pressure from the entire world. It's good, though I do wish I'd read it a few years ago, since it's clearly aimed at mid-teens. Nevertheless, it's good for the eyes and brain, like cod liver carrots.
I'm also reading Jeremy Paxman's The English: a Portait of a People, which is well-written and interesting, but seems to forgo making points in favour of writing funny things about the French. But maybe it will turn out marvellously in the end and I will have to eat these words in some kind of shame-bun.

I've also made a cheesecake so good that it is like gargling sunshine. Check it out:

Tasty enough to serve at a wedding or funeral!

Getcher bacon shakin'!

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 10:30:02 GMT

I went paintballing last Saturday, which is an exciting way to combine violence and redecoration. I didn't really know what to expect, but what landed in my lap was an afternoon of thrills.

Here are two things to remember, if you are ever lucky enough to go:

1. You are not Rambo, no matter how much you may like to think that you are Rambo. [This, of course, does not apply if you actually are Rambo. Also: sorry, Rambo.]

2. Try to avoid being shot in the throat. I mean, obviously, try to avoid being shot at all, but if you have to get shot, the throat is not the way to go. Trust me on this.

I'm now back up in Manchester, savourin' the lights and sniffin' the dreams. It was my friend Charlie's birthday the other day, so we went for what can only be described as an extravaganza. First of all, cocktails at the Hilton hotel."Ooh la la" you are saying - but wait, there's more! Giddy on posh booze, we then hustled ourselves down to an Italian restaurant for a meal. "What are you, rich? Giz some money, rich-face!" you are screaming now, with your veins throbbing in your face like hosepipes. You are wrong to squeal this, though, since the cocktails and meal were paid for by her parents. It is alright for some, I know. I am slotting myself into that category like Lego.

Then we went clubbing but I was far too full of rich Italian food, so had to leave a bit early like a sissy child-man. Feel free to claw at me with abuse!

I am at a crossroads, in which I either apply for editing jobs or marketing jobs. Poor and honest or rich and soulless? I mean, rich and soulless, obviously, but I'm still not sure it's quite right for me.

Hit me with advice! Make it creamy!

Funereal Fun

Sun, 02 Sep 2007 16:48:05 GMT

Being born is, both literally and figuratively, a fairly messy, hodge-podge affair. We are wrenched from the cosy bowl of the womb without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. Covered in blood, faeces and other miscellaneous gunk that I’m too terrified of to look up in Wikipedia, we emerge screaming (and if not, the doctor makes certain by giving you a good smack). Then, if you’re unlucky, you’re baptised.

My point is that at the beginning of life, we have very little say over the whole sordid matter. To counteract this lack of control, I feel that it is every thinking person’s duty to make their wishes concerning their funeral known, as a final demonstration of personality imprinted upon this most personal of services.

Therefore, I present:

Tom Nash’s Ideal Funeral

1. It’s well-known that the Ancient Greeks got a lot of things right – geometry, philosophy, astronomy, etc. - and their triumphs extended to mourning rituals, where at a funeral, professional mourners were hired. I want to get in on this. I envisage perhaps ten to twenty people dressed in black silk, wearing running mascara and, for six pounds an hour, crying out ‘WOE! Woe! Insert name here is gone! Gone beyond!’

2. Flowers are pretty rubbish, and I don’t want them at my funeral. The only good thing about flowers is that they provide food for bees; otherwise, they’re just pointless bits of dead plants. Instead, I want little fairy cakes with memorable triumphs from my life iced onto the top. Perhaps some could be me vanquishing various foes with bulging muscles and a toothpaste advert grin.* I leave the details up to you.

3. It should be open casket, and my body should be surrounded by marbles. My will should stipulate that there is a competition to guess the exact number of marbles, and whoever gets the closest number wins my keyboard.

4. Two words: Hawaiian. Themed.

5. I don’t want a miserable affair, so any eulogies are to stick strictly to amusing and/or embarrassing stories. It’s okay, I’ll be too dead to blush.

6. At some unexpected point in the proceedings, somebody dressed as the Mad Hatter is to yell ‘CHANGE PLACES!’, which everybody must then do.

7. A burp machine should be hidden in the coffin, and just before I’m about to be carried off to the grave, someone should activate it. At this point, I want a qualified doctor to rush up, look anxiously over the body and then loudly proclaim ‘it’s okay! It was just air escaping from the body.’

8. If at all possible, I want Paul or Karl from Neighbours dressed as a vicar to perform the service. Not Tom, even though he was playing a vicar. He was a jerk.

9. Everybody has to take a shot of tequila or whiskey whenever somebody says ‘Tom’. Ideally this would apply not just during the funeral, but for the rest of your lives.

10. My coffin is to be borne by midgets. It’s not degrading, it’s just bloody wicked.

11. I’d quite like a champagne reception, and perhaps the vicar could jump out of a cake. If not the vicar, a stripper is a good substitute.

12. The service will end with everybody singing the Monty Python version of ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’. Those failing to do so with a cheery, knowing smile will have to sing it again solo.

13. My tombstone should read:

‘Now I’m dead and set to rot
You might think I’ll forget you
But if you don’t respect this plot
I’ll come back out to get you.’

I don’t want any stinkin’ kids messing up my grave, see.

14. A massive picture of my face should watch over the proceedings sternly, like a firm but fair father. When looking at it, people should feel slightly chastised, but somehow more comfortable for it. The picture should then be hung over an ice cream truck and driven around the neighbourhood.

I’ve tried to keep out any of the more impractical elements, such as a tramp vs. bear fight. I think this pruned list is both within the boundaries of finance and good taste. Make it so.

* I would have the bulging muscles and toothpaste advert grin, obviously, not my foes. They would be best illustrated with grey, manky skin and wayward, rotting teeth. You could use the black iced gems to properly demonstrate those, and the tears of regret could be represented by those edible silver balls that you never knew whether or not you should eat as a kid. I should be a baker.

George W. Bush - A Factionary

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 13:39:55 GMT

George W. Bush gets a lot of bad press, but how much do you really know about The President of the United States of America? These are facts taken from ‘the Bush who Could: A Fun Filofax on the Big G.W.!’, available in no good bookshops.

+ G.W. won the 1994 Glass-Eating Olympics after consuming 64 semi-precious vases and (in a sudden death scenario) a mirror. He won after his opponent’s mysterious, sudden death.

+ When G.W. found Saddam Hussein, he ordered that all the spare change in Hussein’s wallet be given to a charity that trains guide dogs for the blind. He used the notes to buy a slap-up meal for a homeless orphan.

+ In bed, he doesn’t like to be called ‘George’ or even ‘Mr. President’; G.W. likes Laura to refer to him as ‘The Liberty Pope’. Whew! That’s hot!

+ G. W. did not choke on a pretzel, as was reported in tabloids. Whilst eating a pretzel, he was watching that episode of Friends where Monica and Chandler argue, and he subsequently became choked with emotion.

+ As a child, G.W. was so taken with the story of Jesus’ death that he had it re-enacted at his 6th birthday party. The part of Jesus was played by convicted criminal José Sanguel. Whether he rose from the dead after three days or not is uncertain, as that was the day that G.W. had a second party at MacDonald’s, so they were unable to observe it.

+ G.W. has a watch given to him by Arnold Schwarzenegger, which bears the words ‘no time like the present.’ At Arnold’s request, the words are in a speech bubble coming from one of his Terminator-era publicity shots.

+ G.W. has a problem with going through socks – often getting through more than eighty-thousand pairs a month. When asked about it, he said, “they all seem to go at the heel. I guess it’s from pacing the halls of Freedom!”

+ When playing golf, G.W. does not call ‘fore!’ – he calls ‘heads up, America!’

+ In the popular children’s cartoon ‘Arthur’, the ‘W’ in the name of Arthur’s little sister ‘DW’ is actually a tribute to G.W., as he was originally slated to be the voice of Arthur. Unfortunately for the show, instead of becoming a voice actor, he became the President of the U.S.A., but they still remembered him with this tip-of-the-hat.

+ G.W. wears a medallion under his suit, upon which is engraved ‘who’s the daddy?’

+ G.W. is not double- but triple-jointed in his thumbs, meaning that he is able to bend them around so far that they appear to come out of his elbows. It is unknown whether this helps to break the ice at peace summits.

+ G.W. is allergic to Bonsai trees, a fact which almost killed him. On his 45th birthday his neighbour’s daughter gave him a Bonsai tree, causing his nose to swell to near-fatal proportions. Upon detention and questioning in Guanatamo Bay, the 7 year old admitted that she was the willing pawn in an Arab plot to kill G.W., and has since been deported.

+ G.W.’s favourite dance is the Funky Gibbon, closely followed by the Charleston.

+ G.W. was once accidentally booked for a stag party in Sheffield after confusion with the stripper ‘Georgie Bush’. Once he had put his clothes back on, G.W. bought everyone a drink and regaled the group with stories of his potholing holiday with Tony Blair. The groom-to-be said “he were a reet laugh, him.”

+ One of G.W.’s lesser-known talents is the ability to sneeze at a sound level of 90 decibels. That’s as loud as 48 fully-grown cats mewling simultaneously.

+ G.W. used to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast, but coincidentally broke with routine on the morning of the day that Saddam Hussein was discovered and had toast. He now eats it every morning for luck, and calls it ‘Victory Bread’.

+ G.W. has expressed a wish to be cremated rather than buried, but has also asked for his right hand to be preserved in formaldehyde so that he can ‘give America the thumbs-up from beyond.’

+ While his Texan upbringing is well-documented, lesser known is the relationship he had with his first bullock, Hamsy (short for ‘Hamburger’). Inspired by comic stories, G.W. and Hamsy often went on crime-solving adventures. The high point of this period of his life occurred when he solved ‘the Mystery of the Missing Waffle’. The culprit was discovered to be one of G.W.’s other childhood friends, Hot the dog.

+ In contrast to many of his countrymen, G.W. keeps a slim figure. He attributes this to having only 7’000 tastebuds remaining - as opposed to the usual 10’000 – after drinking some cocoa without allowing it time to cool.

+ G.W. used to play stand-up bass in a country music band called ‘The Glass Roots’. The group disbanded when members of the CIA shot eight members of an audience, who were applauding ‘in a suspicious manner’. He still occasionally contributes to studio albums under the moniker ‘Bushy G’.

I hope this excerpt helps you to understand the ‘Leader of the Free World’ a little better.

How to Give a Dog a Lovely Breast

Thu, 09 Aug 2007 15:51:50 GMT

If you're anything like Will or me, you'll have thought at some point in your life: 'Sure, dogs are great, but wouldn't it be even better if they had some sort of massive breast on their side?'

In fact, I can't imagine that many people have managed to get through an entire day without visualising a canine with a crumpet, and so, for science, justice and most of all, for you, approximately a year ago, Will and I made this dream a lovely, moist reality. The photographic evidence has only just come to light, after time in military compounds across the country, so I now present:

How to Give a Dog a Lovely Breast

Step one: Find a dog with an impressive lump.
It doesn't really matter what the lump is - it could be tumour, a deposit of bone or, heck, it could even just be a lump of good ol' fashioned fat. For best results, though, we suggest using a fatty lymphoma tumour, for genuine 'jiggle effect'. However, if you are going to use a dog with a tumour, it might be an idea to be sure that it is benign - after all, you may want to recycle your work, and that's not as fun on a dead dog!

For our subject, we're going to use Will's dog, Bess.

Step two: Procure nipple-making material.

What could be better for making a fake nipple than fake skin? We'll be demonstrating with Smiffy's finest.

Step three: Make the nipple.

As learned types, Will and I recalled the line from Genesis which concerned such delicate sculpture:
"14. And Lo, God did fashion the nipples of both Adam and Eve using a spoon of the finest Steel.
15. And God did then give the spoon to Adam, and he said to Adam,
16. "Take this spoon and use it for making tea, and also fake nipples.""

I'll concede that it doesn't look overly nippular at the moment, but that is because we have not yet hit...

Step four: Paint the nipple.

We chose to paint our nipple like a white person's, but you can paint it any colour you like: red, black, blue, etc. It really depends on whether you are aiming to be aroused or amused by the exercise.
Unfortunately, I didn't get any pictures of this step, since we were both required to get our fingers sticky, so to speak.

Step five: Shave the lump.

We recommend using an electric razor rather than a cut-throat type, since this is meant for cosmetic fun, rather than actual surgery.

Your dog shouldn't find any discomfort in this, and if it does, stop. However, if your canine friend is naturally a wanderer, try bribing it to stay in one place. We used ham, but try experimenting with different treats: it's half the fun!

Cheer up, Bess! Imagine how all the male dogfolk will respect you more as a person!

Step six: Affix the nipple

If, like us, you're using fake skin, this shouldn't be too hard, as it's as sticky as a priest's bedclothes. The hardest part will be maintaining the integrity of the nipple, so be gentle! If you're using a fake nipple made of paper or some such, be sure to use an adhesive that is non-harmful to dogs (or at least, less harmful than a massive bastard tumour).

Step seven: Revel in your breasty efforts!

Step eight: Relax in the knowledge of a job well done, and cross one more item off your list of things to do before you die.

Congratulations! You're now one of a particularly sexy elite!

Disclaimer!
Bess was not harmed in making this. Her lump is non-painful, and we certainly wouldn't do anything to cause her anguish, since we love that dog, we do. The reason she has such a large lump is because surgery would be too dangerous at her age, and the lump certainly doesn't appear to cause her any distress. We don't condone injuring or upsetting animals of any type (except chavs and wasps), and we would have stopped at the first sign of discomfort. We're just making the best of a bad situation: when life gives you lemons, make a dog with a breast on the side.

Why Do All My Trousers Have Holes in the Crotch? And Other Tales for Children

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 23:12:20 GMT

Now LiveJournal seems to have stuck up some device telling you exactly how long it's been since your last update. I GET THE HINT, LiveBASTARDS. I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it.

So what's happened since the last update? Gordon Brown is Prime Minister, summer has gone and hidden behind some rainclouds and several tramps have probably thrown up into their own hats. But what has happened that matters?

Firstly, excitingly, a comic from WFHIT was featured in the B3ta newsletter, which brought us some nice traffic and some pleasing remarks about our stuff. We are truly going up in the world! As long as by 'world', you mean 'internet'. And you have to assume a given meaning of 'up' including, but not restricted to, the terms 'mild gradient' and 'piffle'.

I've also been to the Science Museum with my friend Sally:

where we made lots of innuendos about the exhibits around small children, and probably ruined their a) days and b) innocence.

While walking back from a pub to hers, a group of approximately 20 young fellows made it apparent that they wished to have a physical altercation with us. As the group of us consisted of two ladies and two fellows, we took a look at the size of the muscles in our arms and decided to use the ones in our legs instead. This resulted in fewer bruises, and those that were sustained tended to be in the areas of pride and so forth. However, my head is a bit bumpy and painful on either side, and I think that you can see in that picture a slight lump on the side of my left eye. Still, since we managed to get away, I'm pretty sure we know who the victors were on that warm evening! Thanks, thighs!

Incidentally, I look knackered in that picture because I was knackered. Curse you, bags! You always turn up under my eyes like you were gum and my eyes were shoes!

I'm writing a new story, one which I think has genuine strength of originality and plot, but I'm just really rubbish at sitting down and making myself write. I've got all these great ideas and I occasionally create descriptions and scenes that I need to shoehorn in somewhere, but what I really need to do is force myself to work at it. However, the person who has to make myself do that is me, and I'm not well known for wanting to do work of any kind.

Speaking of which, we did the obligatory logsplitting again, from which I emerged £100, many log-puns and plenty of muck and grime the richer. Gosh, I hope that last sentence isn't too syntactically mangled to comprehend. I'm a little tired.

I lost a bunch of my music recently, but am making up for it by downloading it back and more. Thank RoboChrist for the internet! Provider of thieved dreams since the early 90s!

How are all of you, you scamps?

If you're not beatin', I'm not joinin'.

Tue, 15 May 2007 10:41:10 GMT

Lordy, but LiveJournal's changed a lot since I last updated. Insert image? Embed Media?! The only part of 'embed media' that I want to see is 'bed me'.

Exams are slowly crawling closer like a man without legs, and so I'm updating this rather than revising. It's because I'm great, shut up. I only have 5, and by gum, I'm going to punch them all, right in their essay-questioning-guts.

Recent albums I've got (i.e. stolen via internet wizardry or borrowed off others):

Tomahawk - Anonymous

An excellent album. It's getting bad reviews left, right and centre, but if Tomahawk had maintained their standard rock approach, they would even now be growing stale like a slice of bread in a wind-tunnel. This new album has all the catchy timing, heavy drums and fun riffs of the other albums, but used in a completely different, Native American-fashion style. And it's like being stroked by an angel covered in cats' fur.

Modest Mouse - We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank

After a few listens, I can say that this new album is up to 'the Moon and Antarcica' standard. Possibly even better. They've really refined their sound in the last few years, and this is good evidence for it. I suggest getting it if you've liked any of their older stuff.

Crowded House - a Best of

I thought I should probably hop onto the Crowded House wagon to see if it took me anywhere good. It took me to Pleasantville, but not to Wickedtown. We got there by driving down the middle of the road. I wonder how much further I can take this.

I'm going to get the new Elliott Smith one soon, and I can't wait.

I also bought Arrested Development Season One, which is really great comedy. At first you think it's just okay, but the more you watch, the more you realise it's pretty darn excellent. It's like that first bite into some Rice Krispies cereal, when you think 'well, it's okay, but it's no better than most cereals', but by the end of the bowl, you are GAGGING FOR MORE.

Recently I've been going to a lot of parties and I've accidentally (& drunkenly) seen dawn break far too many times.

One time was in Sheffield, and I took the train there. Since I did, I also took my train-book. My train-book is really just more of a general notebook where I write stuff when I'm bored.

Ode to Smear on the Window

Since I'm here
Mister Smear
I'd like to ask
A thing or two.
What do all
Of the people
Who ride on this train
Mean to you?
Do we matter
as we clatter
Down the tracks
The slightest bit?
I doubt we do
and if that's true
Then maybe I'm
The piece of shit.

Apple Lies

If I met a baker
Who made his apple pies
Without a single apple in
I'd have to ask him why.

"Why?" I'd ask the baker,
"Apples aren't that scarce.
It's surely not an apple pie
If all you've used are pears."

Perhaps then he would say to me
With sorrow in his eyes
"If you've eaten all your apples,
You can't put them in your pies."

Late
I'm first to the party
The birthday boy's late
I just hope I haven't
Come on the wrong date.
So whiskey's my friend
and my friend is heartwarming
And it serves me right to
Come early without warning.
The windows are blue
and the sofas are red;
It's forming a neon
Party in my head
And the alcohol's helping
Me smile to myself
I bet the bar staff
Think I need mental help.

In other news, I'm sure you've all heard about the bees. We've got to make a concerted effort to save them, otherwise all we'll have are hornets and wasps. HORNETS AND FUCKIN' WASPS. They're nature's paedophiles.

A whole loaf of delicious word-bread.

Fri, 23 Mar 2007 23:10:02 GMT

Word up, LJ-kateers! That didn't really work.

I am back in Leighton Buzzard, home only to wandering folk and the spittle of mankind. And me.

I have been a busy bee over the last few ages, doing lots of stupid things. Mostly drinking, but also writing and recording songs that may or may not see the light of day on a plastic disc. I've been liaising with Will (not in a gay way) on WFHIT? more, which you should look at if you haven't yet, and if you don't, God is going to water down all your local post-boxes. I've been like some kind of Facebook mongrel, writing notes to exercise my writing muscles. I've enjoyed writing them, and they've had an okay reception. I might just copy some of them for LJ updates, because I'm a jerk like that.

Anyway, since I'm probably going to end up writing for a job in some capacity (probably a rather crappy capacity), I figured that I should do what all people who write in some manner for a job do, and write a failed sitcom. So I'm going to try. God help me, it's going to be a trainwreck.

I'm looking forward to this holiday. Can you look forward to something which has already begun? The answer is: by Christ, yes.

Mon, 08 Jan 2007 23:08:49 GMT

Wang-bubble

Sun, 17 Dec 2006 16:35:29 GMT

Righto, I did warn you that more pictures would be coming, you raggedy group of scoundrels.

This picture is the best because of Nick's little pirate-eyed squint over Will's shoulder. Awesome.

I lost that rental jacket, with my flat keys inside. Which means the rental place took £90 from my £100 deposit, that my landlord is gonna replace a bunch of locks (£75) and then I have to pay for a new fob (£30ish), so I made a loss of around £200 that night, not including drinks. I was pretty fucked off. But c'est la vie.

Last night I went to London to support Kotki Dwa, who played excellently.

I am tired and can't think of anything funny, except for maybe a nun fighting a shark. That would be pretty excellent.

Smiles x

Hot spice!

Wed, 06 Dec 2006 16:33:36 GMT

It's been over a month since my last update, so prepared to get your face INFORMED RIGHT OFF.

I have been doing many things recently, and I am prepared to back that up with pictorial evidence.

First and foremost, I went to a Kotki Dwa gig and then to Flossie's house in Leeds. The Dwa rocked most parts of my body with their wonderful songs, and the party finished the rest off.

This is me chilling out on a sofa with some cats. Not actual cats. I wouldn't mind that either, though. Cats are fucking awesome.

After this, I went straight to Will's in Nottingham, wherein we lay in wait for Jack to exit the shower and then beat him about the shoulders with a string of sausages.

This is Jack post-battering, steeped in sausage-abuse confusion.

We went to see Mitchell & Webb live, who were freaking excellent. If you don't know who Mitchell & Webb are, SHAME ON YOU.

We then went a-drinking and ended up in some Wetherspoons. It was cheap and chavvy, which is the worst kind of cheap but the best kind of chavvy.

A week or so later, I returned to Nottingham for Jack Hussey's 21st birthday bash. It was a party of the old-skool, except minus the random hooking up and bedroom-utilising which was such a common feature of teenage parties. Where has that gone? I want it back. Come back, festival frottage.

I enclose a picture of me proudly holding aloft my prize* of the night - a Laura Hinson:

* by prize, I don't mean that we hooked up. She's Jack's ladyfriend. I merely mean that I thieved her for slavery purposes. The BEST purposes.

Since then I've been to Stoke-On-Trent to visit Will and Ed & Alice Needle.

Hot damn, I look a little bit like I take it arsewise in that one.

P.S. Will = cad 4 eva.

I recently got my white sash in kickboxing. This is not exciting. It may as well be a sparkling, pink sash with tassels on for all the respect it commands.

Otherwise, I've mostly been out drinking and stuff like that. You know, living.

Earlier on, two white horses pulling a white carriage cantered on past me. 'Oh ho!' thought I, 'a wedding!'. So I turned and smiled and waved. Then I saw the coffin.

I also played a game of chicken with an old woman with a zimmer frame earlier. I guess we technically both won, although I'd say her hip was the real loser.

Anyway, I'm going to some ball tomorrow, so I've just rented a tux. I feel like a 14-year old trying to look smart in it, but what the hell. I'll bust this up with a group picture tomorrow, hopefully.

What else has been going on? Uhh... oh, a tramp tried to drag me into a shady-lookin' alley last night. He came up asking for change, so I made to perform my usual Lucky Tramp Dip (whatever metal money is in my pocket at the time, they can have. It could be pennies, it could be pounds. ROLL UP, ROLL UP, COME TRAMP COME ALL). Then he started on about the security camera above us, saying 'come in here, man. The camera. They don't like me begging.' I figured that it's definitely a bad idea to go into a dark alley with somebody who, no doubt about it, wants your money. He started saying things like 'just five pounds. Or ten pounds maybe, you know, that'd be good'. I mean, full marks for guts and knowing what you want, but I'm not giving you a tenner, mate. So I dropped some change into his grasping fingers and fucked off.

Just in case you forgot, What Fresh Hell is This? is still up and going. We're updating almost semi-demi-regularly. Hooray!

I'm also getting a little bit fit (active type fit - I haven't had a facelift), playing squash, doing kickboxing, doing exercises. I'll snap out of it soon, though.

That's all I've got to say for the second, but I'm sure I'll remember more later.

Keep it real. Assuming it's already quite real. If it's not real at all, try to make it more so.

This is so old, it's probably a grandmother. Or at least has cataracts.

Sun, 05 Nov 2006 00:55:42 GMT

"list five of life's simple pleasures that you enjoy most, then pick five people to do the same. try to be original and creative and not just give two word answers..."

Whoops. Sorry Neil. This was a good month or so ago. Nevermind! If something's worth doing, it's worth doing late!

1. Walkin' down the road with your headphones on, singin' along at the top of your voice.

So what if people look at you oddly? Fuck them! They're probably sexually frustrated or something. This is my understanding of people who dislike public singers.

2. When an ambulance drives past, but it's not speeding, with the woo-woos on.

It's like they're saying: "Hey, guys. Yeah, it's us. No, don't worry, man, it's cool. We're just chillin'. Cruisin'. No-one's dying today!"

3. When you wake up after a mammoth drinking session hangover-free

Fortunately, this happens fairly regularly to me. Also, when you wake up still drunk, and you get the fun-if-mildly-peculiar sensation of feeling the alcohol draining from your system. Sobery!

4. When you walk past a stranger and they smile at you.

Especially hot girls. Hot girls, you have no idea how much you can improve a guy's day with a simple smile.

5. That grace period of post-coital or post-masturbatory harmony.

Just before you have to clear up all the mess, or self-loathing smashes you in the face.

I shall tag no-one, but feel free to do it, guys.

Come with me on a dream

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 17:41:54 GMT

New song, called Electric Buzz. It's here, if you'd like to listen.

There's no electric buzz
Flowing throughout my blood
'Cause I'm not a robot
I'm a doughy sack of flesh and blood
and sometimes an oil change might be nice.

I'd like a space hopper
That could bounce as high as a chopper
and I'd like it in light blue.
And I'd like for you to have one too
And we could greet the birds up in the sky.

It's a funny thing
That you have got to dream to live
It's a funny thing
'Cause if you live your life a dream
You'll slip outside the current's stream
and you will end up dried up on the bank.

And you'll still breathe.
You'll still breathe.

Nothing's ever been destroyed
By a passing asteroid
Though sometimes they might kiss
and a kiss can smash a thing to bits
but you can see the smiles in the scars.

It's a funny thing
That you have got to dream to live
It's a funny thing
'Cause if you live your life a dream
You'll slip outside the current's stream
and you will end up dried up on the oh-so muddy bank.

Just because, just because, just because
It's darkened, doesn't make it black
And the stream pushes you forwards
There's no turning back
We could be, we could be, we could be
United with the starry sky
Come with me, on a dream, forever
On a rocket ride

Where we won't breathe.
We won't breathe.
We won't breathe.

Blech

Fri, 13 Oct 2006 09:48:01 GMT

That is how much whiskey (DIRTY, DIRTY BLENDED WHISKEY) I drank in an hour and a half last night. The empty bit, not the full bit. Straight, without ice. Hardcore, right? Mongcore more like.

Then I came home, spoke to people I like on MSN and probably made them dislike me, made some stupid LJ comments, and flopped into bed.

Good times.

Powerman is go

Wed, 11 Oct 2006 19:35:36 GMT

I have made a 70s/80s theme tune for an imaginary cartoon show called Powerman.

Listen to it!

The idea is to form your own view of the cartoon and image of Powerman.

(Yes, it's meant to be tacky and midi-esque. That's why it's 70/80s cartoon show)

Edit: Just in case you can't discern the lyrics, and it's really, really upsetting you:

Who’s the man with the beard of fire
Who causes villains to expire?
He’s rough and he’s tough
And he’s a ladies-man
He can do more than ten men can

Powerman, Powerman, Powerman is go!

He’s the man who makes criminals cower
Because he’s the superhero with the groovy power.

Avez-vous ma grande ballon?

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 15:40:45 GMT

Right off the bat, here is my new jacket:

..And here is my tiny, childlike and barely adequate ~~penis~~ room:

Tonight I'm going kickboxing. This is not, alas, kicking boxes. I know, I was all twisted up about it too. Fuck boxes, man. Fuck 'em.

I've also made the decision that tonight, I'm getting drunk. I haven't got blottered yet, and it's really quite annoying. So the bar we're going to tonight serves absinthe, and god damnit, I'm in there.

I'm going to make an observation that I've made before and elsewhere, but fuck it: soup. Soup is great. Is there ANYONE who doesn't like soup? I can tell you that, no, there is nobody. Everyone likes it. Fantastic. It should be used in international incidents as a culinary ambassador.

Today in my lecture, I wrote:

'A superb line of sturdy soldiers, kitted out in red like poppies, marching to the heartbeat of a drum. Bouncing and bobbing, they thread their way through grass and mud, tangling the terrain together like a knitted scarf.'

I have no idea why, but I quite like it.

(I also drew a picture of a door with a man's face on it)

Answer me this, readers of my journal: would you rather have no eyes or no genitals?

P.S. Neil, I'll get around to that meme thing in a bit.

Gotta get my mojo runnin'.

Sat, 07 Oct 2006 18:06:18 GMT

I now have internet here. Hooray!

For those not in the know (and SHAME ON YOU), I'm back in Manchester now, in a flat.

I've taken up a new, healthy(ish) lifestyle, which contains daily exercises, swimming, kickboxing and squash.

I'm also drinking a bit less.

Going to see Kotki Dwa on the 25th of October, Mitchell and Webb on the 26th of October, and Peeping Tom (again) supporting Gnarls Barkley on the 3rd of November.

Today I helped to dig an allotment, accompanied by Nick Torry, a guy called Lawrence, and some fine French red wine. Huzzah!

The course is mostly okay, with a couple of boring cunts.

What Fresh Hell is This? will now return to irregular-but-not-rare updates.

I've bought myself a nice new jacket (heavy leather) and some books.

I've started keeping a word document diary, as a way to exorcise recurring thoughts and ideas.

I went to see Children of Men last night, solely on Neil's rave review. While I won't hype it up as much as he did, it is a good film, intense and thoughtful, in which Clive Owen gives his best. I recommend it. It's also got little details like posters and news articles which give routes for it to progress to the dystopian Britain it's at by basically allowing Daily Mail readers to gain control. What I mean by that is that it's not unimaginable, just an extreme.

That's pretty much it.

I'm a bit tipsy.

How are all of you? Genuinely.

What Fresh Hell is This?

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 16:00:24 GMT

I enclose the link to my and Will's BRAND NEW WEBCOMIC. It uses parody and dark humour, is non-sequential and will update highly irregularly (which is not to say rarely - we have a wealth of material amassed which just needs to be drawn well).

What Fresh Hell Is This?

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 15:43:32 GMT

Oh, man. This was a pretty great day. Having walked the 5 or so miles from Chelle's to Will's today, I was tired physically (I hadn't had any breakfast) and mentally (I was operating on about 4 hours' sleep). However, my spirits were fairly high, and we did some things like watching Invader Zim and smashing up a mug with giant, bulbous tats on. This was also when one of the greatest things ever happened.

I was sitting watching Zim and Will was standing above me. For some reason he intended to burp into my face, scathing wit that he is, and for the first part it went went well. A good, throaty belch.

Then he was sick.

On my FACE.

After the inital stunned silence from both of us, we laughed so hard that our ribs and throats ached. I mean, okay, it probably sounds really disgusting to you, and I guess it is, but.. he was sick on my face! How many things more awesome than that can you say?!

Afterwards we went to Bekonscot Model Village and found mirth in tiny representations of things.

Steve Irwin is a little bit dead.

Mon, 04 Sep 2006 09:00:51 GMT

Steve Irwin has been killed R.I.P., you crazy bastard.

He's riling up dangerous animals in heaven now.

Sun, 03 Sep 2006 10:12:17 GMT

I'm okay with not having got laid or a girlfriend for ages (most of the time, I don't even think about it), but when your dreams start ganging up on you, it takes the piss a bit.

Going back up to university on the 16th.

Can't decide whether to keep stubble or to go fresh-faced all the time.

This entry is not very interesting.

..For him and her, and me and you.

Sat, 02 Sep 2006 00:30:45 GMT

On Tuesday I went to London, to meet Claire and go to London Zoo, although we didn't know it at the time. She is awesome and fun times were had. The great train of conversation stopped at wooden spoon abuse, animal theft, shit fish vs. great fish, paedophilia and zones dedicated to crime, and stopped to pick up passengers from every station in between.

I don't actually have many pictures from that day, since my camera's batteries are shit. However, here is one of Claire being initiated into the Pimms elite:

...swiftly followed by the obligatory (making it by no means any less excellent) two-person-group-shot that I stole from her:

Because crime is like a delicious pastry filled with forbidden custard. As you can see, she is hot like the combined traumatic experiences of an entire burns ward.

We had drinks in a pub called The Queen's Dogs or something stupid like that, and then in a place called Jerusalem, named so because the people behind the bar seemed to be exclusively Israeli (I think). I only worked this out well after the event, because I am really very slow.

Children dead slow.

After that I got on an extremely slow train and got into Little Kimble around half-ten, where I was picked up by a slightly intoxicated Alice and Will, and presented with one of the BEST MOTHERF'IN' PRESENTS EVER:

Oh yes, my friends. That is a Mexican wrestling mask. Don't look too hard, or your EYES WILL BURN WITH WONDER.

Yesterday we didn't do very much other than our regular japery and heartfelt shenanigans.

Soon, Will and I are going to present the world with a webcomic. Most webcomics are so bad that they actually cause some quite serious brain- and libido-damage, but fear not: ours will blow the competition away. To death.