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Wednesday 2 December 2009

I am man, hear me complain.

I hate Macho men. I hate them to the point I want a small asteroid to hit them in the face, obliterating it till it ironically resembles a giant vagina. And wherever they’ll go a huge parade of irony will follow them like a cartoon raincloud reminding them how incredibly ignorant and borderline pathetic they are. LOOK KIDS, ITS VAGINA FACE MAN!! Let’s laugh and throw rotten courgettes like he’s a leper, although one who enjoys Nickelback and finding convenient opportunities to remove his shirt. It’ll be like The Elephant man for people who have the ability to appreciate more aspects of life than proclaiming to the world you have a penis; probably a small one that needs to wee all the time. Take my petty wrath you self- conceited cabbage men you. And hopefully other macho men will uncontrollably try to fornicate with the face of said monstrosity, delicious Irony...mmm.
There are certain things that men aren’t allowed to do apparently, certain acts or opinions that somehow parallel the intellectually butchered thought processes of Idi Amin or Charles Manson.
What’s that rationally open intellectual male, you enjoy the works of Joni Mitchell or Annie Lennox?! But they don’t have wee-pipes! YOU’RE NOT A REAL MAN!! These feeble minded cries of ‘injustice’ are usually followed by, what has pretty much become a stock insult, ‘hand in your man card’. As if you’re Dirty Harry being asked to give in your gun and badge because you ‘don’t play by the book’. Well sod books and reading for that matter, (ironically often used by Macho men, unless it’s NUTS. Sports AND bewbs?! Truly an elysian fields of testosterone)
You like female musicians? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t drink beeer? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t furiously masturbate to the sight of 11 overpaid Neanderthals kicking a ball like children in the Middle Ages did with a cabbage?! HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!! YARGHHHH ETC
Sod your man card; I’ll be here learning how to count beyond 10 without the aid of a popup book. As I’m writing this I’m currently eating salt and vinegar crisps and listening to Thin Lizzy singing, SHOCK HORROR, a love song. Better retain my credibility and punch a stranger before my testicles shrink like oranges exposed to radiation. I’m pretty much a very awkward male, I can’t run a few meters without passing out and I’ve pretty much gathered I’m as attractive as an Autopsy footage, but at least I can appreciate things more evenly regardless of gender, intelligence or the amount of ‘EXPLOSHUNS’ involved. I’ve pretty much convinced myself the only chance of me getting a wife is if I have her shipped overseas and taught English from a crude cassette tape.
And while I’m here in your head, I also despise those soft-spoken ‘good looking’ men, those indie landfill farts, those smug pretentious bastards, those women-stealing, somehow irresistible flesh wastes. The guys who wear a Revolver shirt yet have never heard of Paul McCartney, the self-conceited mopes who never remove a scarf, as if they’re a post-op trying to hide her bulging Adam’s apple, the smooth talking arseholes who wear brown trench coats inside as if they’re in an S.S tribute band. Yeah, those pillocks. Somehow women find this irresistible, as if these idiots can mentally latch onto their ovaries like some crude ‘cronenberg’-esque perversion. Everything they do is to get women or because they love themselves more than Narcissus in a room full of mirrors and portraits of his arse. It’s sadly sets the stereotype of ‘pretty face over anything resembling a decent personality’ that women are often accused of. Eventually women will realise how hollow these men are and ditch them once they see them for the smug Easter-eggs they are. And then who’ll they come running to??! WHO I ASK?!...
...Not us in any bloody way, but the tossers at the start of the article. Because this world is a cold and tepid place where mediocrity thrives...only tuna sandwiches and Def Leppard redeem us.
I am man, hear me complain.

Monday 16 November 2009

"My rant: The true story"

Keith Richards has an autobiography planned for release in 2010, now that as a statement might seem very unsurprising, one that makes you say ‘Oh right, cool’ but nothing to make you stand up and pay attention like a meteor about to collide with the planet. But, when you look at other autobiographies on the shelves, and the current trend surrounding them, then the fact Keith is releasing his next year is a monumental shock when compared to the current tepid and mostly pointless releases that cram up the shelves. For starters, Keith is a man whose blood system consists of 80% Columbian export, Zeus knows how he’s going to even remember what happened 20 years ago, let alone last Saturday; I won’t be surprised if the book is essentially one page consisting of
“40 years ago I wrote some songs with Mick...I played a Pirate...I think it was a Pirate...yeah, definitely was a Pirate. Then I wrote this...I sure do love drugs, yes I do”
Keith is the sort of person destined to write an autobiography, because he’s essentially bursting at the leathery seams with highly interesting and fascinating anecdotes, although it’s likely he’s got far more brilliant ones that have been lost in the haze of inhaling things other than ‘Vic’. The shelves are currently host to books by reality TV stars and pointless attention whoring morons, and occasionally somebody of note will pop up amidst the ‘Chantelles’ and the ‘Hiltons’, such as Julie Walters or Michel Parkinson, but it’s very rare and far too few, like finding a skittle in a mountain of lard. The fact people honestly read these books is just dumbfounding, I highly doubt that Chantelle from BB had an early life chock full of zany exploits and armchair gripping tension, unless at some point during her teens she was enlisted to fight a war against a subterranean race of Lizard people. They usually consist of 50 pages smeared in generic social trite and scum that most people have either experienced or know somebody who has, such epic page turners along the lines of “OH I HAD A HARD LIFE WITHOUT A BOYFRIEND” “MY JOB AT MCDONALDS WAS AN AUSCWHITZ OF CONSUMERISM”, those old chestnuts, whereas Parkinson has in depth recollections of his friendship with Muhammad Ali, whilst Richards will undoubtedly have some wonderfully revealing stories of some of the best known musicians of the 20th century. It’s as if people read these ‘I actually think people care’ autobiographies to make themselves feel better about their own lives, be it a tedious job or an unfortunate lacklustre social life; by reading books by people such as Jodie Marsh you can at least feel far more intelligent and a better person, simply for guessing how many times she used spell-check on each page alone. It’s like a Victorian gentleman kicking the shins of a shoeshine boy before beating him with his cane, although for a tenner, and it makes you realise that anybody could publish an autobiography and slap ‘MY STORY’ on the end, that’s right even you! GO NOW! WRITE A BOOK! It’ll no doubt enter the top 10 because our current society is nothing more than celebrity hungry amoebas, stripped of any rationality or sanity!
That’s another thing that irks me, the “My Story” tagline, as if we had no idea that a book featuring the punch-worthy mug of Pete from BB would be about him, but we assumed it’d be 200 pages of dirty limericks and a crude retelling of Morgan Freeman’s rise to fame, before descending into wacked out conspiracy theories with titles along the lines of ‘CRACKERS, ALIEN BOG ROLL?’, thanks for patronising us Pete from BB...you idiotic lout. Another ‘shocker’ about Keith’s autobiography, alongside Parkinson and a small minority is that they’re releasing them long after middle age has come and gone, Keith will be 66 when his book hits shelves, so that’s pretty much 50+ years of his life in this book, what a damn autobiography should be. Katie Price is 31, and has so far released 3 autobiographies, THREE; she’s pretty much beaten the meaning with a large rod and set it alight. That’s probably one for each boob (The third is Peter Andre. HAW HAW), and at a rate of one every 2 years it’s going to rival Dan Brown for ‘Book that makes my brain physically hurt every couple of years’. Every 2 years, that’s just ridiculous, it’s a BIOGRAPHY OF HER LIFE not a bloody horror franchise, although....
No, easy jokes later. But yes...I’ve sort of lost track of where I was heading toward now, oh bugger. I blame Jordan and all the other self obsessed cesspools of image over talent...
I was going to end this with a predictable joke about me going back to writing my autobiography, but I’ll save that for my second rant about the same damn thing in 2 years.

Sunday 1 November 2009

Clubbing

A short piece I wrote for my Creative Writing coursework, based on a fictional character during an awkward situation.
This is essentially how I feel about said subject, and the events are pieced together from various 'excursions'....


We opened the door and I knew immediately I wasn’t going to enjoy this night, I didn’t know why exactly but I knew I wasn’t going to be enthralled for the next 3 hours, perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of this place and the feeling of dread on par with somebody running at you with a samurai sword and a disgruntled expression or hearing the words ‘now on BBC one, the ONE SHOW”. I’d done it, something I particularly never liked the look of or appealed to me, I’d been dragged clubbing, forced even! With trite excuses and a large amount of guilt tripping along the lines of ‘it’s my birthday, you’ve got to come!’ I was coerced into either going or being viewed as some sort of social misanthrope who refused to comply with the wishes of somebody on their birthday, in this day and age that’s on par with shooting the person in the knees apparently. I should have tweaked that I wasn’t going to enjoy this when I saw the mass of people queuing outside; for the record, the only thing I’m willing to queue for is Thunder Mountain at Disneyland or a booth to hurl chip fat at David Cameron. One of my friends re-assured me that this large amount of people meant quality, I recall him in the queue trying to get me interested.
“Come on Damien, loads of people are queuing outside, it must be good!”
“You could say that about Nazi polling booths or tickets for Girls Aloud”
I fell on deaf ears as my 5 other friends queued up anyway, reluctantly I followed suit. After about 10 minutes of queuing we finally made it to the front and all my friends were let in, as they neared the door a hand pushed in front of me and one of the bouncers spoke in a low, generically gruff voice.
“Sorry mate I’ll need to see some I.D”
Bull-honky. I clearly looked over 18, it was because I was wearing jeans and a Thin Lizzy shirt; I was being discriminated against because I wasn’t dressed like a French working girl or a member of Spandau Ballet. I fumbled around in my wallet whilst doing my best to mumble under my breath irately in a form of pithy rebellion; after shoving my I.D in his face he nodded and I rejoined my friends. One of them pushed the front doors open, bringing me back to the first sentence, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this in the slightest; about a hundred people were all confined to the dance floor, hardly any space between them all as they attempted to ‘dance’, this consisted of girls pretending to pole dance and the men throwing up gang symbols whilst rooted to the spot. I turned to my friends.
“I’m getting a drink”
“WHAT?” Holly motioned with her hand by her ear; the music was louder than I’d thought, even though it seemed to be just below ‘battle of the Somme’. I made a crude drinking motion and walked to the bar and was greeted by a cheery blonde barmaid.
“Hey can I help you?” She smiled, it seemed pretty fake.
“Umm, Oh, just a coke please” I blurted it out like a social cripple asking somebody on a date, I figured I’d rather be sober and have my wits about me at this place; seeing as everybody else was pretty much drunk like a priest at an orphanage, it’d give me some small moral victory. The barmaid returned after a minute or so and laid a small glass in front of me.
“That’ll be Two fifty please”
“Oh I’m sorry, I ordered a coke”
“Yeah...it’s two fifty” her expression became one of exasperation as she mentally assumed I was an idiot.
“Two fifty?! I ordered a coke not shares in Disney”
“Hey It’s a club, what do you expect?”
“You’ve got me there”
I grabbed my overpriced fizzy pop and spun around, my stomach lurched a little bit. My friends were gone; they’d completely vanished from their previous spot and had presumably dispersed into the crowd. I had no intention of standing at the bar by myself like a Dad at a school disco so I decided to seize the day and charge headlong into the crowd of dancers to find them. I pushed through the crowd for about 15 minutes, muttering “Excuse me” and “Sorry” to everybody I nudged, which in this environment was ALL OF THEM. Half way across something latched onto my arm, I spun around and was confronted with a girl who’d obviously had far too much to drink; she’d obviously just turned 18 and was relishing the chance to replace her blood content with vodka. She gripped at my shirt with all the intensity of somebody having a fit and dragged me towards her.
“HEY! LET’S DANCE!!”
“Sorry, I’m looking for my friends”
“I can be a friend”
As much as my self esteem would have loved getting hit on by somebody far too drunk to remain upright, I passed up her offer by pretending to dance only to fall back into the crowd and disappear like a groovy ninja, spending another 10 minutes navigating the place. When I made it to the edge of the dance floor I saw what can only be described as my friend’s huddled like a batch of giggling teenage school girls.
“Hey guys, thanks for ditching me”
Totally ignoring what I’d just said, Steve, a less than intelligent, stocky friend of mine cried out
“DAMIEN! Jack’s pulled!”
“What...a muscle?”
He then grabbed my head and spun it in the direction of my friend Jack, or more importantly, the obviously intoxicated sixteen year old wrapped around his face like some crude, whorish scarf. They were kissing with all the enthusiasm of, well, two drunken strangers who shared a mutual love of having no morals. They continued this for about 5 minutes, my friends cheering with all the enthusiasm as if it was some sort Roman blood-sport, only to suddenly pull apart, whereupon Jack then whispered something in her ear. She was obviously less than delighted at what he’d said, perhaps it was her shocked expression, or her cry of “PERVERT” before flailing her arms at him and skipping off to her friends. Jack stormed over and without stopping by us walked to the door
“We’re leaving, it’s my birthday and I want to leave”
Relieved I led the charge out of this place, like X fighters triumphantly escaping from the exploding death star. It’s pretty much lines like that which show I’m not the sort of person for these places...

The Cinema Experience

I saw the Transformers 2 movie earlier this week and thoroughly enjoyed it, as I’m a man with a penis. It had gotten a lot of bad reviews when released though, most of it aimed like a scathing longbow towards the plot....yes, in a movie consisting of giant robots beating seven shades of crap out of each other, people expected a plot. This is (apart from missing the point more than Abu Hamza at Laser quest) extremely pithy, like complaining that Jackie Chan movies have bad acting or Porn doesn’t have brilliant mise-en-scene. It appears that society hasn’t progressed to the p oint of a collective intelligence where people can assume a movie a) Based on a rocking awesome 80s cartoon b) By Michael Bay, has a plot that doesn’t measure up to whatever neurotic relationship-crisis farce Woody Allen is vomiting out. ANYWAY, before the movie started there was the expected advert warning people not to record the movie on their phones, as it’s a criminal offense apparently on par with murdering a family and eating their innards whilst pissing on the Queen. I say let people record the movie on a tiny, low quality, tinny sounding fart of a machine that essentially simulates the effect of watching TV whilst banging your head on an anvil; in fact, the government should have a special branch dedicated to recording the most recent movies on a crappy Japanese phone before uploading them to a legally appointed site. Want to know why? Because people will watch them at home, idiots mostly, massive DNA abusing idiots will watch these movies. And because of this, it means these idiots will not be at the cinema when we decent folk want to see these movies, think of it; no imbecilic teenagers shouting terrible insults at the screen, no rustling of food, no beeping of sodding phones, no prick at the front who does some ‘ironic’ dance when ‘The final countdown’ plays in an advert and assumes he’s the funniest man in the history of the entire bloody world, whilst everybody else wants to stab him with crude shives fashioned from a bag of revels. (This is silly, as everybody knows they’d make a much better suffocation device). By taking these people out of cinemas I reckon the enjoyment level rise by at least 38%, and while we’re at it let’s get rid of adverts all right? This is simply out of a form of impatience in all honesty; I’ve paid £5 to see a movie, not sit through 20 minutes of shameless corporate whoring that I get on TV/The Internet/sides of busses/ some man carve into my arm in the street. In fact this is probably counterproductive for the companies; imagine being at a Morrisons or something and browsing for well, food obviously, you go to grab some Bertolli olive oil only to suddenly have your brain scream like a madman “Wait a minute, this was a 3 minute advert at the cinema, delaying the arrival of that wacky yet quasi emotional Judd Apatow movie I paid to see!! SOD OFF BERTOLLI! I’M GETTING CLOVER! THEIR ADVERTS MAY BE RIDICULOUS TO THE POINT OF SELF MOCKERY AND EMOTIONAL BLUDGEONING BUT AT LEAST THEY DON’T PLASTER THEM ALL OVER THE SCREEN AT THE CINEMA!! So yeah, morons and adverts, let’s do our best to eradicate these from the cinema experience like some foul pestilent little cockroaches.

Also Transformers 2 is bloody terrific.

Monday 19 October 2009



Yippee Ki Yay......

G-ALGORE-LACTUS




His true intention...
Fantastic four where are you!?

WEAK being the word of choice

As a sane person, I don’t see why people enjoy game-shows, seeing as it’s essentially watching somebody win unthinkingly large amounts of money doing some kitsch and ‘wacky’ question based entertainment, and I’m sure most people don’t enjoy seeing somebody else getting ‘LODES OF MUNEY’, which begs the question of why on earth loads of people watch this shows. The answer probably lies in the fact that for every winner, there’s usually 9 or 10 grubby little people who all fail miserably and go home with nothing but a crushing sense of low self esteem and an incentive to beat the cat, HA!TAKE THAT YOU IDIOTS! YOU FALL SHORT OF LIFE!
That or there’s nothing else on around 5.15, which is pretty much when ‘The Weakest Link’ barges into your living room, stubs a cigarette on your hand and precedes to make you its bitch for the next 45 minutes whilst you plead with it to take its heel off your neck. It’s been around for years now so I’m not going to explain how it works, it’s simply another ‘off the production rack’ style game show but with one deliciously vindictive twist. The players each vote for who they think should be kicked off at the end of every round, usually for reasons such as being a giant fetid moron or being more of a giant fetid moron than the other similar morons who populate this crude little game board of tedium. You may be saying “But Pete, they’re not idiots cause they is on a game show”, to which I say stop it because I can’t hear you; but yes, this isn’t entirely true, each episode usually has one or two likeable contestants with intelligence and charm who generally come across as interesting human beings. Unfortunately these thespian-esque Spartans are outnumbered by the rampaging hordes of dull, narcissistic idiocy of the Persian Army that is the other contestants. Watch this show and you’ll find yourself yelling at your TV as if it had just come alive and shat on the carpet; “HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW THAT!?” Is usually the common phrase hurled as these blockheaded dope-monkeys assume that ‘Dolly Parton was made an honouree Canadian mounty’ or Charles Dickens wrote the classic ‘Grey ex-spectators’, it makes you lose a small amount of hope in society, more so because it’s these feckless fools who usually always win.

The show is run by question master and occasional member of the Third Reich, Anne Robinson, a human being so grotesque and devoid of humanity it’s as if the Ebola virus had taken up host in a mannequin. Robinson is essentially 90% plastic and is what I imagine Peter Cushing would look like if he opened the ark of the covenant, only to have it closed half way through as his jaw began to unhinge and melt like a tan crayola crayon. In short, she’s a completely repugnant individual, sort of like a Nazi dipped in sulphur. During the show Robinson will probe the guests about their jobs, personal life, hobbies, amount of people they’ve murdered, essentially anything that she can use as a basis for some crude snarky comment. If you’re gay, unemployed or single then she’ll essentially come at you with all the tact and subtlety of a KKK member, you begin to wander why she doesn’t just drop the acid tongued insults and simply claw each of the guests across both eyes before each round before throwing a bucket of pigs blood on them to the sound of her own shrill laughter. Unsurprisingly Robinson is also a vocal supporter for Fox Hunting, just to re-iterate that she is in fact a colossal conceited arse.
So the show begins and we’re introduced to our hapless contestants, the unequivocally camp one, the sassy middle aged woman, the smug pretentious leering idiot and a decent human being, usually in the form of an elderly gentleman called John who is retired from his job of being a children’s entertainer or feeding candy floss to sheep whilst playing a harp, something fuzzy and cuddly like that. Anyway round one begins with the easy questions and usually the contestants get £1000 the first round. They’ll vote off whichever hapless sod was the slowest to answer, nothing personal yet, just observational tactics. As the rounds progress though, the voting usually becomes borderline tastelessness along the lines of “She’s too old” “She voted for me before” or “His shirt is so last year”, it’s essentially just a year 10 playground full of tweed shirts and smug pretentious tossers. There’s a short interview with each miserable failure after they’re voted out, usually them making some “I enjoyed the show” bull-honky or a suggestive pun regarding Anne “Oh if Anne ever wants to come down to my restaurant I’ll give her a good table laying”, the sort of comments that essentially make you vomit blood.
So we’re down to the final two, friendly charming John and DNA wasting amoeba twenty year old who’s got by on ungodly amounts of luck regardless of a lack of frontal lobe. Five questions each, John’s first question “In which year did Napoleon invade Italy?” COME ON JOHN!!! YES! Take that society! Right, first question for the flesh covered broom handle, “What animal is Mickey mouse?” OH COME ON!! ARGH! This continues until they both have 4 points each, John’s final question “1580 AD would have been part of which ancient Chinese Dynasty??” NOOOOO! Never mind John, Stooge boy is going to get a hell of a question next.
“What is a sock?”

Sod this...put countdown on.