Monthly Archives: January 2010

Shared housing? More like SHIT housing. HAHAHAHA

Shared housing is a big bag of sweaty balls (sometimes literally, depending on how many men you live with), and I don’t like it. I still have to do it, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to afford the beans I like so very much, nor the fake Pot Noodles. It’s an unfortunate situation, but as soon as I’m not crippled by debt I may be able to get my ass out of there and away to somewhere where I can actually live how I want to without some pathetic, petty nonsense causing someone to complain at me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about living with friends here – I don’t really class that as shared housing per se. Though it does come with its own problems, it’s nowhere near as bad as the minefield of fury that is living with, as they say, “randoms”. The main reason for this is quite obvious – I could go into details of individual examples, but that would be boring and irritating. For me. The main reason is this: random people are exactly the same as strangers, strangers are members of the public and – as we all know – members of the public are contemptible shrews of humanity. Boring, devoid of positive elements of their so-called personality, petty, ugly and stupid. Very stupid. Basically, it all boils down to this.

Oh wait, I live in shared housing. Damn.

Sorry this entry’s a bit phoned-in today. Lacking any drive to rant/joke about anything and I only have one hand to type with. First person to make a wanking joke wins the prize.

P.S. I feel a bit daft about yesterday’s entry, as it turns out this weekend has been one solely comprising of ITV coverage. Curse you, FA Cup. You mean my praise of Sky was less relevant than it should have been, and that I had to put up with Tyldesley saying clubs should have some kind of long throw training, and that he was surprised clubs didn’t have players capable of long throws, aside from Stoke. The man is a fucking dillweed.

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I really, genuinely hate Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson

As I’m in the land of Sky Sports – that is, my girlfriend’s place – I am in a strange and wonderful land. A land of Andy Gray, Martin Tyler, Geoff Stelling, Jamie Redknapp, some of the other ones who aren’t that bad and Paul Merson. It is, frankly, a wonderful place. It isn’t wonderful because of the most incisive, cutting and downright smart commentary – no, Tyler seems to be getting worse in his old age and Redknapp went from being the Great White Hope of punditry into just being a dim goit who advertises holidays with his ageless beauty of a wife.

You had so much potential, Jamie. You argued with Andy. Why have you gone boring again?

Anyway, this world of football pundits, commentators and all the other ones inbetween isn’t special because of their quality – it’s special because of their lack of lack of quality. It wouldn’t be this way were it not for the fact that Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson exist. No, really – they do. Look it up. They’re even backed up by Graeme Le Saux, David Pleat and that bloke who used to do F1 and who still looks out of place. If these piles of human-shaped excrement didn’t exist then the Sky lot wouldn’t be that special. They’d be poor-to-adequate at best. Bar Gray, who despite the doubters is still one of the best pundits and commentators on tellyvee.

But no, ITV exists and brings with it Tyldesley and his awful, awful, awful twat-speak. That nasal whine. The constant references to anything Man Utd have ever done and his seeming inability to stop supporting both them and Liverpool. The fact that he once said “dare he?” in reference to Thierry Henry running with the ball back in his Arsenal days. The man isn’t even a stain on society, because at least you could get rid of that with some industrial-strength chemicals and a bit of effort. This scrotal wound, it would seem, cannot be eradicated. We are all poorer as a race for his continuing existence. Though this lightens my day, every day.

He’s the worst though, at least. The others are shit bastards, but none can even come close to Tyldesley. Not even professional Tyldesley impersonator Peter Drury, who sounds like an autistic with a speech impediment trying (and failing) to do an impression of Clive the Shit. I mean, there’s Mark Lawrenson over on BBC who did remark that Alan Smith’s leg had been broken in the FA Cup semi final a few years ago “by the power of the shot”. Yes Mark. Of course that was it. We all know John Arne Riise could kick a ball really hard. That was his only talent, god rest his soul*. But he couldn’t kick it hard enough to break your leg. I’m not sure, but I would guess it’s near-impossible to do that without using some form of machinery. Or bursting the ball. You utter, utter fool.

Pleat? Fuck me. Pleat. Written down, this man comes across as reasonably intelligent. Knowledgable, even. But he should not be allowed to speak on anything that broadcasts his voice to the nation as a whole. Any man who forgets a player’s name (Petter Rudi) then, when being reminded of it, goes on to say “PetterRudiRudiPetter” on real-life television should not be allowed to be on real-life television. That’s not forgetting the time he claimed to be responsible for a Spurs goal, as he had signed both the players involved in it (Paul Robinson and Jermain Defoe). Or his frankly incomprehensible outburst about Tomas Rosicky. Or the fact he’s a kerb-crawler. I know he’s not even on ITV anymore, but it still hurts that he ever was.

Anyway, this could go on for another year or so, such is my hatred for so many football pundits. I could do a better job, and I’m shit on camera. Sack everyone and start again. Don’t just hire people because they used to be players. That can go wrong. Consider yourselves told.

*He’s not dead, he’s just shit.

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My predictions for today’s train journey

By the time you read this, I will be dead. Well, not “dead” per se – more “on a train”. This is a part of the ritual I and my girlfriend, who shall remain nameless throughout, take part in quite often. She doesn’t remain nameless to protect her identity, it’s just so I can hilariously refer to her by comical pseudonyms throughout this non-stop folly which I have been crafting for a couple of weeks now. It’s a hard life…

Anyway, I would like to make a few predictions covering what I think will happen on my train journey as I travel up the country to meet Melvyn Bragg’s Soggy Wart, as I lovingly call her.

1. Some idiotic knobends from the Army will get on around Brockenhurst, or somewhere like that, and spend at least until Birmingham talking loudly to each other, drinking four cans of Stella between ten of them and talking about which girl they managed to get pregnant last time they were ‘on leave’. Don’t get me wrong, I have a fair few mates in the forces, and while I respect the job they do (while not really supporting what/why/where they do it, bar the obvious humanitarian work and blah blah I don’t have to justify myself to you), I cannot abide by morons.

2. I’m not going to tell said morons anything I’ve written here, nor am I going to complain to them or politely ask them to keep it down. I value my life more than I value not being irritated for a couple of hours.

3. There will be a girl sat either directly behind or in front of me and she will be crying. Sobbing her eyes out. Really taking the train to tear town.

4. I will not care about said girl to my front/rear.

5. Some idiot sat nearby will stare at my home-made sandwiches with a confused look on their face. It won’t be disgust, pity or sadness – nor will they be coveting my poorly-made near-meat and cheap-cheese surprise. No, they will just look at it as if I had just pulled a hammock full of pre-filleted haddock from a sling. Confusion tinged with delight, really.

6. I will get PSP Claw, leaving my hands in a small amount of pain for an hour or so post-journey.

7. I will never want to make the journey up the country again.

8. I will remember about Captain Cous-cous and her veritable jamboree of a personality and realise I do actually want to make the journey up the country again.

9. I will remember I have to get back down the country before I can come up it again, thus reminding myself it’s a two-way trip and wondering why the fucking hell Bournemouth appears to be the most remote place in the country.

10. I will vow to abandon all pretence of environmental consciousness (first step: stop reading the Grauniad, second step: burn tyres) by deciding I will now fly from Southampton to Manchester and back.

11. I will realise this costs too much and is a bit of a ball-ache, so will instead get back to playing on the PSP/DS.

12. I will pity the fools without PSPs/DSs’s’ss.

13. I will think of Mr T.

Then, once arrived, I will have to deal with Manchester. That’s a whole other post in itself. Probably a better one. That’s actually funny. And has more casual fucking swearing. Nevertheless, I will arrive and demand tea from Ego Destructis, and she will refuse and I’ll have to make it.

It’s a hard life.

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Everything on TV should have Sir David Attenborough in it

I saw an advert for some ridiculous-looking identikit nonsense programme on Channel 4 about some twits who want to “escape the rat race” and open a farm of their own. They’ll be guided by Ruprect McPlum-Smarmly who is – as with all TV farmers – a big posh twat. Now I already know how this programme will go, as do you should you have two brain cells to rub together. Basically, it’ll be shit. This made me think about other reality shows and how you can’t escape the feeling these days that they’re disingenuous twaddle engineered in such a way to illicit reactions from us.

It is TV, after all, and TV is made by horrible people in the most part. I know this, for Hollyoaks is on right now.

This, in turn, reminded me of a discussion recently (yesterday? The day before? WHO KNOWS) about how nature documentaries are – generally speaking – a big bag of shit, unless Attenborough is involved. This is because while ol’ Davey boy can bring a wealth of experience, genuine knowledge, warmth, approachability and utter devotion to the subjects he covers, the idiots on other programmes tend to be on them to make a TV show. They talk about how “surprised” they are, how it’s “life-changing” and then look right at the camera, fix you with a steely glare and make you feel guilty because a Parasitic Explosive AIDS Spider is going extinct thanks to the endless march of Brazilian logging firms. Which is your fault, obviously, as well as being something you have complete control over.

It’s either that route or some half-hearted attempt to mimic Attenborough – a man who is, might I add, a genuine, bona-fide national hero and one who I will actually be properly upset about when he dies (not that he ever will die, as he feasts on the hearts of baby Orangutans every night to inherit their delicious, life-prolonging courage. Seen how scared they are of him in that episode where he went to their nests up in the tree canopy? It’s because they know he’s licking his lips in anticipation of some deep-fried ape thumper. He often describes the taste as “orangutangy”. True story). Where was I? Ah yes – they try and emulate, or they have this dispassionate huff about them that makes you care less and less about the wonderful things you’re seeing, like fungus getting inside an ant’s brain and taking over its body before literally growing inside it, until it breaks out and kills the little pecker-head. True story.

Anyway, I was going to rant about all of that, then I realised my friend Ben had linked me to this, which says more than I can say with mere words. Plus it has the added bonus of Adam Buxton, who has a lovely beard and delightful, soft voice. Like a bearded Sylvanian Family character, except funnier and less of an effeminate reference.

Seriously though, Hollyoaks – there’s some Calculon-style acting talent on show tonight.

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Sweden: the definitive review (7/10)

So having been here for less than 24 hours (in fact, at the time of writing this thrilling introduction it’s actually 6.43am GMT (7.43am SHT (StockHolmTime)) and I’ve been here a matter of hours. Thanks to the miracle of technology, though, this will be on your internets going straight into your brain IN THE FUTURE) I think it’s safe to review this so-called ‘Slice of Scandinavian Heaven’. Nobody I know has ever called it that except for me just then, but so long as someone has used that name it’s fine to say “so-called”, in my book.

Ignoring the Let the Right One In-style ugly tower blocks on the way in to the city, this is one lovely looking place. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve seen most of it flying past the window in cars and planes, and frankly that’s no way to take it all in. We did wander to a local corner shop though and I paid 40SEK for a hot dog and a brownie. I think that’s about £4,000 Human Money. Still, they’ve certainly got buildings around here, and it’s well quiet.

And the people? Bloody lovely. Well, again, from what I can tell. Having dealt mostly with PRs (who aren’t Swedish) and hotel staff (who are paid to be nice to you) I’d say this was possibly a skewed representation of the populace as a whole, but then I do have a hangover and I don’t want to write off an entire nation solely based on the fact that I haven’t met them all. Well done Sweden, you’re doing well so far!

As for the climate; well, it’s good to go to a country for once that promises snow and dutifully delivers. Yes, Switzerland, you other alleged neutral, I’m looking at you. Hang on – quick Wiki check – yes, they were just as “neutral” as the Swiss in dubya dubya two. Anna, sort it out. Where was I? Ah, weather. It’s well snowy, la, and it’s hilarious how easily these vikings take it in their stride. In fact, our taxi driver yesterday was telling me how she hates any other weather. Imagine that: a world where society itself doesn’t immediately crumble at the merest hint of anything more than a light breeze. A man can dream… a man can dream.

As for the hookers – delicious! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAohhh I have a headache.

Anyway, in summation: Sweden is one for fans only/redefines the genre/is the best country ever made/avoid like the plague/average. 7/10.

POSTSCRIPT: If all Swedish showers are like this one, I suggest you move to Sweden. It’s like your own little slice of heaven. If heaven involves water cascading onto your face at an alarming rate while you cleanse yourself.

POST-POSTSCRIPT: The selection of eggs these people have is marvellous. Simply astonishing. Fried, scrambled, poached – even boiled! What a crazy place this land of the Volvo is.

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Airports are fun, aren’t they?

I’m sat waiting for a slight to Stockholm in Heathrow’s terminal 5. It’s like being in the future, except an awful future full of horrible people with faces like they’ve just been twocked on the back of the head with a sock full of coins. And the suits! Ohhh, the suits. They’re everywhere. Pinstriped prannocks, one has to say.

There’s probably a point to this rushed entry (rushed not because I don’t want to say things, more because I’ve only got a few minutes left on my £2.99 for 30 minutes of internet). Here goes something trying to resemble a point:

I still have that childlike wonder about me when it comes to airports. They were quite the fixture of my youth, as jet-setting a family as we were. We went everywhere; Tenerife, Greece, Tenerife – you name it! So obviously airport lounges, duty free shops selling shit no one would buy, Boots with its tiny shampoo – they should all still fill me with joy, right?

Well, they do. A tiny bit, so nowhere near as much as when I was wee. But – call me pathetic – they really do. I find them exciting, as you’re always going to go on a plane, which is always ace (though I’m more scared of flying now than I ever was as a kid) and you’re always going to end up somewhere new. It’s clearly how the explorers in the 15th century felt, in their seaport lounges, or whatever it is they had.

I do wonder if they had to go through the rigmarole of having their hair gel taken from them, however. Or their shampoo. It’s not my fault I didn’t actually check how many ml of Head & Shoulders I had. Alright, so it is my fault, but still – I’m annoyed.

Where was that point again? Oh yeah, it buggered off a long time ago. Sorry kids, no image today. Can’t be bothered. And with that, I get on a plane to Sweden.

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Why I hate blogs, including this one

Stupid crap full of self-centred nonsense that no one in their right mind would ever give a dusty old turd about. But enough about *insert contemporary reference here*! The witty, Brandt-esque cartoon above hits the nail on the head in a hilarious and satirical, Rory Bremner-esque fasion. It must be a laugh-esque riot hanging around Gregory, whoever the fuck-esque that is. Anyway let’s talk about why blogs are a big steaming pile of monkey crap.

1. We don’t give two dollops of sloppy poo about your life, your opinions or what you do, ever. Unless you inherited Superman’s powers and mixed them with the ability to produce diamond-encrusted gold bars from your bellybutton every time you say “IT’S A TRAP!” like Admiral Ackbar then you probably aren’t interesting enough to read about.

2. You can’t spell, or you don’t bother checking your spelinks. You have some internets all around you – why not use them? (This does not apply to me right now, as I’m far too tired to move the mouse pointer to the top right, click the Google search bar then type whichever word it is I want to check the spelink on)

3. You say things like ‘blogosphere’ or ‘collective’ and don’t immediately vomit blood from your eyeballs at the merest suggestion of such transgressions.

4. Blogs allow people to think they’re spending time constructively, when actually all they’re doing is writing a nonsensical list of a few things they’ve just thought of that second, while at the same time trying to make themselves laugh.

5. When you agree to do a blog a day for a year then get asked to go to Stockholm for a bit you suddenly realise it’ll be reasonably hard to get anything posted tomorrow or Wednesday unless Sweden has internet. I hear it doesn’t. They have Swede though.

That’s your lot for the day. Hope you feel fulfilled.

P.S. There is absolutely no irony whatsoever in me blogging about why blogs are shit. If you think there is, you’re an idiot and I hope your tits get gnawed off by AIDS-ridden cats. With little bitey ants all over them. Who then go on to poo on you. The cats, that is – not the ants. Ant poo would be insignificant at best.

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