Monthly Archives: January 2011


It’s surprising how naked I can be made to feel with the simple breaking of one tiny thing in my life. See, I have what’s known as a “lap” “top” computer. With it comes a battery, so the unit can be operated without the necessity for a power socket nearby. It’s a miracle of modern technology.

Unfortunately it does still need power in order to charge up the battery in the first place, and in order to funnel the electric (“planets in the wires”) into the battery, one requires what I cunningly call a “charger”.

I’m bored of writing this now. My charger has broken, it keeps beeping. Fortunately I have Tiny Laptop, otherwise I’d be dead. DEAD FROM DEADNESS. Either that or slightly inconvenienced for a couple of days. Not really sure which. Hmm.

This also means I don’t have ready access to Photoshop facilities, meaning the greatest thing about this blog can’t actually be done. You people literally have no reason to read this page, or even look at what’s going on on it. You may as well just go and not come back. It’s fine. It’s better for everyone.

Also, I’ve eaten about 15 clementines today, and only two of them have been nice. FML.

Ooh, make that three.

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New York: The Definitive Review (7/10)

I just realised I never got around to doing this, so here you go: my ultimate, tell-all and take no prisoners review of the city so GREAT they named it twice. That’s New York, by the way. Not Manchester, where I am currently freezing my nips off. This place shouldn’t have been named once, as far as I’m concerned. Though I do still like Chorlton.

Anyway, that place on the anti-west coast of America. My first issue with it is the size – not just the sprawling, square (tidy) mess that is the city and its layout, but the actual height of everything. Why couldn’t everyone involved in building things in New York just calm down a bit? What’s wrong with making everything a bungalow? At least that way I won’t have to crane my neck up so much I don’t see the street urchins at ground level robbing me of all my pocketly possessions (1x fluff, 2x more fluff). It would also mean less lifts inside these massive buildings that have to propel you at just-about-lightspeed to get you to the 36th floor in a timely fashion. They’re just not good for hangovers, guys. You didn’t design the city – aesthetically, at least – with hangovers in mind. And that’s an oversight.

An undersight, though – yes that’s my new dictionary opposite of an oversight – is the food. Now granted, I lucked out in being ferried around to some reasonably fancy places, but I did get to go to a deli where the insane woman told us stories about Robbie Coltrane and Helen Mirren and my brisket sandwich was big enough to feed double-me. Though I forgot to collect the wrapped up half as I was too busy dying inside. I also had a great burger. I would like to return to New York to sample the food properly, as I think being babysat so much isn’t particularly conductive to a ‘real’ food experience. I have no idea why this has gone half-genuine here, sorry.

Shower? Well mine was fine. Good, even. But a chum had one that was long enough for me to lie down in and had two actual showers in it, so I can’t help but feel a bit let down there, New York. Bed was very comfy and massive though. Big enough to fit 3.42 me on it, at a quick guess, and soft enough to that only 12.5% of each me would remain uncomfortable in some way. This therefore makes me think all beds in New York must be of the same quality. MUST BE.

I didn’t get to see much of the city in all honesty, bar Times Square which was a bit shit. Not exactly my idea of a good place when there’s a 20 metre tall advert for Piers “Cunt” Morgan’s new show on CNN staring at me. Or the tossers who hassle you. Hey I am walking here, etc. I’d like to go back, hopefully the second time without massive illness, with the ability to explore and with other changes I can’t be bothered going into.

It was going to be a different number, but then I got some cheap MS points from Zavvi thanks to a freebie 15% off code which levelled me out, so it’s back to a resounding: 7/10

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Insert title here

I’m making a complete mockery of my claim to one a day glory by doing something like this again, but I’m just not in the right place to be writing frivolous, silly little blogs right now. I don’t think I will be at all today, though I do hope I’ll be able to string some more sentences together tomorrow. It’s a vain hope, though.

So once again, consider this your one a day from me.

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Soft jazz and lukewarm coffee

I’ve reduced myself to a level I never though possible – I am, right now, as I write this, taking part in the complete wankerism that is ‘sitting in Starbucks and writing on your computer as if you have anything important to say or do in your life’. As we all know, I have nothing important to say, and I certainly don’t have anything important to do in my life. Ho hum.

Fortunately, I am keeping the twat genes at bay as well as I can. For one, I look like I do. It’s hard to be seen as any kind of hipster, wannabe twat when you look like someone haphazardly shaved an ewok and kicked it backwards through a TK Maxx. As such, the judgements people rest on my shoulders are less likely to be ‘hipster twat’ and more along the lines of ‘twat twat’. Honestly, I think that’s fair.

Second, I am not using a twat calling card in the shape of a Mac. Yes, I am aware I should get over this nonsense and accept things like Ash says – it’s manufactured loyalty drummed up by bullshit marketing. Alright, maybe he said it differently to that. I’m not checking. But not having a Mac in a Starbucks and not looking like a hipster twat must make me look out of the ordinary in this setting.

In fact, I’ve just realised what I am: THE GREATEST PERSON IN STARBUCKS.

Either that or the caffeine is having a stronger effect on me than I thought it would. SHEESH.


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I don’t understand why I don’t eat sweets much anymore. Spurred on by the free Love Hearts going to and coming back from New York, I realised – once again – that sweeties are brilliant. I mean, I still eat chocolatey things and shit like that, and the odd Haribo when they appear at work, but I haven’t had a full-on session to try out all the different varieties.

Maybe that’s because the varieties stopped actually varying ages ago and I’ve tried everything there is to try. Though maybe not. Definitely not, in fact. I’m clearly just being a douche. I think even if you asked me to name a new brand of sweets when I was an intrepid sweet-eater I wouldn’t have been able to help you out. Anyway, here are some sweets I’m going to eat in the near future to help remind me sweets are brilliant, as well as help bring me out of this complete and total all-consuming pit of despair my very being seems to be residing in right now… too deep? Hmm.

More sherbert
Because sherbert is brilliant and piss funny, in that it’s lightly-flavoured sugar. Probably with added sugar. Sold as something more innocent. The sly, sherbert-marketing bastards.

No, you dickhead – not the cereal. The hard, suckable, cola-flavoured candies that used to cost 10p for a roll and made your mouth all cut up and sore if you had too many of them. Which I always did. DELICI-YUM.

Strawberry laces
Possibly the best sweets ever. Possibly not. Strawberry whips were ace too, as they were really long and you could use them to drink Cherry Coke through. It would make it taste EVEN BETTER*.

Werther’s Originals
Alright, so I do still have these every now and then. And Murray Mints. Piss off, I’m an old man at heart. An old, paedo man.

Yes, I am relying on a base-level nostalgia entry today. Just be glad you’re getting anything out of me.


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The grand tramp juice experiment

I went through a period where I drank alcohol a lot of the time, as a social thing, with friends, to have fun, whatever. It was called “university” and then “the few years after uni when I had no idea what the fucking hell I was supposed to do with myself”. They were good days, but I don’t find myself drinking anywhere near as much as I used to. This is, obviously, a good thing, as booze is generally shit in all regards.

Most regards.

Some regards.

Well, sometimes it gives you a shitty hangover, but otherwise it’s awesome. Clearly.

Anyway, partway through this whole university thing I, along with a couple of friends in the shape of then-housemates Ben and Damo, decided to try something a bit harsher. A bit more trampy. So, armed with our new purchases we went to one of the most well-known vagrant hang-out spots in Preston, sat on the piss-stained bench and began the experiment.

I could not drink more than a quarter of a can of Special Brew.

I have quaffed near-entire bottles of vodka straight, I have tried the foulest and most fiery of spirits (though I never would go near that shit with the cobra in it that Rhyds had) and I have always had room for a bit more, even if I hated them. But this was something different. Something special, I suppose. Or at least just a special kind of horrible.

Safe to say, I got a massive headache from my quarter-can and had to go home to have a lie down. The other two schmucks had to go to work for the evening, which must have been fun for them*. But hey, at least I know I could never really be a tramp.

*I think it was. They probably carried on drinking. Bastards.

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Wah wah interview wah

I’ve been doing interviews for years now, intermittently at least. You’d think in all that time I would have learned that they’re not the kind of things to get really nervous about and they are the kind of thing you should put some thought into ahead of time. You’d think. I haven’t, naturally.

It’s bizarre and annoying, to think my brain conjures up these scenarios in which a person who is there to be asked questions at will react in some kind of incredulous fashion and BLAH DE BLAH DERP DERP DE DERP DE DERP.

Can you guess where this inane shit is going? Yes, of course you can, because it’s exactly the fucking same every cocking time. Oh, what’s that? While I still have no confidence in myself I can actually handle doing something? SAY IT AIN’T SO. After all, it’s doing something that’s really pissing easy, of course I can bloody do it. A gorilla trained to do sign language could fucking well do it.

I wonder if it shows from these last few entries that I’m not in a good place right now? Ho hum.

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