Monthly Archives: February 2011

Darwin? More like WANKER.

What’s going to be the next step in human evolution? I remember seeing a programme a long time ago that theorised how people involved with space travel/colonising other worlds would end up evolving to suit their conditions more. Frankly it was all speculative nonsense (based on SCIENCE), but for some reason it has stuck with me for a while. Something about people living in zero-gravity being tall and thin, or some such shit.

Anyway, I ask this – I’m reminded of this – because of something that’s just happened to me. Something that could easily have been avoided were it not for the fact I haven’t yet evolved like I clearly should have. After all, I am so much more than any of you pathetic humans could ever hope to be. Or something.

But no, my body remains the same as pretty much every other nerdlinger out there. Which means that when I eat apples I run the risk of getting a bit wedged between my two bottom-front* teeth. As I have done right now. And it’s annoying me. It feels like the teeth are being pushed apart by the tiniest sliver of apple skin. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t like it. I don’t have any toothpicks. I may try brushing it out, but I doubt it will work – it seems wedged in pretty well.

So it naturally lead me to the question of evolution: why haven’t I evolved to the point that I don’t get food stuck between my teeth? Surely it makes sense to evolve that trait, seeing as it would mean less wasted morsels, more nutrition for myself and therefore more chance of me growing to 18 feet tall (and being made of gold).

Answer me that, DARWIN. You bearded twat.

*Not front-bottom teeth. That’s something entirely different.

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A collection of today’s thoughts. THRILLING.

Is it any wonder I can’t think of anything to write when I’m being confronted by a few gurning dullards in suits opining like the utterly un-thrilling dweebs that they are? I think it is no wonder at all. Before kickoff (I’m on about the football, shockingly), they began to speak of Ben Foster’s quality. As soon as they mentioned him and it became apparent they were talking of how good he is, I predicted Hanson would point out that “having a great keeper behind you fills you with confidence as a defender” or something along those lines.

Naturally, he did. Because he’s an unimaginative, uninteresting prannock who doesn’t seem to bother even trying to form any kind of original thought about the sport he’s paid to cover. It’s his job – his main focus. And yet he’s fucking terrible at it.

Anyway, I don’t want to rant about pundits again because I’ll end up on about Alan Shearer, and that will just make me sad.

Turns out I’ve been to 17 countries – that I can remember. Rather than thinking “oh, that is quite good – I have seen a fair few places around the world and met people of all walks of life in doing so,” I instead thought “oh, that’s not enough.” Cue frantic searching for cheap flights places and browsing of Hostel World for an hour or so.

Still ended up looking at going to San Francisco again though. Hmm.

That’s all for today. As you were.


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I feel quite pathetic right now. I am 27, as I seem to be mentioning a lot recently, and I am finding it hard to pluck up the motivation to go out tonight, solely because I went out last night. This is not the me I know and hate. This is a more hateful me to hate, as if he can’t even drag his sorry carcass outside to put alcohol in his face and dance to New Found Glory while everyone stares at him for daring to like something he’s not supposed to.

Then it’s decided – I am wearing my New Found Glory shirt this eve. Take that, cool kids! Pop punk’s not dead.

Anyway, back in t’day I – along with my partner in debauchery, Benjamin Judas Mozzaberg – would be seen out on the town regularly. Not one night a week, or two, three, the other numbers between. It was minimum six, usually seven. This is not boasting, this is acknowledgement of a few things: one, Preston was shit so we had to go and get pissed to have any fun at all. Two, we were stupid. Three, I used to be able to cope.

Seems I cannot cope anymore. Old. Past it. No point. May as well just end it all now. Either that or just get dressed quite quickly and go out.

Yeah, what’s one more night going to hurt?

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Losing pounds NOT MONEY HA HA HA

I don’t think I’ve done any kind of update on this and I’m looking for something quick to write, so here you go. I started this healthy eating and doing some exercise (using EA Sports Active 2, as kindly donated by our sponsor… errm… friends… errm… fellow professionals at EA) on February 8 and, as of today, I still haven’t missed a single workout on it. It is still knackering me pretty much every time, but that’s probably because I’m the least fit person alive. Still.

Anyway, I weighed myself at the start, the week after that and the week after that. In total – though the original scales were different to the two I’ve used in a row – I have lost seven British pounds. This is half a stone, or about three kilos. As I am already big and guttish, I do not look different at all. As I am still massively unfit and incapable of anything approaching being sporty, I do not feel very different at all.

So I’m still waiting on that shit people say ‘changes your life’ or the point you get ‘addicted to exercise’. I’m still making myself do it, rather than doing it as a matter of course. But I suppose it is only a couple of weeks in. And to be honest, seeing a number get smaller every week is fun enough, I suppose. Golf scores FTW.

Or: I’ll just not bother any more as of Monday, and take to eating 42 buckets of KFC. MMM KFC.


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Stop pining

As if things couldn’t get any worse (they could), they have (predictably). Something terrible has happened to me and it is stopping me from enjoying one of the few pleasures I still have (clementines) and is making everything I eat all weird, like. I speak, of course, of pine mouth.

While I could so easily be describing my own gob, such is the pining nonsense that has been spewing out of it for the last month or so. But that’s not the case. Nor is that as hilarious as I wanted it to be. No, this is a result of my new Fitness Quest IX, in which I am not just exercising, but am actually eating right too. Part of this ‘eating right’ thing includes nuts, seeds and dried fruits.

Pine nuts. I ate some. Part of a pack of other things. Didn’t think much of it. Would go so far as to say I like them. But something had gone wrong. Something was different. I didn’t even notice at the time. I just kept on eating. Dipping in and out. Small handful, eat. Small handful, eat. After three days, they were gone. If I’d have known what was next, I would never have touched them.

Because now, see, everything I eat and drink tastes really fucking bitter. Par for the course, what with me being The Bitterest Person Alive, true, but still – come on. This isn’t Aesop’s fucking Fables or anything, I don’t need to learn my lesson like this.

Anyway, I checked with my doctor (a fine person called Dr. Google) and they informed me this shit happens when you eat pine nuts sometimes. Oxidising, spoiled, Chinese, stuff like that all leads to things tasting bitter for a few days to a couple of weeks. Don’t weep for me, for I should well be fine in not too long. For now though, I can’t enjoy clementines – and I have to eat them, otherwise they’ll go off.

Well, it’s either pine mouth or I’m having a really long-winded stroke. Either way, it’s a bit shit.


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“A delighted Gaddafi waving like a girl”

I’m following the situation in Libya and across the Middle East closely, both because it’s my duty as a fucking person and because a bit of revolution always gets my blood pumping. Obviously it’s a very serious – and in some ways grave – situation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, killed by those charged with protecting the populace. The displacement of many more thousands. Unrest, a lack of safety, people seeing their lives unravel in front of them.

It’s not a situation I happily sit around and take the piss out of. Naturally there’ll be jokes thrown around, as if you can’t joke about everything, you can’t joke about anything – AND ALL THAT SHIT. But generally speaking I’m just being a quiet observer here, taking it all in and trying to keep up to speed on things. While also trying to avoid seeing any of the truly horrible images or videos. As I’m not on fucking

But there’s one thing about the whole situation that I just can’t take seriously. One element that always makes me laugh, and always makes me think of The Day Today. This rogue element is, of course, Muammar al- (“Colonel”) Gaddafi*. First of all, look at him:

Second of all, The Day Today (from 21:45, as it won’t let me do the thing where it plays from a set place):

I think it is fair that I laugh quite a lot at the situation as a result.

*In looking up how to spell that, I’ve found that he was 27 when he took control of Libya. I haven’t even taken control of my finances and I’m approaching 28.

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Slithering little bastards

I am a fan of animals, as animals are great and you don’t have to be sociable or reason with them or anything – and yet they still love you. Dogs is the best, naturally, but there is other animals in the world, isn’t there. Is is is.

Turns out that BBC2 has decided to devote a programme, on right now, to the worst animal in the world. Yes, even worse than sharks. Yes, even worse than spiders – though spiders are pretty horrible. Of course, it’s snakes. Fucking devils, those little shits are, and they get a show devoted to some ageing hippy (who reminds me a great deal of The Dude) going around India looking for them, so he can milk them (for venom, not milk*).

Where’s my show? I don’t slither around tea plantations biting elderly Indian women, like the little fuckers on this show do. I’m not even green, meaning rather than looking unripe I look like a real thing. Obviously some of them aren’t green, but they’re just even bigger dickheads because they won’t acknowledge how horrible and shit they are. Show off dillweeds.

I mean, what’s the point in bothering? I can understand the need to harvest venom – to get antivenom, in order to be able to cure those fucked up by their shitty venomific ways. Fair enough. But I have a better solution: it involves gathering up all the snakes in the world, bundling them up ala a giant rubber band ball, rolling it into a pit of fire, covering it up with a big lid and then blowing it up with all the remaining nuclear warheads in the world.

This doesn’t all just come from me being scared of them. I swear. You can’t prove anything. SCREW YOU.

*Would you drink snake milk? Would you bollocks.


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Today is a Propagandhi day. As are most.

I began this blog initially talking about how I actually have a choice of what to do this weekend, rather than what it has been for the last god knows how long. But I deleted that as it was boring. Now I have no idea what to write about.

Okay then, I have a song by Propagandhi going around my head non-stop. It’s called Less Talk, More Rock, and this is the best version I can find on Youtube.

I’ll never forget it coming on in the car once and my Mum saying on the “we wrote this song cause it’s fucking boring” line “well that’s stupid”. Made me chuckle.

Yep, that’s about it for today. Unless you want to listen to the song they got halfway through in Sheffield before the building set on fire and we had to evacuate. Sigh.


*They didn’t personally.

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Today has been a shocking one for discoveries about myself. There are things I am generally not confident about – a lot of them – and things I know for a fact I am bad at. These never surprise or shock me in any way, as they are just there as accepted truths. I will never change them (unless I do), so what’s the point in getting caught up in them? It’s those sudden realisations about things you weren’t already sure about that hit you the hardest.

See, I know I’m really good at peeling clementines. I’d go so far as to say that I’m probably the best person you’ll ever see at peeling those little orange bastards. I can do it in one smooth motion if I can be bothered, and at most it takes three separate motions. Not including taking the pith out, naturally. I’m also really good at eating apples, and the amount of fruit I can get off them leaves them with probably the lowest fruit:core remaining ratio you’re ever likely to see. Short of eating the core, of course, but that’s cheating.

I’m also good at speed-eating grapes.

But today I have found out that something I simply assumed I would be good at, I am not. I’ve done it a few times before, but not enough for me to have any memory of being good or bad at it. See, I tried to cook some brown rice. And I failed. It went wrong. It didn’t work. I could blame my terrible hotplate thing I have in the kitchen and its setting of either HOT or NOT ON, but only the poorest of craftspeople blame their tools.

I am a failure.

I let the rice down.

I am still hungry.

I am sorry.


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You People sicken me

I don’t think I’ve actually had a fully formed thought today. Instead I’ve just been amusing myself watching Doug Stanhope. So I’ll let you do the same, with the added bonus of SCIENCE. Let’s compare and contrast:

You People like this:

I like this:

You People find this hilarious:

I find this hilarious:

Thanks to SCIENCE, I think it’s clear to see I’m well cool and you’re all dweebs.

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