Surprise, surprise

As usual, my inability to organise anything or sort myself out in any meaningful way has ended with me landing nicely on my feet. For all the complaints I make about life, liberty and fruit of the loom being shit, I am often on the receiving end of lucky breaks. Not all the time – it’s not like things are anything like perfect – but it does seem that a noticeable amount of times I don’t bother trying and things sort themselves out nicely for me.

See, I’d all but given up yesterday – people were suffering from the night before, fair enough blah-de-blah. So I’d resigned myself to sitting in my pants, eating Chinese food and watching both Clerks films. I was about 20 minutes into the original and half a plate into my banquet when I received a phonecall, indicating young Benjamin and his ladyfriend Hayley had made their way to Bournemouth without announcing they were coming.

It’s called a ‘surprise’, apparently.

Anyway, a bit of confusion, some quick getting dressed and rushing out to meet them was followed up by a night that – while not hitting the heights of pier-jumping for stand-out moments – was a considerable pleasant experience from start to late, late finish. Apart from the part where I agreed to sleep on my own bloody sofa.

Sitting in a booth and judging everyone in the pub quite openly, receiving free wine, helping people through their debilitating shin-related diseases, taking someone to their first ever rock club, JAEGER BOMBS, dancing like a twat, marvelling at one very good fancy dress costume, watching girls practice their pole dancing (purely for scientifical reasons, natch), something in iBar, Karaoke, being the DJs best friend and not really knowing why (he specifically requested Ben and I sing the closing song of the night), something else at iBar, back for remaining Chinese.

Good night. And on that bombshell, I’m knackered. Good night.

I need to buy a fileofax, or something

I really am that damn bad at organising or arranging things – this has been proven with birthdayageddon. Giving people who live hundreds of miles away a week’s notice, said week’s notice being a week’s notice for god knows what seeing as I hadn’t actually thought what we’d be doing, it getting to Friday and me deciding near-silently it would be my actual birthday thing, then re-deciding on today it would be today instead, like originally planned.

I don’t know why my brain can’t just think, sort it out, tell people and just get on with it. I’ve arranged good things before, but they were mainly a result of two things: they just randomly ended up being good and fun (see: BBQs at my basement flat), or because somebody else took the reins (see: whenever Ben is in a ten-mile radius and feels the organising itch).

When it’s just me doing it and it needs some actual attention? Nah, goes tits up mate.

Still, we shall see what happens this eve. So far I don’t think anybody bar one or two can be bothered coming out, as last night was a heavy one. Understandable. I’ll just end up upside down in a ditch, on fire. On my own. Or something.

Mid-year resolution: next birthday I will try and arrange something better. Or I will get someone else to arrange it for me, as I am shit at this malarkey.

Is this vest the best vest… yest

Today, for the first time in my life, I wore a vest. It has changed my outlook on many things.

Some background: it was for a fancy dress work party, where we went as school kids. So I wore a vest, as we were doing sports day, and I intended to do pants and vest. Unfortunately I couldn’t find any pants suitably small yesterday, so it was just rolled up trousers and vest.

Here are four things I was told I look like:

1. John Mclane
   This is brilliant, because it’s Die Hard and Die Hard is one of the best things ever. Me looking like Die Hard makes me happy. Next time I want to be told I look like Predator though. The film, not the actual predator.
2. Don Draper
   Doesn’t need many words beyond: yes, I want to be him. Obviously. Who doesn’t? Only soulless freaks, that’s who.
3. A 1920s strong man
   Obviously this was the most common lookalike thrown my way, because I’m well muscular and my biceps often get mistaken for cannonballs. And I have a handlebar moustache, or something. Shame I’m really weak.
4. A navvie
   Admittedly I was the only person who said this, but that’s fine because it’s always good to bring navvies into any conversation.

Anyway, I’m sure photos will surface at some point. Also we lost at sports day – usual fare, mid-table obscurity. Good enough not to come last, not good enough to excel. STORY OF MY LIFE BOO HOO.

Birthday drinks now, ta ta.

I am now 28. YEAH, or something.

Another successful Dransfield birthday in the bag, this one brought to you by three hours of taking screenshots, shopping at Primark for stupid school uniform shit for the work summer party and a general feeling of discontent at the total lack of Lego that’s come my way for said birthday.

At least I’m not ill this year, just slightly hungover, tired and cranky at everyone and everything.

Anyway, it’ll be interesting to if anything at all changes over the next year. Right now I can’t see myself still doing this blog in 2012, so there’s that. Then there’s other inane things to consider: will I go re-fat? Will I still be in Bournemouth? Will the Queen finally realise it’s me that should be running the country, or at the very least Bognor Regis?

I think the answers to all of the above are: maybe. Or not. Who knows? I don’t.

All I know is that I’m cream crackered, so I’m off to bed on the back of this tiny, meaningless blog about nothing. At half 11. On my birthday. Hmm.

(I’m not being morose, in case you’re wondering – just off out tomorrow to celebrate. ME ME ME.)

Another successful Dransfield birthday in the bag, this one brought to you by three hours of taking screenshots, shopping at Primark for stupid school uniform shit for the work summer party and a general feeling of discontent at the total lack of Lego that’s come my way for said birthday.

At least I’m not ill this year, just slightly hungover, tired and cranky at everyone and everything.

Anyway, it’ll be interesting to if anything at all changes over the next year. Right now I can’t see myself still doing this blog in 2012, so there’s that. Then there’s other inane things to consider: will I go re-fat? Will I still be in Bournemouth? Will the Queen finally realise it’s me that should be running the country, or at the very least Bognor Regis?

I think the answers to all of the above are: maybe. Or not. Who knows? I don’t.

All I know is that I’m cream crackered, so I’m off to bed on the back of this tiny, meaningless blog about nothing. At half 11. On my birthday. Hmm.

(I’m not being morose, in case you’re wondering – just off out tomorrow to celebrate. ME ME ME.)

Dear children: adults are actually shit

As I get older it becomes easier to see that adults are, in fact, idiots. We all are. We’re not these super-people to be revered and idolised like we think growing up. If anything, we’re stupider than kids because we won’t accept new, different ways of thinking. Instead we prefer to stick with what we know. Why? Because it’s easier.

I read something recently – I cannot remember where – that made this point. It talked of how amazed the writer was as a child that his dad could manage to get up, get ready for work and navigate all the way to his office without getting lost or being late every single day. He thought that was the work of a superhuman, and that adults just never made mistakes.

Then he grew up, and realised that yes – we are all idiots. We all get lost, fuck up or turn up three hours after we were supposed to be there.

We don’t actually get better at life, we just get used to doing it in a particular way. Routine becomes commonplace, making it look like we’re more competent. But what happens as soon as something is introduced to rock the boat – even slightly? Anarchy. Chaos. Burning churches and dead dogs. The end of days.

I remember missing my bus a while back. Three people died as a direct result of that.

Growing up really shouldn’t have this whole line of thinking behind it. You don’t get any better as you age, you just get more lines on your face and accumulate more things to be sad about.

The worst beers in the world, officially (N.B. not officially)

Beer is great, but the beer that – apparently – most people drink is piss and shit mixed up into one dickhead-shaped can. No, really, it is. I reckon if you put through a freedom of information request you’d get that in writing from some kind of government official. It’s bad stuff, so for the benefit of Chris “But I Like Carlsberg” McMahon, I’m going to review some of the more popular/ubiquitous brands.

Now, I’m not stupid or ugly enough to claim I have never drank these shitty beers, nor that I don’t still indulge every now and then. But I don’t drink them anywhere near as much as I used to, and it’s getting to the point where I visibly shudder in a pub if forced to utter the phrase “a pint of Carling, please”. In fact, it’s increasingly rare for me to drink any beer at all, post-EA Sportsageddon. Just thought I’d clear that up. ONWARDS.

Carling
Otherwise known as ‘The Worst Thing In The World’, I have heard rumours Carling is actually one big joke being played by beer company owners across the world. They wanted to see how gullible the British public could be by introducing a beer so utterly without merit it can only be called ‘beer’ because they paid off Trading Standards and trying to make it the most popular ‘beer’ in the country. These days, the beer company owners just sit around all day, laughing in utter disbelief and counting their money.

Carlsberg
Brother of ing, berg was introduced to the market to try and mop up those twats who will only drink things if they sound foreign. Not too foreign, mind – you don’t want no Vlablowski or anything. Nah, berg is much closer to home, and we all know a Carl.

Heineken
For some reason Heineken gets a bit of an easy ride from people – I think it’s the American influence, as they seem to like it over there. While I appreciate they’re one of the few lagers that offer themselves up in tinycan format, I still can’t get over the fact that it tastes like piss water.

Coors Light
Do you know what it tastes like when you’ve lightly heated cabbage in unsalted water for thirteen months – just enough to raise the temperature, not enough to boil the water off – strained the chunks out, chilled the remaining liquid and then drank it? Yes, you do – because you’ve all had a Van Damme-approved Coors Light.

Stella Artois
When something is HILARIOUSLY referred to as ‘wife beater’, you know it’s definitely a beer worth drinking. Originally brewed by mysterious types in Leuven, Belgium, all records of the lager’s inception were lost after the entire town brawled itself to death.

John Smith’s

 

Not even bitter is safe from my ire here, as I rise up in protest against that most Northern of beverages. Aside from the bloke on the artwork (I’d guess he’s called ‘John’, or ‘Busey’) looking like a twat, the beer itself is bland. Cheap, yes. But utterly without merit, unless you want to pretend to impress Southerners by drinking ‘real beer, like’.

Foster’s
Just get fucked, yeah?

Kronenbourg
People seem to think this is better than the other beers listed for some reason. Details aren’t my strong point right now as I’m very hungry, but safe to say: they’re wrong. Kronenbourg is just as shitty as the other stuff.

I’m sure there’s more, but I’m done being a big arrogant prick now. And for all my eulogising about things like Sierra Nevada, the fact it’s readily available in the UK – albeit imported – means it’s not as edgy and cool as I want it to be. Must find more obscure beers to like, to keep up my beer-hipster status…

No, that’s a lie

Today I found out my dearest friend had died in a hot air balloon jousting contest…

No, that’s a lie. I just can’t think of anything to write about. What would be the best way to die – not just your usual, blaze of glory (taking everyone else down with you) schtick, but for you personally.

See, I’m a handsome, rakish rogue that confounds as much as he delights the general populace…

No, that’s a lie. I just can’t think of anything to write about myself. What would be the best way to write about yourself – not just your usual, I am a person (taking everyone else down with you) schtick, but you personally.

See, I tend to write using words that you mere humanoids will do nothing but fail to understand…

No, that’s a lie. I just can’t think of anything to write about writing. What would be the best way to write about writing – not just your usual, this is some well good words (taking everyone else down with you) schtick, but your words personally.

See, I realise this is making very little sense right now but it was completely planned like this from the beginning…

No, that’s a lie. I just can’t think of anything to write about.

I am unmoved

I don’t think I need a maid – something I’ve often thought about. Alright not ‘often’. More like ‘just then, then I thought I’ll do a blog about that it’ll be WELL GOOD’. Anyway, I don’t think I need to hire someone to clean for me.

It’s not that my flat is tidy or nice in any way – it’s a shithole the likes of which only I can create, and it’s getting progressively worse. Especially as I’m too lazy/forgetful/scared to tell the landlord about all the things that have broken so he can fix them.

But I don’t think I need someone to come in and sort it out. What I need is someone to come in and just move stuff around a bit. I just looked at my table and there’s stuff there that pre-dates the present era of Dransfield singledom. I’m talking vitamins, anti-inflammatory cream and some other stuff, not like food or beetle carcasses.

I also rarely realise how dusty stuff gets, for two reasons. One, I never touch it so why would I even look at it? And two, it gets to the point that there’s so much dust on it if I do look at it I just assume it’s meant to look like that.

So yeah, I need someone to come and move my stuff around from time to time, before dusting pretty much everything. Oh, and they can fix the broken shit too. I might just buy myself a new hotplate for my birthday. CELEBRATION.

Amy Winehouse: dead idiot, no beard

Ugh, I suppose I have to do something about the Winehouse death and subsequent reaction then. After all, I crave the reactionary hits like the 600-odd I got from doing something about Ryan Dunn (check out the killer headline, maaan!).

First of all, I am not an unsympathetic, uncaring person. Far from it. I just tend not to let myself fall into the trap of glossing over Real Life in favour of emotionally-charged outbursty reactions. Well, I try not to, at least. I’ll admit it is callous, in a way, but I still think it’s the right way to think about things – life goes on, things don’t stop and start at the convenience of one or two events and all that gubbins. It’s all part of this cosmic ride, maaan.

So when I start Tweeting frantically, trying to keep pace with the sympathetic outpourings of everyone else in the world in the wake of Amy Winehouse’s death, it isn’t to be deliberately contrary. It isn’t to show how super-cool and edgy I am by going against the majority opinion. It’s just to say my piece and – admittedly – is a bit of an emotionally-charged reaction, just of another kind.

But the fact that 90+ innocent lives taken away for no reason can instantly be forgotten in the wake of a known junkie – who has been slowly killing herself very much in the public eye for years now – finally dying is… well, it annoys me. It’s not a case of ‘one or the other’, and people are obviously allowed to react in whatever way they see fit, but there are just things that irk me. One of which is the word ‘tragedy’. Perspective, please. It’s all I ask.

Was she hounded by the media into this behaviour? Maybe. Constant scrutiny, having all of your life put out there and shown to the public, whatever you’re doing, puts a serious mental strain on you. We all know she tried to stop with the drugs – her friends and family will surely have helped and it is horrible to know these people now live with the knowledge nothing they could do helped in the end. It is a bad thing, yes.

But it isn’t a tragedy. Unless it turns out otherwise – which it might – it would appear to be the result of self-inflicted…ness. For all intents and purposes, she killed herself.

It’s sad, but I have little sympathy.

HEADACHE

I have a headache and I’m uncomfortable no matter how I sit or lie down, so you don’t get a proper blog today. It’s probably because I’m nearly 28, or something.

Did I mention it’s my birthday on Thursday? No? Sorry, I just crave attention about it because I never had parties when I was a kid. And I still don’t have them now, because living in the arse-end of nowhere means nobody will visit you.

Admittedly I only gave people a week’s notice, BUT THAT’S BESIDES THE POINT.

Anyway, nighty night.