Monthly Archives: July 2011

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.

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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.

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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.

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Nostalgic nostalgitron 9000

It would be nice if you could have parts of your brain surgically removed. I know you can, but I mean specific parts that do specific things. I know you can that too, but I mean I wish I could have my nostalgia gland removed, or at least turned down.

Also yes, the nostalgia gland is real. I just realised.

It’s annoying how easy it is to get lost in nostalgia. Part of the reason I’m writing this is because I’m nostalgic for the days when I could do good blogs, and nostalgic for the time I did a blog on nostalgia.

Another part of the reason is thanks to my recent trip up to Leeds for the first time in over a year. There I saw friends from my past, stretching back to about… hmm… just under 20 years or so. Shitballs. No wonder I’m such a nong, having known Mike for so long.

It’s nice and all, and flicking through some old magazines recently has given me that wonderful warm feeling you get in your belly, but it’s dangerous too. I’ve been feeling it a lot recently – too much – and it’s getting to the point where I crave things be like the past again. This is ridiculous and wrong, but my brain – the nostalgia gland – is working overtime recently.

It’ll pass, as all things do, then I’ll be nostalgic for the days when I was nostalgic about things. But for now I’ll just crave the ability to do nothing but play games like Vandal Hearts all day while laying on the floor and it not giving me ridiculously achy joints.


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Wall to wall small (talk)

This may (will) shock some (all) of you, but I’m not very good (“am shit”) at small talk. I’ve just had it re-confirmed to me on entering my house and being introduced to my new housemate.

I mean, it doesn’t help that I was walking up the driveway to be confronted by a shirtless man staring at me through his window, or that I then entered the house to have him walk out of his room, into my path and FORCEFULLY, AGAINST MY WILL, introduce himself politely.

Still shirtless.

Have to say, that may have taken away some of my natural small talk charm I’m usually so renowned for.

Seriously though – I can’t even do my usual claims of dismissing things because of their inanity or pointlessness. While it is both those things, it serves a vital purpose: making people think you give a shit about anything to do with them at all. This, in turn, stops murders from happening. I’m too smart to be above small talk, but I’m too dumb to be able to do it properly.

“So, what do you do?”

“Oh, right. That must be fun.”

“I hate you.”

Every time. Without fail. It’s not a recipe for making acquaintances want to not creep into your room and bum you to death in your sleep, really.

I really must teach myself the ways of spouting (more) inanity, lest I become Just Another Victim.

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I want to write me some shit films, or something

I am genuinely confused by what I see on TV a lot of the time. I’ve gone over my hatred for adverts – and likely will again in future – I don’t tend to watch many of the shows that YOU LOT love so much and I tend to be late to whatever bandwagon show is doing the rounds at any given time.

But this weekend’s watching of TV activity has shown me there’s a whole deeper element that runs not just through TV, but into the world of movies. I am utterly, completely and totally confused about how and why a great deal of these films ever get made. Shit horror films for the Horror Channel, incredi-bad softcore porn for Movies4Men, all of those ‘Movie’ movies.

These things get written. The scripts get paid for. They get funding, and actors, and help, and the rights get sold to companies around the world, and more than no people watch them. There’s no justice in a system that allows this tripe to be made.

On the other hand, there’s surely opportunity. As such, I want someone in the know to tell me how this shit keeps on getting made – how these people can get money to make things, and how they can get to the point where aimlessly flicking through Sky channels leads to these films being left on the TV for more than four minutes (until the laughter fades and it becomes apparent the joke has worn thin, natch).

I want in. I could write better tripe than these tripe-manufacturers. That’s not me saying I’d be good at writing this stuff, more just that I’d be better than them. Because whoever ‘they’ are, they pen some absolute gash. Though not in the case of soft porn, because that would be too hardcore for their intended audience.


Really though – get me a writing gig making crap films. I’d be ace at it.

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Why bother? Boredom, mainly.

I’ve been asked by a few people recently (as well as by myself) why I’m bothering to continue this blog. It gets noticeably less effort put into it on a daily basis than it used to get, with average blog lengths going down to about 230 words rather than the 300+ of old.

Though there is the whole quantity/quality argument there, but that’s not what I’m thinking right now. Also more recent blogs have clearly been lacking in both those elements. ANYWAY.

So why am I still continuing? A sense of duty, I suppose. I said I’d do it for a second year, so I’m going to do it for a second year. I didn’t say I’d do it well, just that there would be 365 blog entries written and uploaded in 2011/early 2012.

But I do think it goes a bit deeper than that – though not deep enough for anyone reading to be in any way impressed as to my reasoning.

First of all, the more honourable reason: there’s been a bit of cash donated as a direct result of me doing this shit. As such, I feel honour-bound to complete the task.

Second, the less honourable reason: I think it helps relieve some of the mind-numbing boredom of life, what with blogging giving me something – however small – to look forward to each day. Something to think about, or focus on. Yes, it doesn’t get the effort it used to, but it still gets some, and it still – on a very personal level – does something that helps me. Namely, helping kill off some boredom.

And all anybody ever does in life is try to kill off boredom. That’s all life be, y’all.

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