Does it ever scare you?

Does it ever scare any of you to know that one day everything you know – everything you’ve ever known – will be forgotten? I mean, you can pass on knowledge and you can teach others, you can let them in on secrets and tell them the tricks of the trade, but you can’t ever tell them everything. You can never pass yourself on to another one hundred per cent. And one day you’ll die, leaving everything that is you to be forgotten.

Does it ever scare any of you to know that one day everything you did – well, most things you did – were embarrassing? I  mean, you can mitigate embarrassment in any way you want, you can pretend it doesn’t affect you, you can avoid situations that embarrass and go out of your way to be as straight-laced and normal as possible – but you can’t ever avoid every embarrassing situation. And one day you’ll be left feeling foolish, red of cheek and shameful of character.

Is that a comparison even worth making? I don’t know. Just thoughts about things, people, myself, others. I behaved like a bit of a twat on Saturday night and felt embarrassed about it on Sunday, but when I thought about it – in those terms above – what does it really matter? True, a lot more people now know I can’t dance (I CAN), but fuck it. It’s funny.

Then there are people I know – friends and the whatever else you want to call them – who will get unreasonably angry if there’s any risk of them being embarrassed in any way, ever. It just strikes me as a bit pointless, is all. You’re always going to end up embarrassed about lots of things: don’t dwell on it, just laugh it up and carry on.

Probably don’t compare being embarrassed to the thought of everything you remember being forgotten the moment you die, though. That’s just embarrassing logic.

Privacy is for paedos

Paul McMullan is my new favourite person. Not because he’s actually good in any way, but because he’s the greatest creation Armando Iannucci and Chris Morris have never come up with.

Privacy is for paedos.

Privacy is for paedos.

Privacy is for paedos.

To be a truly incredibly person, you have to come out with incredible statements like that. You want to use a changing room to hide your modesty? PAEDO.

Close the door when you take a shit? PAEDO.

Hide your status updates from anybody, ever, at all, on FaceboYOUAREAPAEDO.

Ask for privacy from the media in the immediate aftermath of a loved one’s death? YOU FUCK KIDS BECAUSE YOU ARE INTENSELY SEXUALLY AROUSED BY THE LITTLE BASTARDS.

It’s devastatingly logical logic.

I have to laugh. I have to. I have to find something funny from today, because the government is doing its level best to make me go on a bona-fide killing spree by bending the country over and fucking it with a rusty bayonet. It’s good to know that the government genuinely, actually does not care about you at all.

I mean, I knew it – I’ve always known it. But this is such a brazen, blatant show of this fact in a very public situation, it’s hard not to be at least a little surprised. You are an ant. You do not matter. Fuck you.

On a related note that isn’t related at all: I have started using smilies in things I’m writing. And you know what? I don’t hate it. It makes it easier than having to explain in detail why I’m joking or being sarcastic. Plus I can make any sentence sexy by doing this 😉

WINKING SMILEY FACE.

Dreams can(‘t) come true

I am often regaled with stories of dreams by others. In the past I was very much of the Dennis from Sunny mentality, in that if it doesn’t involve me and nobody’s having sex, I don’t care. But then, in recent years, I’ve sort of stopped remembering my dreams. Apart from the odd one here and there, maybe once a month or every two months, when I’ll have a really vivid dream, and angry one or a sad one usually. Then I remember. Usually though, I do not.

And since that’s been the case, I’ve found myself not hating hearing about the dreams of others. In fact, there’s almost some comfort in them telling me what inanity/insanity has gone through their subconscious the night before.

Naturally it’s always better if I’m in it or someone’s having sex, but I can stand to hear “and then I walked through the threshold BUT IT WAS A CAVE! Also I was a Jedi” and not want to vomit blood directly into the nasal passages of whoever it is regaling me with said coma-recollection.

I don’t want to guess why I’ve changed, but my C at GCSE psychology qualifies me to do so. So I will. I think I just miss dreaming, or at least remembering them. The dreams I do remember I don’t like – which is why I remember them, I suppose. It’s comforting to hear the daftness that comes out of the minds of others that they remember, and it gives me hope that one day I will start remembering the rubbish ones. Not just the ones where I literally wake up shaking with anger and spend the rest of the day in a genuinely bad mood because of something my brain has made up.

And yeah, brain – stop dreaming about the dog please. She died eight years ago. Stop trying to pretend she’s still alive, thus making me wake up unhappy. You fucking cunt.

Drive Angry, or: How To Troll The World

I have just, about five minutes ago, finished watching the Nic Cage film Drive Angry. Unfortunately I do not have 3D capabilities so could not coo as the radicoolsome effects threw giblets out of the screen at me.

Not that I would’ve cooed anyway, as 3D is shit and gives me a headache.

Anyway, I have decided that Drive Angry is actually genius. I had heard it was a bad film, but I can only come to the conclusion that those saying it is no good have – fittingly, considering the subject matter – no souls.

You think it’s a bad film. You think the story is insane. You think the action is ridiculous in the bad way. You think Nic Cage is phoning in one of the worst performances of a pretty questionable career. NOT THE BEES.

But you’re wrong.

Know why you’re wrong? Because you’re being trolled. Drive Angry is a trolling masterpiece. A trollsterpiece. It’s taking the piss out of you for having the temerity to care about quality, storytelling, acting, sense. It’s laughing in your face as you gradually get more confused and annoyed at how utterly stupid everything about the film is.

It’s trolling you, and it’s trolling you well. That’s the hardest part – that’s why so many have clearly missed it. Why it’s gone over the heads of even the seasoned trollists out there. It’s a fine, fine trolling. So blatant it actually becomes subtle. So wanton it turns back on itself to become considered.

Basically, what I’m saying is this: Drive Angry is one of the best films I’ve seen today. Some would even go so far as to say it’s the only film I’ve seen today.

Regardless, I think it’s worth a watch just so you can be aware that we live in a world where films like this actually get made. It is a beautiful world. Allegedly.

No like, like like

I didn’t like Diet Coke; I found it unpalatable. Its taste was hardly there, so I chose not to dabble. Full fat Coke was my choice of beverage, at least when it came to choosing a type of cola. Suddenly I realised I’d developed a taste for it. Granted, it wasn’t naturally formed – it was the result of drinking the shit all the time when trying not to have as shitty, fatty, bad stuff as normal when drinking the ol’ booze.

Same for raisins. Forced myself. Ate them daily, just to make my brain get accustomed to them and stop hating them as much. Now? Now I like them enough to write a hastily-conceived blog about how much I don’t not like them anymore. At some point I’m sure I’ll go out of my way to eat raisins. What a crazy world!

Brockington (sometimes known as ‘broccoli’) was another one – its albino cousin Colin Flower fit the bill too. Couldn’t stand it. But here it was different. I never forced myself; no daily regimen, no forcing it down my throat until my brain went YEAH ALRIGHT I LIKE THAT. Just turned out at some point that I liked it. I eat it. I even bother to cook it sometimes, not just munching on the raw stalks OH THE RAW STALKS.

But I still don’t like whiskey. Why won’t you let me like whiskey, brain? Why do you do this to me? Why can’t I be cool and enjoy the coolest drink ever invented? Why must I be relegated to shitty vodka (even though I like great vodka) and shitty beer (even though I like great beer)? You are a stupid brain and you make no sense.

A personal appeal, though I have less terrifying eyes

Today, rather than spunking out some stupid thoughts and expecting you to read through them, I’m setting you an assignment. It goes like this:

Read this, chuckle a little that this exists somewhere in the space-tubes of the inter-world and then give some money to that terribly frightening man at the top of every Wikipedia page. It’s one of the best things that’s ever been invented and it costs about $18 million per year to run.

A free collection of all the information we have on pretty much anything. No adverts. All there. Free to access. For anyone who can get on it. Free to edit. Open to change. Evolving. It’s imperfect, there are some questionable elements and his face is terrifying. But it’s amazing, and if nothing else has, Wikipedia alone justifies the invention of the internet.

By Al Gore.

Today, I didn’t hate McDonald’s

Hey look, it’s the blog that was predicted by Ryan “Ryan” King earlier today. Miraculous and unexpected!

Basically, I went to McDonald’s today. For the first time in years. And you know what? I had a massive hangover. I had a massive hangover, and I wanted shitty food. I’ve been eating a lot of shitty food recently, and I should stop. But I had a massive hangover and I wanted shitty food.

So I had some shitty food.

And it was good.

I mean, it was terrible. It tasted like fat and salt. The chips were a weird mix of too soft and too sharp and crunchy. The coke was iced up to the tits. Gherkins still exist, as do onions. Objectively speaking, it was a pile of shit.

But in my rather confused state it was probably the best thing I could have done. As a result I am an instant convert to the world of Maccy Dees, to the point where I will rescind everything bad I ever said about the Evil Empire and its shitty food (that is shit).

I take it back about the stupid claims as if it’s a good thing that the chips are “100% potato”, or that just because it says “pure beef” it doesn’t mean the burgers aren’t made from ground up anus and cow toenails. I take it back about their horrible, horrible ‘common man’ poetry adverts being terrible – I was clearly wrong and they’re actually brilliant.

Though my version was still better.

I might be in the throes of some kind of McDonald’s-inflicted mania, by the way. In fact, I hope I am, because I can’t live with myself liking that place. Going to have to suicide it up. Or have another one of these delicious beers.

Admit you’re wrong, prannocks

I don’t really get that annoyed with internet people, at least not beyond the initial Furious Blast that often comes out of me. To be fair, the Furious Blast comes for a lot of reasons so it’s not like it’s out of the ordinary. It happens though, and it happens because people say stupid things. But I get over that – I move on.

But one thing I find hard to get over, ignore or not be a prissy little bitch about is the fact people will go out of their way to not acknowledge when they are wrong. To not accept when they have been proven wrong. To not simply say something like “ah, sorry, my mistake” and move on.

I try and do this every time I’m demonstrably proven wrong. I don’t live by particularly different rules online to those offline – if I’m wrong, I’ll admit it. Accept it. Move on, more learned as a result. Be a fucking real person.

It’s a petty little thing and it really doesn’t actually matter, but it has irked me today, in recent weeks, in recent months, basically since the internet was invented by Al Gore*. If you are hit in the face with a fact bomb and it proves your argument absolutely wrong, it proves what you were saying was entirely false, please just at least acknowledge that.

Because otherwise I get a little bit pissy, and we can’t be having one unimportant schmo in the world being slightly miffed about something now, can we?

*Almost literally true.

Taking away habits

I just realised I’ve ordered takeaway on a weekday for the first time in… well, possibly this year. That, for me, is a pretty big thing as I was always one to find any excuse to order dodgy, overpriced food using the internet (because I don’t want to have to talk to people) on any day of the week.

T’would appear that whole thing about forgetting about things, or getting out of the habit does indeed ring true. T’would also appear it was easier than I expected it to be to get out of said habit – the only thing I needed to do was not do it.

Can’t preach, anyway, as I’ve given in and ordered a pizza. Shut up, I’m hungry and a diet of rice and beans is annoying me. I have a spare tenner from not going out this weekend (yes, that logic works) and I wanted to see if this new pizza place is anything like as good as Pitza Cano.

It won’t be. It won’t be.

Still, I can hope. And now I play the waiting game. And I drink tea. And I wonder if I should play Udraw Something Something Whatever It’s Called for a bit. And I run out of vaguely pointed things to say in this blog.

And so I stop writing.

Forgotten fantasy (football)

I don’t remember if I’ve gone on about this before, but my opting out of the fantasy Premier League this season has been one of my better decisions. While before I would agonise for whole minutes about my choice of (third-choice) striker for the week, now I can just sit back and wait for Gary Lineker to tell me what’s happened without really caring about the majority of the results or what’s actually happened.

Gary and his weird beard thing, I should say.

Before I would worry about if Lampard had got the assist for a Terry goal. I would care that Charlie Adam did well. I would laugh at those foolish enough to put Torres in their side just because he’s pricey. I would will things to happen that wouldn’t actually suit me on a personal level, just because they would result in more points for my players.

They can win still, but I need the other team to score one and it to be a penalty from so-and-so. As long as he doesn’t get booked I can take the points hit from the keeper conceding and if the assist goes to… god it’s boring and annoying.

Not that I don’t enjoy it. I just couldn’t be bothered this time around. It takes the fun out of just being a mindless watcher of the game, rather than someone actively involved in every pissing thing that happens.

Also I got bored of finishing around fifth every season. There’s that too.