If I was Twitter famous

I would love to be some kind of celebrity who uses Twitter. I’m nothing of the sort and already I get a lot of messages from people I don’t actually know. I can only imagine what it must be like to have the same thing times about 100.

“You are really cool and a super dude!” they would clearly say, “Your face lights up every room and we shall name our town after you!” they would add, because they’d probably be a mayor of some kind of town.

If I was a footballer they would say: “You are really good at kicking the ball!” then they would throw in the additional comment of: “I hope you can kick more balls at the weekend because you are so good!” Then they would do a third tweet but I wouldn’t read it because I would have turned my phone/computer off because I wouldn’t have to care what the peons thought about me.

If I was a famous writer they would lob these words in my direction: “That thing wot you done written is well good and changed my life #forthebetter” before letting me know: “I can’t even read and it was brillo pads to the max!”

Actually that’s all bollocks. Just like anywhere else on the interwebs, Twitter is full of people being hateful keyboard warriors and if I had any modicum of fame and people messaging me more than they currently do I would be getting abuse no end. Even though I’m the best person alive. Shocker.

Too cold to keep on typing BYE.

War orphans: don’t know real suffering

I do wish everyone else in the world didn’t exist so I didn’t have to put up with fucking moronic decisions of the highest order. The kind of decisions that make you both angry and sad at the same time.

Imagine seeing a large man kick a puppy at a wall, for example.

Not an example of what I’m talking about, no – this was an example of something utterly hilarious.

Alright, not really. I want a puppy, and when I eventually get one I will not let any big men near it for fear it will get kicked at walls, even if the entire reason I have that fear is because I invented that situation to make some haphazard point.

Anyway, I’m not in the best of moods with pretty much anything right now. I’m going to try and play some ridiculously nerdy and deep space-based strategy games on my laptop before crawling into bed and wishing my life away, rather than getting off my arse (figuratively and literally) and actually doing anything.

Still, there’s every chance I’m going to embarrass myself – or just get embarrassed – in front of Brian Blessed later this week. Every cloud has a mild distraction, as they always say.

Oh great, now Steam isn’t working so I can’t even download the damn game I wanted to get. Cheers, world. Those war orphans don’t even know they’re born, lucky bastards.

Something changed

I awake, 9am. The mouth is dry, the head is pounding, but there’s something different. What is it?

Is it the bed? No, it’s still uncomfortable. The pillows are still never right. I still have to sleep at an angle to fit on the thing.

Is it the hangover? No, I recognise this. Had this before. Even the Crunk Juice hasn’t made much difference beyond lowering my self esteem more than it already was. Mainly because I drank Crunk Juice.

Is it the time? 9am is too early on a Sunday. No, because I’ll take the last two painkillers and go back to sleep with a glass of water next to the bed.

Have I forgotten something? Probably, but nothing important. I didn’t lose anything last night. I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I didn’t even talk to the taxi driver so it won’t be like that time I told one he should come out with us next time.

The laptop’s still on! That must be it! No.. no. I did that on purpose, as I’m “definitely legally” downloading something. For science.

What could it be? The thinking is hurting my head more than it should. I waddle through the flat. It’s cold. Piss. Painkillers. Water. Back to bed. Diagonal, so I fit. Sleep. It takes a while, but the warm embrace of unconsciousness wins out.

I awake, 2pm. The mouth is dry, the head pounds less, but there’s still something different. What is it?

He’s not here.

There’s no booming music. There’s no loud swearing at nothing. There’s no leaving the tap running for no reason for 10 minutes solid. There’s no horrid cough. There’s no inane conversations with clearly uncomfortable housemates.

There’s no slamming doors.

There’s no slamming doors.

There’s no slamming doors.

He’s gone. That’s it! He’s gone! The disbelief hits me in waves. What is this? Am I happy? Is this happiness? I like happiness. Happiness makes me feel like there’s a point to things. I could get used to happiness. I could run with happiness, take it the places I’ve always wanted  to go to help me be the person I’ve always wanted to be. I am fucking invincible. INVINCI…

What’s that noise? A van? A van door slamming? The front door slamming? His door slamming?

Oh. He’s not moved all of his stuff out yet SLAM. I’m sure SLAM it’ll be bearSLAMable though. He’s SLAM only SLAM got SLAM to SLAM grab SLAM a SLAM few SLAM more SLAM things SLAM, tidy SLAM up SLAM then SLAM leave SLAM forever SLAM. Then things will be better.

SLAM.

Different, but better.

CRUUUUUUUNK

Today, finally, I will drink Crunk Juice. This is Crunk Juice:

To celebrate, you should listen to this:

And then watch this:

And with that, I bow out for today.

Learning true maturity

I am sincerely lad I managed to get beyond the stupid period in my life where I thought I had to take things seriously. Some might go so far as to call it my pretentious period, but I’m far too dumb and uncultured to be truly, properly pretentious in any meaningful way. Also I was a fat nerd, not a hipster.

Now I’m a less-fat nerd.

Still not a hipster.

But basically I loved Independence Day when I first saw it. In fact, I went to the cinema to see it something like four or five times. I was 12. It was perfect for me. In the year it took to come out on video, though, something happened in my mind. Something like the Kevin transformation ala Harry Enfield.

I found when we bought the film on VHS (HAH A HA HAHAHA THE PAST) that I no longer enjoyed it. I found it stupid. Irritating. Jingoistic to the point of causing offence. I still laughed at “welcome to Earth”, because that’s funny. But generally speaking I had ‘matured’ in that year and become someone who was above it.

I felt like that for a long time. I didn’t watch the film again for years. Then university came around, and with it exposure to exactly the kind of attitude I didn’t even think of – I’m not even sure I knew of. That attitude was to switch your brain off and  just go with it.

So what if it’s all about America saving the world (because they are the world)? So what if all the foreigners are represented as hideous stereotypes? So what if you can destroy an entire alien battleship just by blowing one single gun up? So what if ALL OF IT?

Oh, but I won’t allow criticism of the ‘hacking an alien ship with an Apple Mac’ thing, because that was explained in a deleted scene. PLOT HOLE: FILLED-ish.

And straight after it I’ve watched District 13: Ultimatum. Today is a good day for not needing my brain.

NUTRITION MASTER 2000

This week I’ve been a total ball of nutritional fury (in the good way). If nutritional value had any value, its value would be a picture of my face. Or something that makes more sense. Basically, I might have to change my name to Gary Nutrition because I am the most nutritional nutritionism that’s ever happened. Occurred. Been. Is.

It’s been a week of the sorts of power foods that homely-looking tossers talk about on shows and adverts where they say “natural” and “organic” and “cunt” a lot. If health was a thing it would be rebranded to be called “Ian” and anything healthy would have my face on it.

Which would be unfortunate, as it would discourage people from eating healthily. Who would buy something with my face on or in it? Well, aside from the readers of all the fine magazines I’m in, obviously. At least, the ones that do feature my face.

Anyway, my nutritional adventure has taken me to such lows as a bit of chicken with some brown rice all the way to the highs of Far Too Many miniature potato waffles, a burger and even, earlier today, a Pot Noodle (with a triple Bounty for dessert).

Basically I am the healthiest person alive and my new diet of mini potato waffles (they’re like potato waffles but smaller) means I will lose weight and gain muscle and be healthy and change the world and go to bed.

I think just the last bit is true there.

SPASTICUS

I’ve re-started this blog multiple times today. Five, I think. My brain is refusing to think of other topics to talk about beyond it being a year since Dumpgate, but I categorically do not want to whine about that. For my own good, that is – I couldn’t give two squirts of stale piss if it irks you in the slightest or not.

Nevertheless, I am struggling to think of a topic as a result of having other things on the brain, trying to plan for the next few weeks/couple of months, wondering how I’m going to afford anything and other such inconsequential tripe that doesn’t matter to anybody apart from me and those involved with the things directly.

Oh, I’m also spending some time wondering why Stewart Downing gets to play regular football for Liverpool. Maybe it’s King Kenny’s ultimate troll against the Scouse fans, proving that they’ll love any piece of shit that pulls on one of their shit shirts.

Anyway, just listen to this and laugh along because it’s exactly the same as Ricky Gervais saying ‘mong’ OH NO WAIT:

(Clue: he had polio. It was actually making a point. Because I know a lot of dullards need this kind of thing explaining to them, rather than looking for the information themselves. I hate you all.)

It’s ethical when I need it to be

I think it’s fine to have some sort of standards when it comes to what you purchase. Know where what you buy comes from, or know something about the company that makes it, or know what evil practices the likes of Iams are involved in.

It means you can opt out of purchasing items from dodgy places. But you can’t always do that, unless you’re… I don’t know… more caring and careful than I am, I suppose. Real people can pay attention to the companies they don’t buy from – I just don’t buy Nestle or Iams.

Definitely changing the world here.

But then there are times when you can allow yourself to break the rules, and times when – even though they make clothes entirely from baby skin and the tears of newborn calves – it can be justified that you purchase something from them. That very situation popped up today.

A walk to work, as I am known to do with my steely thighs pumping away, was accompanied by a shit-ton of rain (note: not a metric shit-ton). Rain I do not fear: it does not bother me. I could walk through it for ages without it ever effecting me in any meaningful way – I’d say as much as 38 minutes before I’d have to give up.

Today I almost had to give up early, as my trainers had decided they no longer wanted to have a bottom on them. I like to think I get my money’s worth from trainers, and it seems I got a bit more from this pair as they have worn through in two places on the left shoe.

This meant a very wet foot indeed.

I had to salvage the situation – personal comfort was at stake, as well as the fact that some people at work were forced into seeing my naked foot. That’s when the decision was made. A soggy walk was had, the store visited and…

Today folks, Primark saved my life. For dirt cheap.

(Also I got a new hoodie and some socks)

Live musical gig review from my brain: Apoplysmo Neurotisees

I am getting back into music reviewing. Here is my music reviewing of my best band they are called Apoplysmo Neurotisees:

‘A phenomenal discharge of aural symposium, defying genre and defining vivacity in a way only the work of Proust or Van Damme could truly even hope to mitigate towards equalling’. It was the only thought that traversed its way through the canals of my mind, electro-pistons firing in unity with the literal religious experience the throng-shaped masses were currently enjoying.

‘Transcendental doesn’t cover the sheer glorious verisimilitude of these ecclesiastical showmen’ I added using my brain, because it was just the right thing for my brain to say. While I achieved a genuine state of nirvana – literally – using just my own grey matter and the snapping synapses I previously mentioned using different words because I’m so good with words, this performance of composers, instrumentalists, singers, guitar-threshers and drum-singularities devastated the very notion of notions, fundamentally altering our state of existence as we know it, as we ever have known it and forever will be, now bereft of consciousness in the new age of enlightenment.

Three miracles of harmonious discord were born, lived a life and died on stage – while some of the intellectuals and comrades in our joint aural endeavour simply could not beholden the true majesty of what was taking place to the front of their ocular cavities, many were almost sharing parity with this very writer, though none could sincerely state they had equivalence with a mind so well-trained in the epithets of our sheer unfulfilled continuation.

Subjugation, eroticism, timorous, vehemence, ostracised, neo-classical antagonism laced liberally with agnosticism. Richardson Richardson. Beef and ham.

What the life-affirming experience taught me on a purely intellectual level is that philosophical debate is a requirement of any polite discourse and the conjuration of impossible mathematical hypotheses is something no discerning user of a carbohydrate-heavy mindset could do without. Such is the musical trope of our time, such is the parlance of our very being, such is the majesty of prosodies.

Oh, there was a band too.

7/10

Self-diagnosis is always right

I am one of the worst adults in the world, as evidenced by my recent (a couple of hours ago) decision to register with a GP in the area.

Now that’s a consummately adult thing to do, don’t get me wrong. I’d go as far as to call it ‘grown up’, except I’m not eight years old so I don’t actually say ‘grown up’. The decision to register with a local doctor so I can make him or her pretend to give a shit about my pathetic, unimportant problems is something no self respecting Big People should do without.

But I’ve lived here for two and a half years, and I’m only just registering. I have also never registered with any other doctor at any other time in my life, aside from the obligatory uni registration which I only did because I wanted those two doctors to shove their fingers up my arse.

Too much information? Nah.

Alas, it has come to be that I think I’m going to have another utterly brutal headache during the night. The warning signs have been and gone and, if it’s the condition the internet tells me it is (“explosive head-cancer-AIDS syndrome”, or something) it will roll around at the same time it has struck two times before – about 3am or so.

Yes, I am being a bore and talking about something that isn’t interesting to anyone other than me and my future GP, but it’s just something playing on my mind right now.

I mean, what if I embarrass myself in the doctor’s? What if they ask me for my previous GP’s name, address or anything else and then kick me to the curb when I say “I have no idea about any of these things, I used to go just so I had someone to talk to”, even if it is a lie?

Maybe I’ll just pretend to be an immigrant, then I’ll get all the healthcare and benefits and jobs and houses and anybody who had even so much as a pang of genuine agreement with this sentence towards the beginning can kindly piss off from my readership now, thanks.

How I’ve swung this to be a Grauniad-themed ending I do not know. Night, y’all. I’m sure I’ll be whining if the mega-headache does indeed roll through town.