Monthly Archives: April 2012

Groezrock A-GO-GO

There’s a tinysmall chance you’ll get a blog tomorrow, but I seriously doubt it. I am, as I have done in the past, going to a place where I won’t have any internet. As such, I am out of the loop until about next Wednesday.

Well, unless they have wifi on the campsite, in which case YEAH TECHNOCAMP.

Tomorrow I am off to Groezrock. Well, actually I’m off to Belgium. I don’t even know what the plan is beyond ‘I get to Luton at some point and get in a recreational vehicle (“RV”), then we drive somewhere and end up in Belgium’.

I know at some point, though, we will end up in Meerhout, somewhere near Antwerp or in Antwerp or something to do with Antwerp or oh god I wish I knew Belgian geography.

Anyway, once in that place, we will then proceed to watch some bands, drink some drinks, eat some food and oh I’ve just remembered to get my ear plugs – have some sleep.

That’s not in italics because I’m being euphemistic – I mean to emphasise the fact that I will sleep this time around, unlike in Amsterdam.

Anyway, yes. I will see Belvedere. Regardless of all the other brilliant and excellent and wonderful bands I will see, this makes me stupidly happy. Even though other bands I will see will be better in so many ways, it doesn’t matter, because… just… Belvedere. Okay?


See you on Wednesday. Unless I see you earlier.

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What happens when you take ‘u’ out of drugs?

I saw something about drugs pop up in my usual newshounding today, so I thought I’d write something about that. Then, just before I started writing, I decided to go on Reddit where a video of Russell Brand talking about addiction was posted. On watching it, I realised it was far more eloquent and knowledgeable than anything I was going to write about the subject, even if it probably wasn’t particularly what I was going to talk about. So here it is – another reason I’m finding it hard to dislike Mr Brand:

Also, this makes it easier than writing while a few beers deep.

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I feel causes have caused me to stop caring as much. Alright, I still give a shit about things, but there’s just so much being thrown at you all the time it’s hard to care enough. And that’s not great.

It’s not just causes and things to get angry about, either. There’s Twitter with its constant “please RT missing person” things that I just see, barely register and move on to the next inane comedic photo to instead re-tweet to the world.

Well, my followers. Who aren’t my world. YOU ARE NOT.

The thousand and five emails a day I get from 38 Degrees or Avaaz that get glanced at and deleted. The billion causes popping up on social media every single day that get glanced at and ignored. The horribleness that they want to highlight – for good reasons, no doubt – that I just don’t want to trouble myself with.

And that’s the problem. It isn’t that I don’t care – though 38 Degrees seem to be working apace to make everyone in the world stop caring by sheer weight of emailing – it’s just that I have the choice as to whether or not I invest my time and attention in these things.

In a toss-up between aimlessly browsing funny and cute pictures/videos on Reddit for an hour or reading up on how another multinational corporation is in cahoots with the Tories to literally destroy a third-world nation (and by the way my friend’s gone missing), I’m going to go with the video of someone dropping ham on a cat’s face.

I feel like I should be sorry about this, but I’m not. I know I care. I know things matter. But it’s constant – it’s all the time. And that makes me retreat; makes me more selfish. It almost makes me stop caring.

Please RT to raise awareness.

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The can’t cannot club

Gather in an enclosed space to spend money on overpriced depressants so you don’t feel like yourself and so can talk to people you’d normally ignore on the street.

I danced a bit last night, mainly to oldish music. Dancefloor was empty bar us. Went for it, had fun. The rest of it? Nah. Not feeling it.

Sit in a dark corner, sip slowly, watch them doing the same shit you’ve been watching them do since you were 15 and started going to these places. Almost half my life sat in that corner – the locations change, but it’s always the same corner.

Bored of it. No joy in it. No other reason to go out beyond the music, and the music is shit everywhere in this town.

Of course there are other reasons to go out, but do they apply to me? Nah. “Why didn’t you just talk to her?” Seems a simple question. Seems a stupid question to me.

Can’t do it. Can’t talk. Can’t think. Can’t can’t can’t.

Can’t isn’t a word.


It’s not a sudden realisation. It’s not a sudden turnaround in my mood. It’s the same shit I’ve been (not) doing since I was 15 and started going to these places. Almost half my life can’t cannoting – the locations change, but I’m always can’t cannoting.

Whatever, on that count.

But I do wish somewhere would play music I actually liked around here. Don’t want to feel so much like I have to move home base just to get somewhere decent to sit in a dark corner can’t cannoting.

First person to attempt a “chin up” pep talk is first recipient of a brutal smackdown.

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War: it’s faaaantastic

To simply talk about it isn’t enough. If you weren’t there, you just don’t – can’t – know. They’ll tell stories, write books, maybe even film a movie or two, but they’ll never be able to truly know what it was like to be there, in the thick of it, boots on the ground, on April 20, 2012.

I was there and not even I can really put it across to you the horror, the heroism, the cowardice that I saw – and I’m only one man. I can only see so much. So much more will have passed me by; disappeared into the ether.

But I know one thing from my own war: I am a man. I am not afraid. I am unrelenting and brave. When it comes to it, I step up. I am the vanguard. I lead the charge. I inspire. I lead.

I wouldn’t say this lightly and if you know me you know I am modest to a fault. I wouldn’t even have cause to bring it up but, well – it was brought up for me. My efforts were rewarded and I think I’m right to be proud.

It was a hard war. A hard war we finished on the losing side of. Casualties were high. The dead will never be forgotten. But when the dust (and paint) had settled, they decided to give me a medal. Folks, I am The Ultimate Warrior:

Now sure, some might claim that maybe I was just given this because the guy running the place didn’t know who else to give it to. Sure it might have been because I got shot – at least visibly – more than other people did. Sure, it might be because I openly proclaimed to everyone “I got shot on the knob,” because I did. Sure, it might be because I’d actually shot this very guy even though he was a warden and only there to make sure people were abiding by the rules and not getting hurt. Sure, it might be that when he said “but you shot me!” I responded “you were in my way”.

Sure, some might claim all of those things, and they might claim that I don’t actually deserve this award, but… well, no, actually. They’d be right.

Still, I am The Ultimate Warrior. In your face, Jim Hellwig.

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A demonstration of my comedy excellence

It can be quite difficult coming up with hilarious comedy all the time. I know I make it look damn easy, but believe me – it’s not. It’s hard god damn work being this good. And consistent. We all know everything I write is hilarious.

As it is such a pain at times, I want to help everyone else in the world out by providing them with a few free-to-use punchlines they can do with as they please.

Well, as long as they’re not used in race-hate jokes or anything like that. Paedophilia jokes are fine, mind. They should fit most kinds of comedy and most situations, though, as I want to keep them unspecific and open for most anyone to use.

“But the problem with a loaf that size is it can’t be baked in a traditional oven!”

“Frankly, the sheer number of variables make it so this experiment just isn’t viable in the short term, but maybe if we could secure more funding it would be doable!”

“We’re sorry, your application to be King Of The World has been rejected!”

“It turned out wearing green trainers in the state of Wyoming wasn’t allowed on a Sunday, at least not in that particular building I was in at the time on that day at that time on that day!”

“The problem there being my name was Carlos and hers was Marina – and we all know what that means!”


I know it’s hard to believe just how malleable yet still hilarious I’ve managed to make these punchlines, but that’s because I’m amazing.

If you have any to add, please don’t – you’re just not as good at this as I am. I’m surprised I can even write this sentence through all the tears streaming from my face (the tears are from laughter, not because it makes me sad how brilliant I am).


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Let me cross the road in peace, you miserable motherhubbards

I know there’s a hierarchy on the streets of Philadelphia (“Bournemouth, also the rest of the world”). And I know that I, as a perennial pedestrian, am always going to be at the very bottom of this pecking order.

I’m okay with that. I understand that. I’ve accepted my place as a non-driving, non-biking, non-public transporting, non-skateboarding, non-boogie-board-on-the-roading, non-Heelieing piece of shit. That’s what I am. Fine. Okay.

But the next time a twat in any vehicle decides zebra or pelican crossings don’t apply to them, I am not going to be held responsible for my actions.

Today it was an angry shrug with an angry face mouthing “what?” in an angry way at the back of a 4×4. Tomorrow it could well be me saying “prick” aloud. The day after that? Armageddon, no doubt.

I know it inconveniences you bevehicled folks so much when you have to wait an extra ten seconds to be able to make progress on the roads, but I too am usually heading somewhere when I’m walking. If it were up to me I would never cross roads, but unfortunately some selfish prannock decided that they would put them everywhere, thus necessitating me walking across them.

The other thing about roads is morons in cars and other miscellaneous vehicles drive on them, and they’re not always going to stop without being prompted to by some act of the law. Hence the aforementioned crossings.

Now I am sorry – I am. I know that if you don’t get wherever you’re going within the next one second most of the western hemisphere will burn in nuclear fire, kickstarting a domino effect that ultimately ends in the destruction of humanity as we know it. I know you’re just That Fucking Important.

But if you ever drive through a cunting red light when I’m about to fucking cross the road again, you’d better hope I don’t have my grenade launcher on me.

(NOTE TO SELF: Buy grenade launcher)

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Hot dog stuffed crust: HOME MADE EDITION

Yesterday I decided to take Pizza Hut on at its own game. The company has recently introduced a new base, which takes the stuffed crust notion to a whole new level. Whereas once it was shoved full of horrible, stringy cheese and at other points was crammed to the gills (it doesn’t have gills) with mouth-burning tomato sauce, they have now… well, look:

Yes, it’s hot dog shoved inside the base. I wanted one. I had to have one. But there’s just one minor problem: they cost £18.95.

Eff that ess.

So I did what all good British folk do – I made my own. Here is the list of ingredients so you can play along at home:

1x pizza bought from a shop with money. Probably better to go for chilled over frozen.

1x Jar/can of hot dogs. I went for the ones with 70% meat in them rather than the ones with 47% meat in them.

1x mozzarella ball. I opted for the cheapest one available, because shut up that’s why.

STEP ONE: Open the pizza. This may prove difficult if you’re moroned up to the max.

STEP TWO: Drain hot dogs and lay them around the edge of the pizza, cackling with glee as you do for two reasons – one, you’re taking on The Man and winning, and two, hot dogs look like strange, deformed penises.

STEP THREE: Chop up the mozzarella ball into manageable slices and lay it on and around the sausages.

STEP FOUR: Ask “why should I do that?”

STEP FIVE: Be answered – because it acts as nature’s cement, holding the tasty dogs in place and adding a bit of extra cheesy goodness to any culinary adventure you might be going on.


EXTRA STEP SEVEN: ‘Secret cheese’ doesn’t mean anything dodgy.

With prep complete you can enter (“put”) the disc pie (“pizza”) into the heat cavern (“oven”) which should have been presumptuously heated (“pre… umm… heated”).

Once it’s cooked, you can enjoy!

For about two slices. Then the salty badness overtakes and you wonder why you spent an extra £5 on food this month when you’re supposed to not be spending anything as you’re off to Belgium at the end of it and you owe people money and oh god it’s so salty…

But those first two slices are worth it. Take that, Pizza Hut!

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The Nazi rabbit hole

It’s a dangerous rabbit hole, Wikipedia. You can disappear down it for minutes, hours, days, even weeks. Probably more, though I’ve been lucky to avoid that so far.

Normally it’s fine. You can live with getting a bit of an obsession with something and reading up on a ton of information that’s only about 70% reliable. That’s nothing bad, it’s not embarrassing and it’s sometimes even useful.

But wherever you start on it, there’s a 43.5% chance you’ll end up on something related to the Second World War. And once you’re there, you’re going to end up on the Nazis. And that’s where it gets dangerous.

Not for any dodgy reasons of course. Reading about the Nazis isn’t a bad thing, nor is doing it something likely to convince you ‘they were a bit misunderstood’.

But it’s still dangerous in that someone might walk in and see you have fourteen tabs open about Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, the Afrikacorps, Erwin Rommel, the Eastern Front, Nazism and occultism and numerous others.

They might see this and think “why is he reading about Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, the Afrikacorps, Erwin Rommel, the Eastern Front, Nazism and occultism and numerous others?”

It’s a fair thing to wonder.

The problem is, it’s all so bloody interesting. Just reading about Hitler’s cabinet has kept me going for the last three days. Then you click on a name, and a link, and another name, and another link, and you learn about 4,900 men, women and children ordered murdered in revenge for one man being assassinated, then you feel a bit sick and play some videogames (involving killing), then you go back to it, then you laugh at the wedding photo with Hitler doing a photobomb, then you realise you’re watching a WWII documentary on TV right now and…

Shit. This rabbit hole’s deeper than I thought.

An absolutely fascinating period in history, of that thar be no doubt.

Also: today I watched Tangled. It’s really good. 7/10

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