Monthly Archives: April 2012

Time for MEGA THIGHS (part II)

On loading up the dashboard (the behind the scenes bit – get a WordPress account for yourself then you too can feel as special as I do!) I am confronted with lists of shit. One list of said shit shows a list of the however many most popular posts on this blog.

Now, I understand why Bieber Naked is popular – it’s because I beat the internet. I know why the psycho test one is so loved by my legion of fans – it’s because it’s the internet and it’s full of psychos. But there’s one that pops up regularly and confuses me.

I did this a while ago – something about me getting thighs like Roberto Carlos that has apparently been one of the most consistently popular entries on here.

Before I go any further: it’s clearly because of the Roberto Carlos thighs image. I know that.

But maybe… just maybe… there’s an audience out there of people who really want to know – who care so much it hurts about my ill-advised foray into the world of exercise equipment ownership.

Maybe there’s a cadre of dedicated static bike enthusiasts keeping a constant vigil, checking the world around them in the vain hope that some of us will actually buy one of these things and use it on a consistent basis for more than the initial two-month honeymood period.

I can safely say: there are no people who do that. None. At all. Anywhere. There’s no actual proof for this, but it is fact.

So here’s another picture of Roberto Carlos’s thighs, just to keep the traffic flowing:

I need to get back into the habit of using the bike.

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Life in stasis

It’s only when I actually pay attention to my surroundings – as in, my disgusting lair – that I notice just how out of it my brain has been for the last however long.

I see something that I put somewhere ‘for a bit’ that’s gathered dust, and I remember I only put it there ‘a bit’ ago. Then I remember that was September, when I got back from Japan. I probably should have mailed those Dragon Ball collector’s cards to Mike by now, truth be told.

But it goes even further than that. I’ve only just put my iPad and HTC boxes in the recycling. I got both of those in January.

2011.

That entire year is just… I don’t remember it. I remember specific points. I remember the multitude of things that pissed me off. But other than that? It’s vague.

I remember the summer of 2010. I remember my birthday and the cakes and the Lego I got. I remember going to the Oceanarium and being annoyed the otter bit wasn’t finished yet. I remember the trips to LA and Stockholm and Vancouver and all the rest of it.

2011? I remember a haze. I don’t even remember if it was warm in the summer. I don’t remember how badly I had hay fever (it was horrible in 2010, I know that).

I remember buying my bin in the living room when I moved here in 2009. I don’t remember why it’s balanced on top of a speaker – something I must have done fairly recently. I don’t even remember putting it there.

It just seems like everything has been in stasis over the last year-and-a-half or so. I make comments about my head being fucked; about not being able to concentrate on or care about anything, but I don’t think I mean them.

Then I look around at something I discarded with the full intention of putting it away or moving it ‘soon’. I realise it’s been there six, nine, 15 months – and I realise that maybe my brain isn’t actually in it.

I’ve been cruising – existing, not living – for a while now. I don’t know if this realisation and need to be honest to a bunch of strangers* means I might be breaking through the slump.

In fact, I doubt it will. I know what I’m like.

But at least I’ve finally noticed. And picked up those cards. And put them in an envelope. And written the address. Don’t worry Mike – in four months I’ll probably get around to posting them.

*And less-strange strangers**
**”Friends, acquaintances and family”

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Bike riders

I have a serious disability, as if it wasn’t already obvious to all of you even if you’ve never met me or even know who I am.

No, it’s not something that requires I use a wheelchair. Nor is it terminal idiocy. Nor am I Seth MacFarlane. It’s far worse.

Well, except from the last one. The last one is the worst.

See, I’ve never owned a bike. And… well, I can ride them. But I’m not very good on them. I can balance, ride quite normally and generally not immediately die – nabbing bikes from friends all the time in my youth seems to have helped.

Along with the times I used to nab bikes off friends at uni and ride them around Preston at 4am.

And the times I’d borrow the bikes from friends in Leeds and ride them around Hyde Park at 4am.

And the time that bike hit the kerb and I went over the handlebars and my knee went all gooey at about 5am. Damn stupid bike and kerb.

But anyway, I’m shit on bikes. And I’ve never owned one. And that’s pretty weird, I think. I sort of want a bike to get to and from work with, mainly because it’s not the bus and it would be a little bit quicker than walking.

But I know that, as a result of my lack of experience behind the handlebars, I would likely end up dead within a day. Maybe two.

Didn’t even want a bike anyway. Stupid bike shits.

It’s fun that even though I don’t care for MacFarlane, it’s a story in one of his shows that’s on right now that gave me the inspiration for this blog. I say ‘fun’, I mean ‘incredibly dull’.

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In which you are called ‘humanoids’

Shit son, I could do some shit right now about Police Squad cos that’s what I’m watching, but I won’t do that cos I’ve done that too much.

I could do some mad-larious (mad hilarious) shit about that #AskRomney shit going down on Twitter and how that shit gives me hope for humanity because some people come out with some truly funny shit. But who cares?

I could spout some shit about the beers I’ve put in my face today, but that shit is boring and smacks of a 14-year-old boasting about how much he’s had to drink.

I could wax lyrical about squash and how Robinsons is amazing and cheap from Lidl and maybe this shit is being spouted because I just took a swig of it so that shit’s very much on my mind.

But… no.

Instead I’ll just leave it at this and go to bed. Night, humanoids.

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Ian’s Invention Corner

There are many things in the world. Some of them are round. Some of them are not round. Some of them confuse you by looking like they’re round but then revealing themselves to actually not be round.

But there isn’t everything in the world. If there was, we wouldn’t have to invent things like this incredible invention I’ve just come up with: the pocket GP.

For my non-Brit readers, a GP is like a man who checks your boo-boos for you with sticks and pulleys and things. Sort of like a doctor, only taller and more handsome. Also they’re psychic and know everything about you, and have a penchant for sticking their fingers up your bum. Pervs.

Picture the scene: you’ve just woken up in a room that smells distinctly of the worst farts ever. To your left is the person sharing your room (but not the bed cos that would be well gay like), who has contributed to this war crime.

This needs to be pointed out, to set the scene.

You soon realise your head hurts in The Bad Way and your stomach is warning your brain to warn you that some shit is about to go down. Well, some chunder is about to go up. Whatever. It does.

It isn’t pretty. Though the orange colouration is somewhat comforting.

You do not know why this is happening. You have not eaten anything that others haven’t, you have not gone and drank water laced with AIDS. You would like to feel better, but for the sake of curiosity you would like to know what the hell caused this ailment.

This is where the pocket GP (patent pending) comes in. Using some sort of voodoo, you rub it on your nuts or something and it figures out what is wrong with you and how you got the wrongness wronged all over you.

Then you find who to blame for feeling like shit since Sunday and you end their life. With the pocket skull hammer.

Can’t wait to make my first million!

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Reasons to kill yourself, part I

There are many reasons to kill yourself. Some of them are stupid (copying Hitler). Some of them are honourable (said you’d copy Hitler for a dare). Some of them are a smidge misguided (ran out of beans; shop was shut).

But there are reasons you definitely should kill yourself, and I would like to provide the world with just a few examples of why you should. This post is inspired by two things: my hatred for someone doing one of these things on the coach the other day, and the recent episode of South Park where Stan suggests one of those pricks on QVC kills himself.

TV, therefore, is as damaging a thing as coach travel.

Chewing with your mouth open
Unless you suffer from a medical condition that requires you breathe through your nose, or maybe you have a cold or something, you should never chew with your mouth open. Never mind rudeness or whatever other shit people come up with: it sounds horrible. It makes me want to be sick. And if you do it for no damn good reason, you should chop your own neck out with a rusty fork.

Being in my way
I walk quite quickly. You probably don’t walk as quickly as me, because you’re about 90% of the population. That’s fine. That happens. You don’t have my leg length or waddle speed. I can accept that. But if you’re in my way, get out of my way. Don’t wander aimlessly in front of me. Don’t veer into my speedy route. If you slow me down even by a tiny amount – again discounting the infirm in any real manner – you should rip your own guts out using a Nintendo Power Glove.

Stopping for a chat in the middle of the pavement
Chat all you want – please. I don’t chat much, but that’s because SHUT UP THAT’S WHY. Take a moment out of your day to share inanities. Do it. Laugh at things people say that aren’t funny. Pretend you’re popular. Whatever. But when you decide to do it, don’t just stop in the middle of the path and do it, like so many of you ignorant pricks do. If you do do this (huh huh), you should hammer your own skull open like a boiled egg and feast on the fatty grey lump inside.

Disagreeing with me in any way, ever
I’m not always right, but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to disagree with me, ever. If you do, you should take up smoking, preferably starting with the exhaust pipe on your car.

Complaining about someone commanding others to kill themselves
When I do blogs, I’m not always serious. Strangely, I am sometimes. But oftentimes I’m joking. And, far be it from me to dictate what is and isn’t out of bounds, nothing is out of bounds. This isn’t serious, and me commanding people to kill themselves for any reason isn’t a bad thing: it’s a thing to be mildly smirked at – if that – and ultimately ignored. If you take it any serious..er than that, you should hitchhike in the dark on the autobahn on a busy weekend when the government has encouraged drunk driving for whatever reason.

There’s more, but if you demand I add to this list you should probably kill yourself too.

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Some meandering shit about the dole

Just reading up on jobs, the unemployed, and how there’s about six people for every job out there, and not every job is enough to cover basic costs of living, and nobody’s allowed any benefits to keep themselves above the bread line and… yeah, uplifting stuff like that.

It’s made me want to reminisce about my time(s) on the dole. So why not, eh?

I had two stints on jobseeker’s allowance. First time I signed on was my birthday in 2005, which provided much hilarity in the job centre. “Happy birthday!” the man said, hilariously. It’s not that it wasn’t hilarious, it’s just that he beat me to the punch so I got annoyed with him.

My problem was never a lack of ability – I’m not thick and I am professionally qualified. In other words, so long as my CV sparkles or I have someone on the inside put in a word for me, I have a chance of getting the jobs I want.

This isn’t arrogance, just truth: I am not the usual millions of jobseekers out there.

The millions out there with less qualifications, less ability to do something as saleable or diversifiable as I can do – those that have to actually rely on the jobs available on those pissy little computers in the job centre… well, I feel sorry for them. Genuinely.

Part of the dole routine is applying for about three jobs every two weeks – might be more these days – which meant I had to root through the computers for things, even though I knew I didn’t want to do them. I ended up applying for a job as Santa at the Trafford Centre once, which was actually offered to me – but it turned out the cost of getting there and back every day wasn’t financially viable with the wage paid.

I also looked at a lot of security guard jobs – me, the massive pacifist (read: coward), doing something like that? Well, fortunately the job centre staff didn’t seem to know or care that you needed a special licence to work in roles like that.

There’s a hint, unemployed folk: if you don’t actually want a job, apply for the ones that need licences that cost hundreds of pounds to obtain. Seemed to work okay for me.

But god, some of the stuff was tantamount to slavery. The information handed out on the jobs themselves isn’t enough – a great deal of them simply don’t tell you how long you’ll work or how much you’ll be paid. Why would you apply for something without that knowledge?

But there’s the mentality: you’re on the dole, you should be taking anything you can get. It permeates through society. If you’re on the dole you’re a lazy dosser. If you’re taking benefits you’re stealing my tax money. If you’re jobless then you’re scrounging.

I was trying to get a job, but I was failing to get a job. But that was more my own laziness than anything else. The times when I really wanted – needed – to get a job, I got one. Both times. Almost straight away. So I’m not the finest example of dole scum.

But there are so many out there who are legitimately on the dole for the Right Reasons, who need help and support and are looking for what they can get. But they’re barely helped. They’re shat on. They’re treated like idiots by the (often well-meaning) staff at the job centre, and they’re dismissed as scrubbers and scum by many members of the public and the media.

But it ain’t easy. It’s not as simple as just taking the job because it’s there in front of you on the computer. Especially when you know nothing about it.

I lost my point here. It’s just aimless brain-wandering by now. I feel sorry for those genuinely trying to get out of the quagmire of hopelessness that is unemployment. Many aren’t as lucky as I am, and I’m not even very lucky.

I think I’ve depressed myself by writing this. YEAH.

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Buckaroo Banzai, or: My Brain – The Movie

Odd. I’ve asked numerous times in the past for people to recommend sci-fi films for me to watch. I have seen a lot of them – certainly not all, but a lot. Generally speaking, the recommendations – while not bad by any stretch – are of movies I have seen, or ones already on my radar.

Or shit ones, of course.

Nothing wrong with that. It’s fine. It’s expected.

What isn’t expected is an off-hand comment to be made about something I have no idea about, which ends up being a sci-fi film that I go on to watch and it turns out to be exactly the sort of thing I’m looking for when I ask people for these recommendations.

Yes folks, I watched The Adventures Of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension the other day. And it was everything my brain wants a film to be.

Robocop himself Peter Weller? Check. Ridiculously-named main character who is a neuroscientist, inventor, daredevil, international spy/hero and rock musician? Check. The Kurgan from Highlander? Check. John Lithgow and Christopher Lloyd playing nefarious aliens? Check. ‘Good’ aliens all being portrayed by black Rastafarians? Check. Incredible electro-synth soundtrack? Check. Jeff Goldblum working things out by talking quickly to himself out loud? MEGA-CHECK.

I’m all for everything in films. Whatever. Not narrowing it down in any way, or pigeonholing my taste. Serious, non-serious, shit, good, whatever. But this film struck a note with me that very few other movies have done, and I’m actually ashamed in myself for not having known it exists until now, because it’s just my brain splodged out into a film shape.

Not to say I would be capable of writing or making anything like this, just that if any of that nonsense ever were to happen (it won’t), it would be like this. Wilfully daft and as tongue in cheek as it is deadpan – it makes me happy.

So yeah, there’s that.

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Coaches: you’re not as bad as trains

I have complained in the past of trains. Of their penchant for being shit, considering what you pay to use them. Of their lack of comfort, considering what you pay to use them. Of how long it takes them to get anywhere, considering what you pay to use them (and how they operate on tracks that aren’t roads).

But I have never complained of the pain that is using coach services. After yesterday, where I spent nearly ten hours confined to a tiny seat in a piss-stinking coach with no air conditioning, I will still not complain.

Because it cost me a matter of £some to get from Liverpool to home. And the fact I paid a fraction of what I would have done for the plane or train means I am able to accept the fact that coaches aren’t exactly bathed in luxury.

In fact, it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t have felt like I was on the verge of dying (mystery illness: GO!) and if the fat German twat sat in front of me hadn’t kept on jabbing his seat back into my knees.

(Clue: I am quite large. I don’t fit very well in coaches. “Snug” is an apt word, though it is too kind a word as it conjures up thoughts of the one thing I didn’t have – comfort. And the seat he was on didn’t actually recline – he was just pushing it back so he could sit in some weird, reclined way and laugh at shitty photos on his girlfriend’s iPhone. Fucking Apple fans. All cunts. Wait, what?)

But it was many hours sat in two confined spaces (two coaches, see), feeling nothing but uncomfortable and wondering just when the misery would be over.

But it was £14 from Liverpool to London. £12 from London to Bournemouth. And it was on roads. And it wasn’t £120. And it didn’t have the arrogance that comes with the trains where they assume they’re offering you something better than they are even though I have never, ever been on a train service in the UK where I’ve thought ‘oh, this is worth the money – I love trains!’.

I hate trains. Coaches may be shit, but they’re actually meant to be. What have you ever done, trains? Eh? EH? Piss off, trains.

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Extendend

They are doing a new, extended ending for Mass Effect 3. This probably doesn’t matter to you. It barely matters to me, and ME is one of my favourite video game series out there.

Basically the original end was too vague and a bit deus ex machina for people to simply shut up and accept, so people complained. And now some sort of extension is being released in the summer.

I’ve wracked my brains thinking of what they could be doing with it – I was going to write a brilliant script here, but due to the fact I have to go out in a bit and I simply can’t be bothered entertaining you on such a sad day because Jesus died today poor Jesus – but I think I’ve finally come up with what the new ending will be.

So, without further ado, the extended Mass Effect 3 ending will be something a lot like this:

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