Monthly Archives: April 2012

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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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.


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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