Tag Archives: pointless

I WANTED GRAPES

I wanted some grapes today. Didn’t get any. Grapes are too expensive.

I wanted some tuna too. Didn’t get any. Tuna’s gone up by about a quid over the last few months.

I wanted some ice cream as I had a hangover. Still do, on both counts. Ice cream is expensive and I don’t understand why.

I’ve even cut down on Clementine consumption. Those little orange orbs of pure godliness be too pricey. Shall have to get my own tree.

I also opted out of nuts, but that’s because of a completely different reason. Oh wait, no, it’s because nuts are fucking expensive.

Still, got some Jaffa Cakes so it’s not all terrible in first world problems land.

I have no leg to stand on with this whining, I know. I’m just annoyed because I wanted grapes, tuna, ice cream, nuts and clementines. And to put them all in a blender. And blend them. And drink them. Om nom nom.

The last bit may be a lie as a result of too much tiredness which is as a result of going out last night and having too much to drink and oh I’ve just realised why I can’t afford grapes, tuna, ice cream and clementines. Oh, and nuts. Don’t forget the nuts.

NIGHT.

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Musings on not existing, or something

I paused the game I was playing at about half past seven – I know as I remember looking at the clock then. I sat for a bit, did a bit of surfing the information superhighway, ate some delicious, life-giving toffees and clementines and generally got my dressing gowning on. Then all of a sudden it was half ten. That honestly felt like about 20 minutes had passed, but I’ve actually been sat here three hours doing nothing of consequence or worth.

See, in this situation even playing the game I paused (which is still sitting there on pause) would have been productive, as it’s for the mag. But no, I have done nothing, accomplished nothing, I’ve barely even said anything funny to DSG. I may as well have not existed for the last three hours.

If I hadn’t existed – just for that period of time – would it have mattered? I honestly doubt it. Nobody would have missed much. Even DSG would have just written it off as me not talking to her for a bit, rather than me being sucked through a tear in the fabric of space-time. Which is what it would be, naturally. And not just because I watched Star Trek earlier.

I think it’s interesting to put things into that kind of perspective – that I am so thoroughly unimportant the world wouldn’t even consider maybe thinking about possibly ever breaking its stride if I was to cease existing. And I reckon it’s the same for most, if not all of you reading this too. Just consider that for a second – aside from a (relatively) small group of people who know and love you, what would it matter if you disappeared tonight? It wouldn’t. You are as insignificant as the billions of people who have died before you.

I mean, I don’t actually care about any of this. I’m just filling up words. I like sitting around doing fuck all, and I’m clearly really good at it. Loads of people I know can’t spend four minutes in their own company with nothing but a computer in front of them. I reckon they just need dressing gowns. I’m going to try and blink away six hours tomorrow, then nine on Sunday. I might let you know how it goes (I won’t).

As for not mattering? I could go into my real, genuine feelings on that but I’d end up sounding like a BUMMER GAY, so I won’t. Needless to say, nobody is insignificant. Well, apart from you, obviously.

Christ, that was almost like free writing.

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For science!

I am currently in the third… fourth?… a day of my new experiment, wherein I am trying to retrain myself to only need 6-7 hours of sleep a night. As you may be able to tell from my opening confusion, my brain is not handling the changes to my normally massive sleep schedule too well. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s rebelling a bit.

But I have set myself this challenge, and I will at least try to make it work before giving up and going back to 10-12 hours of sleep. I’m sure that after a week or two my mind will be numbed enough to just accept what’s going on and go with the flow, even if the flow is a fair few less hours not having to think about things. It likes that time. I can tell. Stupid brain.

I’ve known for a while that those who sleep the ‘recommended’ 8-10 hours a night actually don’t live as long as those who do 6-7, but that never stopped me. It hasn’t stopped me now, either, as for one I don’t know where this “YOU WILL DIE BY SLEEPING” stuff is from (it could be the Daily Express, for fuck’s sake), and two, who wants to get old? It’s shit. You can’t do anything, you hobble about a bit and then shit yourself on the bus.

Actually, no, that sounds both brilliant and pretty much like what I do now anyway.

Right, yes. So I decided the other day I would intentionally limit the amount of sleep I get in a night. The first night was easy, as I’d been out drinking and always find it hard to get a full night’s sleep on a boozy head. The second night was harder, as hangover sleep usually lasts 14 hours, but I prevailed by forcing myself to play GalCiv2 for hours. Third and fourth nights: easy, as there’s been the alarm. But now I’m wavering, as I’m just bloody tired right now. I want to go to bed. But I can’t until 1am, because that’s how I’m to get the experimental sleep time.

On the plus side, this means my time after work has gone from almost-approaching hectic (but not quite) to really-rather-leisurely. And that’s probably the main reason I’m doing it. It’s only been a few days, but already I’m seeing benefits. I’m not rushing the blogs, I’m not avoiding playing games I want to play as I think I’ll only be able to put half an hour in and I’m able to catch up on shows I’ve missed and “LEGALLY” acquired at a later date.

So it may leave me cranky, give me a bit of a headache and generally make me slouch even more than I did before, but the positives far outweigh the negatives: more time for TV shows, films, video games, writing and coffee. Aweszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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Packing, lists, forgetfulness, things like that

Howcome every single time I have to pack my bag – which is quite often, at least compared to how it used to be – I have to sit around and think about it for nigh-on some minutes? It should be a simple case of routine, knowing what I want to take, knowing what to put in the bag, not thinking about it and just going pack-wild.

But no, I have to sit here and think about things. In fact, I’m going to make a list. I’m going to make a list for a bag of stuff I have to take just about everywhere I take bags of stuff. Pants is one thing on the list – why will I write that down? What’s wrong with my tiny mind? If I could just get a mental imprint of the list then maybe things would be easier.

It won’t work like that though, and instead I’ll probably forget something really obvious. Like pants, even though that’s the second time I’ve mentioned them this entry. Either that or I’ll write a perfect list, pack the perfect bag of things and then spend the remainder of the evening thinking of more throwaway blogs I can write. Yeah, probably that.

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No time for a picture, I’m too busy whining

I am just going to spend not many words here predicting what will happen in my attempts at sleeping tonight: my headache that I currently have will prove too annoying for me to sleep for ages. As I have no painkillers I will have to tough it out.

When it subsides I will still not be able to sleep as it is too warm in this room, then I will be uncomfortable as the bed is quite small. Then I’ll remember I’ve left the window open and will be able to hear all the awful people outside going about their stupid business.

I am tired and crotchety. Hush down. It’s all clearly for effect.

For you see, I am in Sweden for the second time this year as a result of work. This makes me happy as before this job/year I had never been to Sweden, and now I have been to Sweden twice. Granted I have a bitch of a headache and won’t get to see everything this rather nice place has to offer*, but it’s still great.

Whining over. Ish. Headache. Grr.

*Who am I kidding? If I came here of my own volition for some kind of holiday I would go nowhere, do nothing and simply find a single bar to spend all my time in.

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Bank holidays: shit, or REALLY shit?

Bank holidays – bit shit really, aren’t they? Having a day off is great, clearly, but they’ve never really had much of an allure to me, myself, personally, to me, in my opinion, personalopinionally.

When I was a student they were irrelevant. I mean, if I didn’t want to go to school then I just didn’t go – the day didn’t matter, so an official day off meant little more than there were more wankers out at the pub. More wankers in Preston: A GREAT THING.

Then I moved into the fast-paced, fine and utterly lovely world of unemployment, where no days matter apart from Sundays – because they’re when the post doesn’t come so you have a mental marker point for what day it actually is – and one day every two weeks, when you had to remember to go out of the house and lie about searching for jobs. Bank holidays did little more than remind you banks existed and were the places that held the kosh over you because of your massive debts. Sigh.

Working in a shop? Well that just meant bank holidays were horrible. They are some of the busiest days of the year, seeing as shops only open at working hours on normal days, and working hours are the hours when people are at work, meaning people who work can’t get to the shop in working hours. As they’re at work. Then when they finish work the shop is closed and… sigh. Anyway, as these days are so busy at shops they were the days when we had to work. You couldn’t get a day off unless you’d booked it approximately eight years in advance, and they were always massive ballache days where every dickhead under the sun would come in and make unreasonable demands, like you having to ‘deal’ with them or something.

Then – after more unemployment and some freelance (N.B: exactly the same as unemployment) came this job. This job is based on monthly – and weekly – deadlines. I am contractually obliged to complete a certain amount of work per week, regardless of the week. You can see where this is going. Obviously normal days off you aren’t expected to work and when you’re out and about on press trips the workflow is limited accordingly. But bank holidays? Nope – you still have to do a full week’s work. Which means I’m now sat here on my extra day off doing work that I would have been doing at work.

Screw you, bank holidays. All you do is slow the world down for a day and get in the way. Banks shouldn’t fucking take holidays anyway. Get on with looking after my money*.

*Debt.

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Rumble Road: Untold Stories From Outside The Ring book review (7/10)

As I visited the US over the weekend to attend a couple of things for a new WWE game, we were given a goody bag of branded nonsense to take home with us. Aside from the Rey Mysterio mask(s, actually, as I nabbed two), the weird flask thing and the hoody (which I’m sure Anna will claim) there was an interesting looking book – Rumble Road: Untold Stories From Outside The Ring.

Now I have read my fair share of wrassler books, and they all have road stories in them. It’s just such an intrinsic part of the business that everyone has them – and they tend to be quite funny. So I was looking forward to this as a good old fashioned bog-read.

I’m trying to think of another way to write “sigh”.

I’m not sure what contractual obligations by the WWE were placed on Jon Robinson, the collector of these tales, but it looks very much like one of the clauses read ‘do not put anything entertaining in the book whatsoever, in case you run the risk of offending someone or making out that these wrestlers are real people who have real problems/mess up/get into fights’.

Or maybe the clause was just ‘don’t go into any detail – wrestling fans can’t read anyway so it’s a waste of ink’. Either way it makes sense, as this is a book full of half-baked, half-told stories that – in the majority – go nowhere, say nothing and rarely make you smile, let alone laugh. It’s like if this blog were in paperback form.

This is taken verbatim from the introduction to one chapter:

“Think spiders crawling in your bed, rental cars spinning into ditches and hotel keys hitting you in the eye are bad?”

That’s three examples of actual stories in these things. You know they type – complete non-stories that any numpty who has had any interaction with the world has probably had at one point. Where are the stories like in Mick Foley’s book about the unknown gay beach abandonment? Like in Bret Hart’s with the knife-threatening bus “joke”? The one’s like in Bobby Heenan’s that I’ve completely forgotten?

No, instead it’s clearly heavily vetted corporate bullshit. There’s the mention of a stripclub at one point and a clear allusion to someone having themselves some sex in another. But there’s no mention of actual violence, no talk of people being busted for drugs, going mental, having accidents or anything else that would make it interesting in the insider/tabloidy fashion the wrassler books get it right with.

Basically it’s just not honest enough. Insert your own hilarity about it being as fake as wrestling.

Oh, and the categories make no sense, in that the stories contained within each sometimes don’t apply to what the category is actually about.

7/10

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