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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A discovery of historical significance

I was recently lucky enough to find the rarest of the rare – a large bag containing 18 smaller packets of Nik Naks, the “knobbly, freaky sticks of corn”. This is something most historians will agree is a good find, I’m sure they’d be all too happy to tell you. You see, the “Nik” “Nak” was a strange beast in the childhood of many Britons – the rebel of the crisp world; not potato, not flat (in fact, not even a regimented shape) and consisting of some frankly ridiculous and non-committal flavours like ‘rib’ or ‘spicy’. Not only were they crisp-like snacks on the fringe of potato chip society, they were happy with their reputation – they thrived in being the outsider; the underdog. We all thought we’d seen the last of them, though, after what we thought to be their entire population was wiped out by an aggressive strain of Gibberella (Red) Ear Rot. But this find – in a dig site located in Lidl – showed us otherwise.

It isn’t clear whether I will be able to get the find declared as treasure just yet, as the coroner is away from his post for the next week or so*. By the time he returns, the find may well have perished after being subjected to the harsh conditions of my room in 2010. Either that or their deliciosity will be their downfall – I have no idea.

What it is safe to say, however, is that this find has brought back some memories of my past, though not a great deal. I mean who actually has a huge portion of their history attributed to a semi-tasty corn-based snack made into questionable shapes? Who? WHO?! TELL ME! No one: that’s who. Which is why, in this frankly bizarre entry, I am going to sign off by saying that nostalgia being linked to snack foods as it so often is, is a sign that this country is going to be a big fat fatty in a few years. It’s also a sign that the next fucking Facebook group I see asking “what happened to Wham bars” or “were Frosties (the sweets, not the cereal) good to throw at the elderly?” I will be forced to take explosive action. You have been warned.

*He’s off hunting marmosets in Kenya – they’re not indigenous to the country, so he has to have them flown over in transport crates. Sometimes, if he’s bored, he’ll make the cargo plane release the crates at high altitude before gunning them down with a flak cannon. He’s not a very nice man, to be honest, but each to their own and all that.

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Why I hate blogs, including this one

Stupid crap full of self-centred nonsense that no one in their right mind would ever give a dusty old turd about. But enough about *insert contemporary reference here*! The witty, Brandt-esque cartoon above hits the nail on the head in a hilarious and satirical, Rory Bremner-esque fasion. It must be a laugh-esque riot hanging around Gregory, whoever the fuck-esque that is. Anyway let’s talk about why blogs are a big steaming pile of monkey crap.

1. We don’t give two dollops of sloppy poo about your life, your opinions or what you do, ever. Unless you inherited Superman’s powers and mixed them with the ability to produce diamond-encrusted gold bars from your bellybutton every time you say “IT’S A TRAP!” like Admiral Ackbar then you probably aren’t interesting enough to read about.

2. You can’t spell, or you don’t bother checking your spelinks. You have some internets all around you – why not use them? (This does not apply to me right now, as I’m far too tired to move the mouse pointer to the top right, click the Google search bar then type whichever word it is I want to check the spelink on)

3. You say things like ‘blogosphere’ or ‘collective’ and don’t immediately vomit blood from your eyeballs at the merest suggestion of such transgressions.

4. Blogs allow people to think they’re spending time constructively, when actually all they’re doing is writing a nonsensical list of a few things they’ve just thought of that second, while at the same time trying to make themselves laugh.

5. When you agree to do a blog a day for a year then get asked to go to Stockholm for a bit you suddenly realise it’ll be reasonably hard to get anything posted tomorrow or Wednesday unless Sweden has internet. I hear it doesn’t. They have Swede though.

That’s your lot for the day. Hope you feel fulfilled.

P.S. There is absolutely no irony whatsoever in me blogging about why blogs are shit. If you think there is, you’re an idiot and I hope your tits get gnawed off by AIDS-ridden cats. With little bitey ants all over them. Who then go on to poo on you. The cats, that is – not the ants. Ant poo would be insignificant at best.

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