Tag Archives: YEAH

Potential Kickstarter projects version 2.3

As is the current trend with this blog – and the internet in general – I’m resorting to lists when I can’t think of anything really interesting to write.

In other words I should have been resorting to lists since I started this thing.

Because, like, it’s not interesting. Nothing I write is interesting. So I should have just done lists instead, because like I said they’re what people do when they can’t think of anything interesting to write.

SHUT UP I’M HILARIOUS.

Anyway, spurred on by the lure of wanting to make people put their money into something, I have decided I will do a Kickstarter on something I make. Like, a graphic novel, or that kids book I did if Morgan ever pulls his hoof out and draws me some horses*. Here’s a list (owing to previously-mentioned lack of creativity on my part, as well as the fact I want out of this uncomfortable chair to go sit in a more comfortable one) of things I could do:

The kids book, which I haven’t looked at in so long I’ve forgotten what it’s called
Here, to remind you, is an adorable child adorably reading it out. I got no money for this, which has pissed me off as it’s the greatest literary work of this, or any, century.

A graphic novel
This relies on having someone at hand to do art, as I am shit at drawing. I choose this over a standard, non-art-needing novel though, as it would suit my abilities more. As in, I still see novels as needing to be a lot more words and of a lot higher quality than graphic novels, so I’m aiming low. I am well aware how wrong this viewpoint is, by the way. Allow me my intentional ignorance.

An invention
I don’t know what the invention would be though, so that’s a bit of a sticking point. Either way I’m going to ask for £2.4 million to fund whatever it is. Flavoured pen lids or something, probably.

A Persian hammock business
Spurred on by the knowledge you can get Persian rug mouse mats, I have decided Persian hammocks should be a thing. If they’re not already. This will need about £20 initial funding, I’d say.

A wodge of cash so I can fuck off somewhere else and be bored with life in another country
That’s a service everyone would happily pay for, right? Yeah. FUND ME.

*Not having a go, Rich, just thought I’d publicly chew you out**

**Also I love you***

***Not in a gay way****

****In a SUPER gay way

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Intimidaaaaaaayshun

Prompted by brief discussion earlier – well, I say ‘discussion’, I mean ‘thing I wanted to crowbar into a conversation because what I say is more important than what anybody else has to say’ – I’ve been thinking about times when I’ve actually been intimidated to talk to someone.

Beyond childhood/adolescence, I can honestly only think of two occasions. Both of the celebrity variety. Both in the last year. Actually, both on the same trip, now I think of it.

Normal people? Whatever. They’re people. If they had a gun I’d be intimidated. If they were made of biceps, sure. If they’re female, yeah, sure. But my point was intimidated by people I wanted to approach. Too terrified of girls to approach them, so the point is moot.

See, normally I don’t give a shit about celebrities. There are people I like, people I dislike, even people I respect. But I don’t care much for the celebrity thing, at least not to the point where I’m going to bother approaching someone for an autograph or photo.

There’s an element of nervousness, certainly, a bit of lacking self-confidence, naturally, and the need to be polite and not hassle someone. I am British, after all. But never intimidation.

Then I met former WWE Champion Alberto Del Rio. I have never  before walked up to a man who seemed to leak such menace. Well-dressed, surrounded by entourage, massive, stony-faced, totally in character – I genuinely felt like a tiny child in front of him. Even though I’m probably taller than him.

He was really nice, of course. They all are.

Wrestlers, I mean. Not Mexicans.

Some Mexicans are pricks.

Anyway, on the same trip we were heading back from LA, waiting to board the plane. I look across the lounge, scanning the faces in the bored fashion I usually do when I see a grey-haired chap buried in a book near the front of the queue.

I carry on scanning the gormless chops of the morons surrounding.

Something draws me back to his face.

He looks up.

It’s only Henry fucking Rollins.

If my bowels were any weaker than they are, I likely would have shit myself with joy at that moment. But they’re strong. And, as it turns out, I was way, way too intimidated by the man to approach him and plant a massive kiss on his dick.

So yeah, there’s that. No idea why I was intimidated by this man:

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Wake a fish

If you had one single wish, what would it be? I think right now it would be for an opening to a blog that doesn’t read like I’ve just been on a site that gives you ideas for blog topics. I haven’t.

Really, I haven’t. It’s just a very bland subject that popped into my head for the reason you’ll probably find out if you make your brain put up with wading through this filler nonsense for a couple of hundred words. But yeah – you’ve got a single wish. None of that ‘wish for unlimited wishes’ bollocks and none of the wishes would be stupid monkey’s paw bollocks where they only come true in a bitterly ironic and twisted fashion (usually involving dead family members or being covered in faecal matter). Straight-up wish logic.

Would you wish for bigger knees? A really comfortable hammock? A chilled can of Coke whenever you have a hangover? The ability to avoid getting fat thus meaning you can eat all the shit you want to eat at any time? Liverpool football club to explode and never exist again? Kenny Dalglish and Dirk Kuyt to die? Sorry, I’ve veered into writing what’s on TV right now.

I wouldn’t. I’d go straightforward for my Just One Wish. I would wish as follows: that everyone alive and everyone who will ever be alive has a perfect life. Sorted. Everybody wins. Nothing bad can ever happen to anyone ever again, because everyone will have a perfect life. I haven’t thought through the logistics of this, but that’s not my job – it’s the job of that lazy fucking genie bastard. GET ON WITH IT, GENIE.

Well, I’d wish for that or a really nice toothbrush. Like – really nice.

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My bank is trolling me

My bank loves me, it seems. See, they love rich people because of that whole ‘loads of money’ thing and how… well, I don’t know. Whatever it is they do with their money. It’s never been that clear to me why they love rich people so much.

Probably something to do with all the fancy hats they can afford.

Anyway, banks then hate people like you, because you are normal, have a bit of money (but not loads) and don’t piss about with them in any real way. I am not one of you people. Nor am I one of the rich ones.

No, I belong to a select group that teeters on the brink – never quite absolutely broke, but always having to take advantage of credit facilities and overdrafts. I’m the kind of person kept in a perpetual state of debt that I have to pay for the privilege of having, which contributes to me staying in said debt. In perpetuity.

As I’ve said before, it’s entirely my fault so I’m not whining right now.

But it’s fun – in a hilarious, cynical way – how nice the bank is to me as a result of both a) not really having any money and b) not really causing them any problems as a result. I’m a good little prole to them, always paying minimum amounts, overdraft charges and whatever else they lob my way and never threatening to earn or save enough money to drag myself out of this.

Which is why the bank just sent me a letter this week offering to increase my overdraft limit by 50%, to £3,000. Because they have a sick sense of humour at banks and think ‘well, if we can already fleece him, why don’t we try and fleece him a bit more?’

Fortunately I’d have to ring them up to arrange this, and that’s not going to happen because I hate using the phone. Oh, also I’m thick and bad with money, but I’m not that thick or bad with money. Shove it up your arse, HSBC – you’ve got enough of my debt thanks.

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OnLive, innit

Today I have briefly dicked about with The Future, and it was a fun place in which to dick about. The other day a service was launched in the UK (it’s been elsewhere a while, I think. No, I can’t be arsed checking) called OnLive. It’s videogames, so yeah, that.

Basically it lets you play games by streaming them. Think Youtube, a bit higher quality and with the ability to have input on what happens. It means you don’t need a £1,000 PC to play the newest and brightest titles.

Basically, it’s brilliant. It removes a massive barrier of entry for a lot of people and opens gaming up to a far wider audience than it might have had before.

Except for the fact that the games are indeed still the same games, meaning if you had no interest in them before you’re not going to have any interest in them now. And while the barrier for entry that is the hardware has been removed, there’s still that just-as-big barrier in the form of really complex games that need you to know whatthefuck is going on before you can even hope to start having fun with them.

Know what WSAD means? No? Ah. Sorry, you’re still not invited.

And even I, the wondergamer extraordinaire, even though I now have very few barriers to entry for near-proper PC gaming and even though I know what WSAD is and won’t even make a joke about it being ‘well sad, like’ – even though all that, I still want a behemoth of a new PC. I still want to spend that £1,000 getting a monster that can run everything.

It’s just nice to have OnLive there as an ‘also’ option. Some will use it for more, and it will be great for them. It might even encourage some new folks to get involved. Good. That’ll be great. Me? I’m going to pore over the relative merits of a 2500k i5 as opposed to a 2600k.

Ladies: form an orderly queue.

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MY LIFE IS SO HARD WAH WAH WAH

I am currently in that wonderful packing situation we all find ourselves in so often. You know the one: you have to pack to go on holiday tomorrow, so you’re trying to make a list of what to take in order to forget as little as possible. Halfway through writing that sentence you remember you need to take a plug charger. The list isn’t going so swimmingly as you’re half-watching the wrestling and playing Football Manager (hello, ladies). You’re also part-confused because you’re off to another place, this time for work, the day after you get back from your real holiday and you keep thinking to write things down that you don’t actually need until then, plus you keep forgetting you need to take some shit out of your wallet, lest you lose it in Portugal. You have freelance half done – it’ll get done, but it’s still sitting there not quite done. Then you realise John Laurinaitis sounds like the surrogate from Arrested Development (via Dan, naturally). Then you wonder if you left the batteries at work – but it doesn’t matter because you’re still at work tomorrow. You’re not sure if you should pack everything this evening, as you have time tomorrow before catching a 15 minute bus to some shack masquerading as an airport. And you’re still getting mixed up – a Dictaphone is not necessary for a holiday with friends. Friends and Jack.

We all end up in this situation on a regular basis, I’m sure.

Sod it, I’ll just play Football Manager until my eyes explode.

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I have a diseeeeeeeease

I’ve had a headache for months now, so being the masculine male from the future who is terrible at taking his own advice he happily doles out to everyone else (i.e. “go to the doctor then”) I ignored it. Then I got bored of ignoring it and instead looked up the symptoms. Annoyingly, it was the first thing that popped up on Wikipedia.

Yes, I’m aware self-diagnosis on the internet is one of the worst things you can do, but when there’s a list of all the possible causes of what you think you have (yes kids, it’s a tension headache. Sigh) and you genuinely, without even exaggerating a little bit, tick every box, it’s probably safe to Occam’s Razor the shit out of it.

  • Stress: usually occurs in the afternoon after long stressful work hours or after an exam
    – While my job isn’t stressful when compared to a frontline surgeon, a war bastard or a stress tester, it does have its share of pressured work. Also things outside of work contribute to this, though have tailed off recently.
  • Sleep deprivation
    – Yup.
  • Uncomfortable stressful position and/or bad posture
    – Naturally. I like to slump, unfortunately. And I sleep in the stupidest ways possible – ways my body refuses to bend when I’m awake. And I often have a bad back or neck or shoulders or all of the above.
  • Irregular meal time (hunger)
    – Yep, though not so much through the week, fortunately. I’m often hungry though, but that’s because I am a greed machine.
  • Eyestrain
    – Games journalist who works on computers all day before going home to sit in front of a computer all evening, sometimes with games on the TV. So, yeah… maybe.
  • Caffeine withdrawal
    – I get caffeine withdrawal between sips of coffee. I need to cold turkey this shit.
  • Dehydration
    – I tried to combat this today by drinking two bottles of water. It just made me wee a lot, which was really annoying. Normally I am the least-hydrated person alive, though.

So in these circumstances I do think it’s fair – right, even – to believe what the internet tells me about my life-threatening headache (that isn’t life-threatening though does appear to be somewhat chronic).

Painkiller addiction here we come!

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