| Prostheses |
[May. 22nd, 2007|11:46 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | Romantic; the keats kind. | ] |
Fantastic. I really want them. I started by looking for false arms, which I intended to strap to my sides in a bid to make myself a little more akin to Doc. Oc. But, slowly but surely, I'm developing a slight obsession with retro or vintage prostheses. I don't really like the newer ones, the ones that look real, but I have a immense respect for folk who will gladly wear a hook or, to my greater delight, a fucking double hook.
I'm also particularly enamoured with what appears, at least upon first inspection, to be a prosthetic attachment for map plotting (bottom, horizontal). I cannot begin to think what the prosthetic on the right is for, but it's brilliance is not to be disputed. I'd like to think one could attach a small wax polishing pad to it, and then proceed to wax one's car, or perhaps one's turtle, with it.
Tomorrow shall yield a tidier room, a better knowledge of Jeanette Winterson, and a walk in the park to, quite literally, stop and smell the flowers. |
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| Lebensraum |
[May. 22nd, 2007|09:18 am] |
Taken from Facebook
"Doesn't it make you fucking mad whenever people assume that Wales is like a county or something of England, too....
For example:
Person 1: Where are you from?
Person 2: I'm from Wales
Person 1: Wales?!Oh, thats in England isnt it!"
I'm going to chance my arm and say that dialogue never happened. A sister group to this: "Cornwall is a country...it is NOT part of England!." It is part of England. When did a bunch of pasty munching bastards, who are so inbred they have ten thumbs and no fingers, decide that their shithole town was a country? Fucking pasty eating twats.
Tonight I shall be smashing a load of bottles outside the front of my neighbours garage. If he wants to wake me up, on my day off (granted, every day is a day off at the moment, but still), by revving the arsehole out of his motorbike, he is going to get what he deserves.
Today I woke up happy. Tired but happy. I always feel cheated when I wake up tired.
I'm watching office space, planning on listening to bad man by Roll Deep, and then later I'll buy some Euros for Barcelona. Tonight I may watch Fight Club again, read some lesbian literature, and attempt to tidy my room. Past today I intend to get a new job, and I will get a job, I may hate it, but it will be a job nonetheless. It will provide money and structure, the two things I crave most at the moment.
"'eee's a big man" |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 9th, 2007|04:43 pm] |
I always knew from my first encounter with Roy Chubby Brown that I would hate him. I envisage all of Chubby Brown's fans to be of the same social standing, stature and demeanour as the disgusting, ginger, waste of sperm that first introduced me to Brown's reprehensible ejaculations of casual racism and general bigotry. The boy in question was Damien McCarthy who, to this day, remains to be a boring, tiresome twat who has no ambition outside of getting leathered every other day, and attempting to look like a surfer, when in fact he is so ludicrously fat, and I am not a man of small stature, that if he saw a surfboard he would undoubtedly mistake it for a sponge finger and eat it whole. Not far from Roy Chubby Brown I should imagine. Anyway, when McCarthy first regaled me with Chubby's tales of "Pakis" and "Faggots" (please bear in mind, these words are used only in quote, and would never normally pass my lips, well fingers in this case, but you see my point), was sad day for me. Up until then I had been raised on a steady diet of Reeves and Mortimer, Spike Milligan and John Cleese, and was somewhat enamoured with their surrealistic tendencies. I enjoyed a happy little bubble of lunacy, outstanding hairpieces and, more often than not, forks for fingers. Roy Chubby Brown was tattooed on my frontal lobe for all eternity, I was doomed to have this obese toad, clad in aviator's cap alone, roaming the corridors of my mind, until such a day that I dispense of my own life, probably burning myself to death outside the venue of one of his all too frequent live appearances.
In all truthfulness, I haven't encountered Mr. Brown for many years, he's always been there though, lingering, threatening to burst into my consciousness, flecks of filth, saliva and shit falling from his engorged body, and last night it happened.
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Roy Chubby Brown: Britain's Rudest Comedian Tuesday 08 May
11:05pm - 12:05am
Channel 4 Tour documentary following Roy Chubby Brown as he brings his controversial stand-up show around the country, and also as he returns to his normal life as a father and grandfather who hates swearing in front of women and children. ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ------------------------------ Oh God. I had to watch out of morbid curiosity, like watching a car crash, or a fat girl undress perhaps. I had a moment of panic, what if I like this man, I've never watched any of his releases, I've formed my opinion on his reputation, and fat-boy's re-tellings alone. The camera is set, Chubby enters, stage left, and then, and when this is someone's opening gambit, you know you are in for a belter, "'ello, you bunch of cunts!". Closely followed by, "I'm not saying all pakis are terrorists, I'm just saying all terrorists are pakis". Ohmotherofchristthankyou. I hated him instantly. There's one thing that boils my blood more than racism, and that thing is geographically inaccurate racism.
The next zinger, "Now, I'm not homophobic, phobia means afraid of something. I'm not afraid of queers, I'm afraid of a cock up the arse." What? What did you just say, you ludicrous, vulgar, old buffoon? You're afraid of a cock up the arse. You are clearly operating under the misunderstanding that any gay person would ever even consider scaling the colossal mount that is your anus.
And then the little, well massive, twat decided to whinge about his fans heckling, and being "vulgar" and not appreciating the subtle nuances of his jokes, of which there are none by the way. What does he really expect? He's carved this horrible little niche for himself. You give shit, you get shit.
I'm bored now. |
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| You've got me eating right out of your hand. |
[Apr. 30th, 2007|12:59 am] |
3 minutes until the opus that is Earth2 finishes.
One Month until Barcelona.
One month and one day until my anxiety about Barcelona subsides.
Ten hours until I apply for new jobs and send a text I've been putting off for 8 hours.
Ten hours and thirteen seconds until I resign myself to never getting a new job.
Ten hours and one millisecond until I convince myself that said text message will never receive a reply.
I need to lighten up. Big time.
One of my fish, Molly, died. The other two fish ate her eyes. Dirty bastards, you don't catch us doing that. One of my chief concerns is that when I have children and fish I will have to explain away the gratuitous defiling of one of the fallen fish by the fish that remain. I think allowing children to keep pets is fantastic, it's a perfect model for life and death, as, more often than not, our pets have a shorter lifespan than ourselves, therefore the child sees the whole process, and to some extent is prepared for when a relative dies, or at least has some appreciation or understanding of the process of death. When the dead pet has it's eyes chomped out, well that's a different matter all together. I think I'd be more disturbed to find my child eating the eyes out of one of my dead fish, and quite legitimately so. |
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| Keep the home fires burning. |
[Apr. 27th, 2007|10:41 pm] |
Back in Bridgend, then. The Big End, as some insufferable cunts insist on calling it. Although it is fairly fitting as this town, for them, will be where they while away the rest of their days with little ambition, and the only potential they've ever been in possession of slowly drying up on their bedsheets. Or perhaps their girlfriends thigh. On the up though, the number of attractive mothers has gone up exponentially in The Village, The Village being Pen - Y - Fai. Actually, the number of attractive young ladies has increased ten fold. In my youth it was, for all intents and purposes, an extensive retirement home, and the closest thing I got to romantic interest were the unwanted attentions of Mr. Baker, the local rampant homosexual, who my Mother insists, "isn't funny like that". Yeah, Mum, all those 17 year old boys you see him in the car with are his nephews. Nah, they're not sucking him off, they thought he had a nasty snake bite on his ole todger, and now they're just sucking the venom out.
Now, when sat in my 'local', even though I'm loathe to use the term local, for a few quick pints, I noticed an usual trend, something which, until now, had slipped under my ever waning radar. Heelys. What the fuck? Shoes with wheels in the heels. Last I checked, this is not a wise thing to do. Rollerskates, despite my unrequited love of them, are very, very dangerous things and, despite what the media may try and tell you, nobody can actually roller skate. It is a lie. If you ever see footage of someone rollerskating it's fake. A little tip if you ever see such footage, double check that it's not Jar Jar Binks, as the person skating is almost certainly CGI. I digress, Rollerskates: bad idea. Therefore, equipping children with shoes that can become vehicles at any point is DEFINITELY A BAD IDEA. The wheels seem to deploy almost arbitrarily, resulting in a girl almost breaking her hip against bench. I suppose these 'Heelys' may just be a convoluted way for parents who hate their children to get them dead, as quickly as possible.
Oh, and scandal afoot! There's a new vicar. And she's a woman. Judging by the hushed tones some people are whispering in, you'd swear the canon, or bishop, or whoever it is that appoints vicars, had strapped a dog collar onto an aborted foetus, dumped it on the Alter, had a quick tommy tank into the Tabernacle and given their balls a swill in the holy water on the way out. And y'know what? The daft bitch went and made it worse for herself. How dare she have all the trees surrounding HER church cut down. It's an outrage, the villagers roar! Why? I ask. We don't know, they whimper. In removing all the trees, all she's done is stop the graveyard looking like something Edgar Allen Poe would spill his seed over. If I'm honest, I don't think the people here like their graveyards with a touch of the Gothic. They may, on the other hand, be more concerned with the fact that the Church's trees obscured the view of the back of their houses.
Anyway, I'd hate for this to get overlong, and you aren't interested in my small town concerns. Tomorrow I'll be back with a rant on "guilty pleasures". |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 23rd, 2007|12:08 am] |
So, Kubicheck! then.
Four handsome young lads from the North, in delightful shirts and slacks. Anyway, enough of my twee, homosexual overtures though, let's get down to business. Can you imagine if the Editors took themselves less seriously, and stopped erring on the side of Joy Division? Or if The Futureheads hadn't released Hounds Of Love as a single, and consequently scuppered any chance of alot of people, myself included, taking them as seriously as they deserve? I think Kubicheck! are this happy compromise. It's quite refreshing to see a band having a trousers down, balls out good time, free of the cynicism and bile that plagues far too many of the bands I like. I think I endeavour to find spiteful, nasty or aggressive bands, so it's mostly my fault. The set was littered with catchy hooks and, what can only be described as, a distinct Northern charm. There's something about a Geordie accent that really appeals to me, I think it may be owing to my friend Michael, who used to give me lots and lots of free booze. He also looked like Doug, that cartoon kid off Nickolodeon.
Anyway I digress, what I really, really liked about Kubicheck! live, which may go some way to spoiling the record for me, is that live they tend to lean more towards a white noise, fuzzed-up, almost shoe gaze version of themselves. To find myself confronted by a bit of a sonic onslaught, by a band who I thought were just going to churn out twelve cracking pop songs, was more than a pleasant surprise.
And then we had the close of the set, which truly lifted the whole show up on high. I can only describe it as riotous, with the band beating the shit out of the drum kit, the merch guy beating the shit out of a guitar, the drummer looking like he wanted to beat the shit out of everyone who was beating the shit out of his drum kit, and the bassist hauling a cymbal through the crowd and, you guessed it, beating the shit out of it as he marched through the venue.
Outstanding. |
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| Cheap... but not as cheap as your girlfriend |
[Mar. 22nd, 2007|04:02 pm] |
I think I'm really starting to find myself. That is, find myself beneath a heap of crisp packets, Pepsi bottles, ripped up bits of paper and re-watched episodes of Dog The Bounty Hunter. I have also recently learned that Gladiators is being shown on FTN, another two hours mercilessly culled from my day. Great.
One of the contestants is called Ludwig. Sadly, he is far less interesting than his name suggests.
Ha! Ulrika just said "how was that event for you? Did you enjoy it? Because I hear you have a fear of being chased" WHAT? I think every sane person has a fear of being chased. Though these are people who have voluntarily chosen to appear on Gladiators, so I think all concept and notion of sanity must be disregarded, post haste.
So, Benedict, did you enjoy that, as I've heard you have a fear of being murdered?
How, in the name of Lovejoy, did you hear that? Well, Ulrika, that is a little known fact about me, that indeed I am scared of being murdered. I bet Mum dropped me in it, didn't she? You're for it when I get home, Mum. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 18th, 2007|05:46 pm] |
Unemployment blows. It's been three days and I'm already bored out of my skull. I've realised that despite detesting every second of my job, I enjoy having something to do or something to work towards. So over the next two weeks I shall have to be a busy, busy Benedict. I really want to write an essay on film soundtracks, so I think I will. And then I think I'll document my travels around Gay Paris and Barthelona, and perhaps a retrospective diary on Prague, which I really should have done at the time, but didn't, big whoop, wanna fight about it?
I was reading something in one of those awful, style over substance supplements that come with the Sunday papers today and I think, for me at least, this sums up this kind of rag quite succinctly.
Taken from a top five article on fountain pens (Seriously, what the fuck?):
Ranked at number three, "Graf Von Faber Castell. Doodling doesn't come more exclusive than with this £1,600 pen, crafted from mammoth ivory found in Siberian ice."
What kind of loathsome, self indulgent shit would spend the best part of two thousand pounds on a fountain pen? And I believe I'm right in thinking it is just a fountain pen, it doesn't compliment your work, or instill levels of inspiration or literary genius, to rival that of Chaucer or Shakespeare? I should imagine not.
Also, why is it made from mammoth ivory? Again, wholly unnecessary. I'd imagine, what with it being mammoth ivory and all, it is of some historical or archeological significance. It shouldn't be stuck in some overpaid cunt's top pocket, then.
But then, on the front cover of this magazine, in giant letters, is the boast, "What happened when the star of Wilberforce was offered the deal of the decade? WE KNOW - we were riding through LA in his Jaguar XK8 at the time..."
What did I expect? |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 24th, 2007|10:30 pm] |
I've always thought that there was one thing lacking on Saturday night television: Institutionalised racism. Thank fuck for Al Murray, then.
Absolutely hilarious, groundbreaking, breathtaking. I don't know how this man has slipped under my radar for so long, so subversive. His Dvds shall sit nicely between my Jim Davidson anthology and my Roy "Chubby" Brown annuals.
What a prick. |
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| I much prefer hating you. |
[Feb. 24th, 2007|06:05 am] |
Why, in the name of shit, am I awake at five minutes past six, on a Saturday morning?
Well, because I can't sleep, obviously, so why can't I sleep? I dunno, don't ask me.
Anyway, I believe it was Freddy Mercury who said, "Barcelona! It was nice and everyfing, BARCELONAAR! Look how fat this opera bird is". At least before all the AIDS and that. So, that's where I'm going, Barcelona. Not because I have AIDS, good God, no. So I can go to Primavera Sound Festival to see the likes of ISIS, Slint, Smashing Pumpkins (which will either be golden or distinctly brown), Modest Mouse, Grizzly Bear and Pelican (I think). I can't find a decent picture of the festival site, otherwise I'd show you, but it's fucking amazing. From what I can see there's three main strips which start as one piece of grass, by the main stage, and then as they progress further back they part and slope up. It looks well fucking mint. And it's right by the Mediterranean, how fucking awesome is that?
I think a few days of sun, sea, sand and belting music is just what a gnarled, bitter, old cunt like me needs, should take years off. Or at least take year off.
Anyway, speaking of gnarled, bitter, old cunts, wy don't I talk about Optical Express for a short while, I never do that! So, of late they've been "parachuting in" (ABSO - FUCKING - LUTELY not my words) extra support from other branches to our store. I think it would've been wholly more interesting if they had literally parachuted these people in. So, we've had a cock called Chris, who could only have been about four, who irritated me like my herpes does, nothing really consequential, just a bit niggly, but you still want to scratch the fuck out of it/him. Then came Hannah the manager, who, for one with quite a small waist, had an enormous arse. I couldn't fathom it out, but then I realised , her arse is of such tankish proportions due to her doing NOTHING but sit on it all the live long day. She was about as much use as a condom made of spunk. Then Fat Jon the manager who, despite sorting out a lot of awkward problems that we couldn't, looked like Master Blaster from Mad Max. In case you don't know who this is:
Ta da!
But not one of these people can compare to the delightful Rhys from Cheltenham. A man who, for some inconceivable reason, has adopted the stylings of Doctor Robotnik.
(At this point I fell asleep, I'm awake now though, I'll continue)
But the remarkable nature of this chap does not end with his Sega orientated facial hair or disgracefully large forehead, oh no, he's a fucking prick to boot. If he wasn't such a dildo, I'd probably rib him for being mildly eccentric, as this is not the case, I simply want to smack the cunt one. He asked me if Jumpin' Jaks did a good R n' B night on a Sunday, I told him yeah, hopefully he went down and got bottled. He also claims that on his birthday he usually "goes down to the local club with all [his] mates, who are all break-dancers (of course, I should've known) and just kick it there for a few hours, spinning some moves". Again, not my words, his.
He also went so far as to call our branch a fucking joke because I told him he was doing something wrong, albeit quite forcefully, some may even go so far as to say I was aggressive, they may be correct. But seriously what kind of fucker boasts about having break-dancers as friends? It's not 1989 anymore, Run DMC and that Jason Nevins card haven't topped the charts in about ten years, and nobody wants to see you and the homes busting out the caterpillar at your local discoteque. It's the equivalent of saying, "I've got the full compliment of Pogs, even the shiny slammers". Nobody cares anymore. And for some reason he knows all the words to Especially For You by Kylie Minogue, and insists on singing them under his breath when it plays in the shop. The fucking freak.
There's blood on those hands that all the bleach in the world won't wash off. |
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