Thursday, 2 August 2012

A Dope Beat to Step To




If you're a child reading this, and you are only just now finding out that the dog poo fairy isn't real, then I can only apologise. But why should I? Life is hard kids, and if you're not cleaning up the poo of some animal you're supposedly superior to, then you're doing something equally as laborious and trying like designing a new type of drill or writing 'Stairway to Heaven.'

"Kids don't know what 'Stairway to Heaven' is."

Yes. That's the only way we can tell them apart from adults.

"That you're aware of."

That I'm aware of.


I'm from Preston. Blackpool are our rivals. It just goes to show how utterly devoid of imagination they are when they make their own stickers, on which they can write whatever they want, and the best they can imagine is 'second best.' Whereas I can imagine this:

EVERYONE LOVES PRESTON

IT IS THE UNIVERSES NUMBER 1 TEAM AND ALL THE PEOPLE THERE HAVE PENISES SHAPED LIKE SCRAPPY DOO

"You lost control of your imagination towards the end there."

Fuck. 


Ooo, this gripes me!

Olympic athletes advertising for fast food chains!?

If she wants to do this, then the bitch should test positive for Subway before every race.

"What?"

They should stick one of those bum cameras up her bum, and have a look about to make sure she's loaded up on dirty sandwiches. And, if she's not, she should have to chuck a load down her throat before she's allowed to race.

"And a nice simile to wrap things up?"

It's like the Dalai Lama advertising land mines.   


 These are some draws that I like.



The greatest supermarket aisle in the world, combining my two favourite things:

  • shitting
  • strong alcohol 
I could live the rest of my life quite happily shopping only on this aisle.

"Yeah, but the rest of your life would only be like 3 weeks or something."

They've probably got that nice, soft toilet roll that doesn't make you bleed too. I should buy more lottery tickets.


If she was ashamed afterwards, she must not have been doing it right. The same thing goes for masturbation. If you feel ashamed after masturbation, there is something wrong with you, and you should just hand yourself into the police before you act out whatever vile, twisted thing it is you keep fantasising about. 

Or, just think about  Ken Dodd.

Like I do.



These aren't brazil nuts.

They're peanuts. 

With a picture of radio sport's pundit, Alan Brazil on the packaging.

This is needlesly confusing.

Some other good one's would be:

  • Alan Shearer's (it has a picture a sheep on the package, as if it contained sheep shearers, but actually it's just full of alan keys, all of which are the same size)
  • Swank Seducers (there's a picture of Hilary Swank on the side, as if the product contained some sort of unusually specific date rape drug, but actually it's just some really posh condoms which work as a tool of seduction for some reason)
  • Bush Repellent (you think it's designed to keep away Former President George W. Bush, but actually it just makes your vagina smell like whatever it is that bears don't like)

"None of them were good."

True that bruv.

 


Water - Good for Hydration!
Dynamite - Good for Exploding shit!
Barry White albums - Good for unplanned pregnancies!  



What sort of problem are the council, i.e. the organisation responsible for fuck-all, going to solve at 3 o' clock in the morning, via a remote control room? Actual answers would be appreciated, although not necessarily read. 

Monday, 30 July 2012

Notes on why I am such a 'Materialistic Fagget'


One of my Facebook friends is a guy who updates his status roughly every 13.5 minutes. His musings are generally anti-government/the West, and are about as well spelled as a bowl of alphabetti spaghetti.

“Are you really going to dismiss his righteous polemic just because he can’t spell?”

No, I’m going to dismiss it because he can’t work out that the wiggly red line underneath words like ‘doughter’ and ‘pottato’ means:

“Nah, mate. Nah.”

The other day, we had the following exchange:

Chumpbag
There is a difference. Qaddafi worked for the Libyan people. The new government works for the United States. The Libyan people are smart enough to know the difference
Willis Shafthauer
Wasn't he bombing his own people this time last year?
Chumpbag
He was bombing mercenaries terrorist paid rats who now moved on to Syria
Willis Shafthauer ‎
"Under Gadaffi, Libya has been a pretty stable trading partner for the past few decades. So, I'm thinking, why don't we launch an expensive airstrike campaign against them and pay hundreds of thousands of mercenaries to fake a people's revolution?" "Oh yeah, what a great idea President Obama, clearly that makes loads of sense!"

Yes, so I was being a shit, but these conspiracy theorists annoy me and I thought I was right.

“So you don’t think that America is up to all sorts of badness?”

Well obviously they are, yes. But these guys make you not want to care by coming out with things like,  “lizardmen done 9-11,” and “at the end of Lost in Translation, Bill Murray tells Scarlett Johanson what’s in the briefcase from Pulp Fiction.”

Click to enlarge
I bought a super hi-tech drawing tablet so I can draw straight into my computer. So my drawing will likely get worse for a bit, then better, then more than likely worse again, followed by disturbingly sexual, in a way which suggests I don't really understand the mechanics of procreation.


So I was expecting some sort barely legible debate which I couldn’t really be bothered with, but felt compelled to compete in for fear of looking like a shitbag.


He didn’t reply directly to me though. He just updated his status again:

Chumpbag

I come under heavy criticism for what I do.if you think it's easy then whay don't you take my place so I can have a rest, at least am doing the things I believe in wile you doing the things your mind controlled in, your a materialistic fagget

And people like this, who respond to opposing viewpoints aggressively/indirectly/homophobically, think that they would do a better job of running the world? I can’t imagine that the council of mother Earth would run very efficiently if every time there was a disagreement the delegates had to leave the room to call one another ‘bourgeois faggots’ or ‘yuppy cocksuckers’ in the bathroom.

BUT ANYWAY!

I thought I knew three main things about Gadaffi.


  • He looked like a bad guy
  • He was considered out-there by other Middle-Eastern tyrants, which is like being considered zany by the loony tunes
  • He killed a load of his people, right?

Yeah, well according to Wikipedia, he never actually massacred his own people like what happened in Syria or Iraq, and the claims from the rebels about what he was doing are actually being contested by Amnesty Interrnational.

“So the homophobic mis-speller was right?”

I dunno exactly. Wikipedia provided me with a curious barrage of facts, including:


  • Gadaffi was bosom buddies with Nelson Mandella (I assume their nicknames for one another were ‘Affy South’ and ‘The Libster’).
  • He had exclusively female bodyguards, known as the ‘Amazonian Guard.’ Many of these women have since accused him of rape.
  • He was still seen as being a heroic figure in Africa.
  • After Tripoli was taken, a basement under the university to which only Gadaffi and his top brass had access to, was found to contain a bedroom, a Jacuzzi, and a fully equipped gynecological operating chamber. Yes. Gadaffi’s secret sex den contained a fully equipped gynaecological operating chamber. This is Kronenberg level darkness. 
  • He had some excellent hats
  • They found a scrap book filled with cut out pictures of Condoleeza Rice in one of his mansions.

RECENT MISTAKES


  1. Engaging in a written debate with someone who can barely spell
  2. Assuming I'm superior to the illiterate
  3. Trusting things I heard on BBC News 24


ANALYSIS


  1. Engaging in debate with anyone is dumb when you could alternatively just sit about and scratch yourself
  2. Well, I am better at them at spelling, and it's not like they can read what I write, so fuck them! 
  3. I once saw a BBC news reporter ask a random man on the street, "what would it be like if it snowed like this every day?" Is asking people unlikely hypothetical questions really 'news?' If so, here are some crackers for you:


WHAT IF BIGFOOT SHAT SUNBEAMS?

WHAT IF JIMI HENDRIX SAW DEAD PEOPLE?




P.S!

I've not had the internet for like, what? Seven weeks or something? I'm back now anyway. Believe!



Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Good, Dumbass!

When you have a blog, you have access to a page of stats. Usually you look at this in order to give yourself reason to think,

"Why don't more people like me?"

but recently I have also noticed that it has a list of Google searches which have directed people to me.

Many of these are hilarious.

And the fact that I am finding out about them means that this blog is now a perpetual nonsense machine.

ANYWAY!
Here are my favourites.

bow ties good or bad



my puss

Phrasing. 

Strange phrasing. 

Was this person actually expecting pictures of their vagina/cat to come up as a result of this? Google doesn't know who you are, idiot, you need to give some more information!

Maybe their puss was actually on my blog though? As far as I can remember, the only vagina I've drawn on here was that of a German pig. Is this proof that continental livestock are using the internet to research their own genitals?

Yes.

Yes it is. 



the reason people click like in facebook

Three reasons:

  1. Because they like the thing which they are clicking 'like' to
  2. Because one of their whiny friends has said something particularly mopey, and they want to make them feel worse about themselves (as well they should)
  3. Because they fancy the person, and it's like the cyber equivalent of pulling their hair 


breat inflation water

Really?



men on men


Sounds like my kind of porn. 

None of this two fellers arsing about palaver, I wanna see one gang of guys smashing in another gang of guys, like a game of paint-ball with infective camouflage and a monochrome paint scheme.


manhourse blog


I was confused by this at first.

Where they trying to type:

  1. man-hours, or
  2. man horse
Then I remembered what a hotbed the internet was for bad spelling and sexual deviance, and worked out that what they were actually trying to type was:

MAN WHORES



fuck my shitter


She probably just backed straight out of my blog. Which is a shame, as that is totally a service I would have provided.

"You assume it was a she?"

Oh no, you're right! 

It could have been a man!

But I imagined it!

I IMAGINED IT!!! 



virus that make you stronger

I don't know if there's a virus that would make you stronger personally, unknown Google user, but I'm pretty sure that if you were to catch a fatal cocktail of AIDS, hepatitis, and ebola, that would certainly make the species stronger overall.

"You know that finding clever ways to call stupid people stupid doesn't work. It's like buttering toast with a knife made out of jam."

I don't get it.

"Exactly."



trench coat wank


Wanking in a trench coat is something that perverts traditionally do when confronted by something which they have the horn for.

And now perverts have the perv for pervs caught mid-perving?

The internet.

Fucking hell.

A round of applause for the creativity of depravity ladies and gentlemen!



teenage mutant ninja turtles porn


There was none of this on my blog.

UNTIL NOW THAT IS!

nipple mistakes


When I was younger, a lad I knew had his nipple pierced.

He was running one day.

He tripped.

He now has half as many nipples and considerably less skin.

This the kind of thing you're looking for?


hey owlman fuck off 

Owlman was this cartoon strip which I done.

THIS.

And he really isn't the sort of chap who likes to be told to where he might be fuck.



And so to all of you search engine Sallys, I say this.

BEWARE!

And welcome!

Welcome to Recent Mistakes!

Giving you what you need, ever since you stopped wanting it! 

Sunday, 10 June 2012

Starting in the Middle



Recently I've made friends with a fellow writer, a relationship that began with us providing some feedback on each others work. There is a friendly rivalry there. I suspect she may be smarter than me. She knows all the things that I wish I knew.

The other day she messaged me a confusing barrage of messages, the gist of which was that she'd been asked by the university if she wanted to read out one of her short stories.

And I had not.

This filled me with a confusing mix of emotions, as I felt proud of my friend, angry that I hadn't been picked, and also strangely satisfied with the weird cocktail of emotions that our relationship was serving me. 

Click pictures to enlarge
Prangrified

HOWEVER!

It turned out I had also been picked, and I’d just mis-read the message, because I’m an idiot.

I decided to have my lovely friend read my piece out, as it was written under a pseudonym I use, meaning I couldn’t really attach my face to it without souring the sweet mystery of anonymity. Of course this ended up being pointless, as she was introduced under my full name, making things simply confusing. 

She looks better than that obviously, but alas, I cannot draw

We’d been told to provide about a minute each, or 100 words, and this was something that we both stuck to rigidly as we are good little pupils. On the night though, it became apparent that everyone else had thought:

“Fuck that, my writing is so amazing that I shall read out my entire short story, as anything else would be a crime against the arts worse than when KFC replaced the Venus de Milo’s arms with chicken drumsticks as part of a bizarrely specific advertising campaign aimed at amputee fetishists.”


Clearly she posed for this statue before ‘cheese’ was invented.

She did a wonderful job anyway, even accidentally adding the word ‘not’ into the last sentence to reverse the meaning of my story’s ending! She felt bad about that, although she shouldn’t, because it just provided some humour. Well, humour for me anyway, I’m sure everyone else just thought:

“This piffling story extract by the man with the made-up name has a strangely weak ending.”

At the thing, we got talking to another lad on our course, and we found out the following about him:

  • He was getting marks in the 80’s, despite starting most of his assignments late, and having skipped straight to the second year.
  • He was disappointed that his girlfriend was only going to be an average, run-of-the-mill neuroscientist, rather than the globe-trotting brain boffin that he had hoped for
  • He’s my age, yet looks even younger than I do (and looking young for your age is my thing!)

Annoyingly, we both really liked him too, although we have now decided that we must crush him for doing better than us.

“You realise he wouldn’t care if he found this out? You making fun of his achievements behind is back is like a slug taking revenge on a person by eating all their salt when they’re not looking.”



After the thing, my friend and I decided to get some gin, and then we went back to hers.

“But you don’t drink? I certainly assume that this wasn’t all just some ploy to get her drunk to let her know that you had some sort of disgusting feeling for her anyway, seeing as your last post was all about how you were weaning yourself of girls.”

Shut up! 

And the gist of my last post was that I didn’t want to just go out with any girl, but my friend, my Fay, she is not just any girl.

“You shouldn’t end the post on that sentence. It sounds like an outtake from a direct to VHS Titanic sequel written by Tommy Wiseau.”

Err...

She is like literally the woman of my dreams?

“How is that not every bit as bad, you fucking goon?”

Mainly because I have such excruciatingly horrifying dreams.

Like this.

But still. 

She is so, so... 

(*!%£^$!$!@$@£%$%&^&$@!£$!!!!$$^$%£%£$%@)

Expletetive.  




p.s. This should be the resumption of normal posting. 

Hello! 

Hello!!!

(UPDATE FROM THE FUTURE - It wasn't - I go on a 3 year hiatus not long after this. Woops. But I'm back now, baby. I'm back now.)



Friday, 1 June 2012

Where are you?

Wonderful things are happening to me. Also, painful and irritating things, largely involving bike tires and my testicles. Not in combination. But still.

ANYWAY

My posting may be sporadic for a period until I can get a handle on recent events.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Totally Futile


I had vices. They included:


  • Drinking too much
  • Eating too much
  • Smoking
  • Brains (in zie zombie sense)
  • Speaking solely in double entendres
  • Constipation
  • A love of ginger hair that was so dense it caused a dip in space time


To begin with I rid myself of them. And this was good, if a little dry.

Now, however, I have entered a new phase, in which I allow myself to do some of these things, yet do so responsibly. 

This makes me strong, like Superman.



It also, I think, makes me some sort of an adult, like Superman’s adopted parents.

Although I’m not quite that grown up yet.

HOWEVER!

I’ve realised that I do still have one vice.

And it’s possibly the worst of them all.

At the moment I’m single. And I like it, mainly, as I’m getting a lot done.

Sometimes though, I just get this awful feeling, like I’m fading out of my own life, and I need someone else there to bring me back into focus. And I’m truly, wholly pathetic when I’m like that.

“How pathetic, on a scale of 1-10?”

The other day, and this is no joke, I started crying because I saw a butterfly, and it just looked so unbelievably fragile that I couldn’t stop worrying about it.

“Oh. So probably about a 97 then.”

If not higher.

Anyway, having just smashed in all of my other vices, I now realise that this feeling is just another urge which I must destroy. And it totally is too, because it’s not like I’m fussed about falling in love right now, and I certainly don’t want some sweaty stranger rubbing herself up and all over me me, so what is the point in these feelings really?

Like with the other vices, the urges come when I’m tired- my brain trying to make excuses for its own shiteness.

“Well, maybe if you did have booze/food/girls/guns you would feel magically better!?”

Nein brain! I will feel better by making my various wonts subjugate to my mighty will. Because where there is a will(is), there is a way!

“How are you going to wean yourself of girl?”

Dunno actually. Possibly by striking myself in the crotch every time I see one?


To be fair though, the problem isn’t girls, the problem is that I feel like I need one. Like an addiction that only gets stronger the longer you detox.

This isn’t good, because you’ll sometimes end up around girls that you really have no business being around, because you need your sweet fix of lady smack, and when they come out with:

“something absolutely fucking mental,”

you’ll try and be nice and understanding, rather than saying:

“THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR BRAIN, AND YOU NEED TO TAKE IT FAR, FAR AWAY FROM ME BEFORE YOU INFECT MINE.”

Because although I am generally quite nice, I’m certainly not as nice as I’ve sometimes portrayed myself.

“How are you bad then?”

Well, for a start:

  • I sign up to give money to charities, discontinue the direct debit as soon as I see the money coming out of my bank, and then save their phone number under the name ‘do not answer’ to avoid explaining myself
  • I use the very real possibility that global warming is going to destroy the planet as an excuse for my increasingly bourgeois lifestyle
  • If the ambient noise is loud enough, I will wantonly fart in public
 No, I don't know why I'm such a big faced goon in this picture


If you’re excessively nice and understanding, it’s hard to end a relationship, but sometimes they need to end.

But I was only so nice because I couldn’t have my supply of girl interrupted.

I do need to interrupt my flow though. I do need to not be so needlessly nice.

Essentially I’m worse now?



Oh, except:


P.S. Since I wrote this, everything has changed. More on that, next time, at Recent Mistakes!


Thursday, 24 May 2012

ISAM - Is Seriously Aneurising my Mind


I went to see Amon Tobin's Isam show the other night...


What...







...even... 






...was that!? 








Basically, I am now carrying my brain around with me in a fucking beaker.



If you want to have any idea what I'm talking about, please, please have a look at this:



It's pretty fucked, innit!


But, before we get to that, there were some warm ups, and what a treat they were!

The first was Raikes Parade, a.k.a. Andy Blundell, a fellow member of the OneFiveEight collective.

When I refer to myself as being the worst drawer (as in one who draws) in the OneFiveEight group, people often say:


"Really? I'd always assumed that it was Andy."


This is because they are unaware that he hand-draws his own hair every morning using specialist biros filled with yak's wool:




When he took to the stage, someone shouted at him:


"Have you lost your mum little boy?"


To which he replied:


"Ha ha ha! Raaaaaaar!"


Because he was riding some manic fire that evening indeed.


Anyway, he's got a new EP called 'Trips' coming out, and you should listen to this tune first and then the full thing, because it's fucking awesome!





Next up was Paper Tiger, which was amazing, and incredibly French sounding at points. This was good for me, as I'm pretty much exclusively listening to French Electronica at the moment, because I don't know why. 

Anyway, here's some of what Paper Tiger's peddling:



And then it came time for Isam to begin.

Or at least it seemed like it was that time, as some atmospheric build up music came on- 

building, building, building!

up to-


Nothing.


And then immediately starting to build back up again.


The set was behind a big black curtain, and we were all sure that it was going to drop in a flash of light and a crash of aural chaos. The perfect moment seemed to be when he played this sample, from the TV show The Outer Limits:


Surely it will drop when the dude says, "the outer limits."

But no.

Jim and I turned round to one another.

"Has he just put on a CD called 'Greatest Misleading Build Ups Volume 9' or something?"

"Possibly!"

Five more build ups happened.

It was exciting, as you really felt like something alien was lurking behind the curtain, swelling and writhing in the atmosphere of our foreign dimension. But, it was getting progressively less exciting. As another eight build ups came and went.

"It could be awhile," Jim said. "The lights haven't even turned off yet."

It was at this precise moment that the house lights turned off, and we realised that clever-fuck Amon Tobin had somehow integrated us into his build up. We looked to the curtains, expecting them to drop at any second.

But, what actually happened was that two fat men came on the stage and pulled them back with special sticks, revealing the structure behind.

"Oh. It's smaller than I thought it would be," I said.

Which former sexual partners of mine may find ironic.

Although all of this was meaningless by the time it actually started, because it was just-

"Like in that video you posted?"

Well... yeah, basically. Except more sumptuous because it was all there, up in your face, smashing in your synapses.

If they'd invented that thing before TV, we'd be fucked.