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. 



Tuesday, 22 May 2012

God Works in Mysterious Sheds






You move to Trafford, you're walking down Kings Road, you have a peak over a fence and see this big green shed.

Click pictures to enlarge
  

"What's all this then?" you ask yourself, as you zoom in for a closer look.

 



"It appears to be some sort of shed-church!" you exclaim.

You think this strange, then you remember from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade that God is actually into really tatty shit.

You carry on anyway, and you spot another hovel in amongst the trees.






"Surely not, some sort of garage-church?"

But it is, this time some sort of Spiritualist jobby, as in the Christians who talk to ghosts.






"Hello! It's me, your dead wife! I'm contacting you from the after-life!"

"Oh cool. I'm just in some shed in Trafford."

"Oh really? Because this seems like it's a pretty big deal. I mean, I'm talking to you from beyond the grave, and you think that it's appropriate to conduct this all from some creepy shack down by the canal?"

"To be honest, I just wanted to ask where you'd put my good shoe horn. The cheaper one snapped."


But enough of such piffling trifles, you think, as you carry on your journey.

And what's this now!? Some sort of automobile repair forecourt?







Oh my yes - yes it is.


And so you creep closer...







"What does that sign say?" you wonder.

Once again, you zoom in for a closer look.






Crikey, it appears that the car mechanics is also a church!

"Hey God, it's me. I needed some new tires, so I came here to get a quick prayer in while I waited."

"GOOD THINKING MY SON! WITH THIS MULTI-TASKING YOU ARE REALLY GETTING THE MOST OUT OF YOUR DAY!"





This one is some sort of house church. The building is up for sale though, as obviously a house wasn't weird enough a place of worship for the people of Trafford, you think, mere seconds before you explode.





Monday, 21 May 2012

Fried Willis

My friend did a visual representation of her thoughts on me:


I like it.


I'm confused as to what to make of this?


I love it!

Sunday, 20 May 2012

Utter Wank


There’s a pub in Chorlton called The Royal Oak, and it has a condom machine which sells something called:

‘THE SEDUCTION KIT’

The contents of which are as follows:

  • Flavoured condoms
  • Erection tablets
  • Lube

Now, I’m no smooth customer when it comes to the art of seduction, but I’m pretty sure that you can’t use lube possession as a chat up line:

“Hey babe, feeling moist? Because if not, I can help you out with that.”

“Oh really? Wow, go on then, just squirt some on and go nuts.”

I mentioned it to friends, and they suggested some places where lube may work as a tool of proposition:

  • A gay club
  • An old folks home
  • A burns unit


To be fair though, in all of those places, lube is more of a pre-requisite than an incentive.


 Click pictures to enlarge
If you're not English, 'Smarties' are a type of chocolate sweet and one of Nestle's less evil products, albeit still jam-packed with sweet, chocolatey malevolence.


I was talking to my friend about this, just before I went to the doctors' office to have the item extracted. While there, I spotted a box labeled:

‘Free Men’s Safer Gay Sex Packs’

Now, what really interested me about this was one word:

‘SAFER’

And it interested me because it wasn’t:

‘SAFE’

“I must collect one of these packets to investigate,” I told myself.

But there were some boys in there, giggling at a gay magazine, and I thought, “Oh, but what if they think I’m gay?”

“But it’s okay to be gay, isn’t it?”

Yes, well I remembered that, and I thought, “who are they to look down on me and the sexual preferences they assume I have based on the free products that I procure for myself?”

So, feeling annoyed by the prejudice that I’d totally imagined them to have, I swaggered over to the packs, picked one up, had a bit of a read of it, and then strolled out of the doctor’s office.

“Like the proud gay man you were pretending to be.”

Exactly.


Anyway, I deduced that the packs were ‘safer’ because they contained extra-fine condoms, i.e. ones that stand more of a chance of tearing. So essentially, these packs are aimed at people who are worried about HIV, but not that worried.

And the worst thing about this is that you know that we are all actually capable of such culpable stupidity. How many of us can truly say that we’ve never:

  • Done strange sex without a condom
  • Snorted powder that you found in a bag under the assumption that it’s probably drugs
  • Conversed with a French person
  • Masturbated whilst driving, because it’s dark and you're bored of bloody motorways already
  • Swam in an outdoor pool at Butlins Pwhelli
  • Left your bike helmet at home because you’re too drunk to feel anything anyway
  • Eaten improperly prepared bird because you can’t be bothered cooking again
  • Kept your Facebook profile open on the off chance that someone finds you stalkable, because any attention will do


Yeah, so we all do stupid things, and obviously we’re going to jump at a chance at achieving the balance between stupidity and common sense.

Doing the stupid thing is reassuring, because it’s what we know, and it gives us something to worry about other than the unfathomable fuckery of being.

However, acting sensibly is freaky, because it makes us realise one thing:

‘I AM GROWING UP’

And yeah, you know, fuck that. Because you know who else was a grownup? Pretty much every dead person ever.

I would try these condoms out to let you know what it’s like to straddle the tightrope between life and death, but no one wants to have sex with me at the moment.

“Aww.”

I know, yeah.

“Why don’t you just have a posh wank, and then let people know how that went?”

Err… seems like that would be a little creepy.

“There are blogs run by girls reviewing dildos and stuff, is it really that different?”

Yes. Yes, I think so.

But, if that is something that people want… you should probably ask yourself some serious questions. But, I’ll do it, I suppose. Although I won’t feel good about it.

Anyway, here's a picture of Stalin in an arse kicking competition with the lead-footed man-porcupine:


  TRANSLATION: "Stalin does not play by the rules."

Thursday, 17 May 2012

No More Ox for Oxymoron


After my recent post- "Ancient/Mystical NippleEnticer," the lovely Nellie Vaughn expressed an interest in the promised follow up. This was the first time anyone had seemed keen to hear my proposed future jabber. So, obviously, I reacted by telling her:

“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that post next now,”

Because I am a keen believer in giving the people what they want! 

Does this picture actually convey what I was trying to say visually? I don't know, but it is in keeping with this weeks theme- 'pigeon abusing.'

Anyway, I was going to talk about Buddhism. 

I’ll start with a funny story.

I was at meditation class, and my teacher was telling us how things aren’t really things, in that they’re just a collection of other bits. Here are some examples he used to illustrate his point:

  • A football team is not a real thing, it’s just a collection of players
  • A chair is not a real thing, it’s just… what do you call the bits of a chair? (he didn’t know and neither did we).
  • A car is not a real thing, it’s just a collection of car bits (he knew the correct terminology that time)

He also gave lots of other examples, because he was sick for them (he’d give so many that his lessons actually started stressing me out, defeating the point of the meditation).

Anyway, after he’d done illustrating his point, a guy stood up and said:

“I think that what you’re saying is dangerous, because I’ve got to go and get a bus home in a minute, and if it turns out that the bus doesn’t exist, then I’m gonna have to walk twenty seven miles home!”

We all laughed.

Then we realized he was being serious.

So my teacher thought of some more examples to better illustrate his point…



The Buddhists I was knocking about with are part of the New Kadampa Tradition. Looking at that name now, it seems like ‘New Tradition’ is an oxymoron, but I’ll let them off, because they’re alright.

“That’s big of you. They must be thrilled.”



The New Kadampa Tradition Buddhists were founded by a dude called Kelsang Gyatso, and are perhaps most famous for their public falling out with the Dalai Lama.


“They fell out with the Dalai Lama? Isn’t he like… a really good guy?”


Kelsang Gyatso and the Dalai Lama both had the same teacher, a feller called Trijang Rinpoche. This guy, along with lots of other Buddhists, prayed to this dead person called Dorje Shugden, who they believed to be a kind of protector spirit.

HOWEVER

After the Dalai Lama became top dog, he said (and this may not be word for word):

“Yo bitches, you gotta stop preying to Shugden, yeah? He is an evil demon, and evey time you give him respect it proper chafes my arsehole.”

The New Kadampa Tradition Buddhists weren’t happy about this.

“Err, fuck you buddy,” they retorted. “What are you even the head of?”

“Tibet man, innit.”

“Where? I don’t see any Tibet on the map. All I see is China.”


And the debate went on, probably nothing like that, for some sort of period of time.


“Err… what’s all this about demons and protector spirits? I thought that Buddhists didn’t believe in any of that jazz?”


No, as it turns out, a lot of Buddhists believe in all sorts of crazy wizard magic.

And I shall continue to talk about this, without really making any sort of useful points, in the future!



Tuesday, 15 May 2012

T-for-Tit Wrecks


On Saturday, some music I wanted to ingest was being served up at Antwerp Mansion. My plan was to head down, watch the bands, and then leave later on when dance music happened.

Not that I don’t like dancing, I just wanted to get some sleep and have a productive day Sunday, taunting the pigeons.

 Click pictures to enlarge


What I actually did was the following:

  1. Set off after all the bands had finished
  2. Wore shoes that make my everything ache if I attempt to dance in them
  3. Also wore a large, heat retaining coat
  4. Left my bike at a DJ friend’s house, meaning I’d have to stay until the end in order to retrieve it

The worst thing about this really shit plan was that I was actually fully aware of how diabolical it was at the point of its instigation.

I just decided that I’d worry about it later.



It was like I needed to buy some new shoes, and reacted to this fact by inexplicably slathering my wallet and feet in barbecue sauce and dipping them into a piranha tank.

This was the best stunt double I could afford. He was a whiny little so-and-so.

 
Bands missed included my former housemate and fellow OneFiveEighter, Andy Blundell, a.k.a. Raikes Parade. You can check out a dub tune he did here.

He’ll be warming up for Amon Tobin's Isam this Saturday too, i.e. fuck me!

I also ran into the bass player from Gnod, a girl I used to work with. Gnod have a song which I absolutely love, called ‘Vatican,’ which is 13 minutes of music as dread. If that sounds good, you should it this out:




If, however, you’d rather have your innards sucked out through your bumhole than listen to 13 minutes of repetitive terror, you should know that I’m not angry- I’m just disappointed.

:-(

Anyway, zie bass playing girl reminded me of a state I made of myself when we used to work at the Subway together.

You see, what happened was that I’d been out drinking a few nights before, and had attempted to cycle home on that strange fold-up bike that I ride. And it turns out that you can’t control something with a centre of gravity that low, especially when you left your balance at the pub, along with the £40 you just spent on fruit flavoured ale.

This fact meant that I fell off my bike.

The fact that I lived very far away meant that I fell off my bike a lot.

The fact that I wished to protect my face meant that I kept landing on my hands.

The fact that my hands are made out of man-bacon meant that I finished the evening with no skin left on them.


I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to do anything with no skin on your hands, but it is hard fucking work.

Obviously the hardest tasks were bathroom related.

The second hardest though was making and applying my own bandages, but I was dead proud once I’d done so, as it meant that I could go in to work.



 On that day, the area manager was in.

“What the fuck is wrong with your hands,” he asked. “Why have you come in with disgusting hands?”

“Oh. I thought it would be worse to phone in sick?”

“Worse than making people sandwiches with them things? No. This is the absolute worst thing you could have done. You need to leave.”

:-(   x  (!!!!!!!!!!)


Oh, and zie bass player said another thing to me, which was:

“You always seemed like you had no idea what you were doing.”

I made some excuse, assuming she was talking about my sandwich making skills.

“No, not at work. I just mean at life in general.”



Yeah....




Although....?





Nah....





Probably.



RECENT/OLD MISTAKES

  • Trapping logic in a box marked, 'Open later. P.S. fuck you.' 
  • Attempting sandwich artistry with self-inflicted stigmata
  • Thinking that mocking the pigeons would alleviate my own feelings of inadequacy

ANALYSIS
  
The evolution of T-Rex's into pigeons just goes to show that there's no reason to assume that our our species will turn into something better. This blog is further proof of man's descent into shoddiness.