Archive for April, 2009

I’ll tell you what I saw in town today (it wasn’t today, it was last week, but y’know), one of them mime people. You know the sort, dressed like a policeman but all silvered up. Stood there, on his box, doing fuck all. Massive crowd of half-wits stood around him, gaping, slack-jawed.

He was doing precisely fuck all, squared, in a box. Or rather, on a box.

A mime, yesterday

Mimes are utterly pointless (learn the words, as someone once said), but the people who watch them are more pointless. They stand there, at least as motionless as the mime until some cunt chucks a quid in his hat, then when the mime starts moving they take photos. Excuse my ignorance but don’t things tend to come out stationary in photos anyway? The best that could happen is that there will be a slight blur on the picture. Which under any other circumstances would lead to the photo being deleted (I love digital cameras. They allow us to reminisce immediately. *CLICK* Ahhh, look at us. weren’t we young? Look at us, over there.).

But that is not my issue with mimes. No. My issue is this: How do they get to work? And where do they go? You never see them on the bus, all silvered up, and you never see a police man (thay are invariably policemen) slathering himself in humbrol in the center of town, do you? How do they get there? they just appear. perhaps they are some form of elemental. Perhaps we should not tease and goad them. More specifically perhaps I should not even be writing this, criticising them. If I am struck down by a silver meteor then you will know I am right.

The elemental theory carries some weight. They never eat. You never see them in Tescos buying a prawn sandwich, or sitting on a bench, tucking into a cous cous salad from a tupperware box. They survive on the raw contempt and indifference emenating from all those who pass. They live on our disrespect.

And they should not be trifled with.

In other news, I have just applied for a job where I write filthy stories. I’ll let you know how that goes.

B seeing you…

Blogs.
Blogs.
Blogs, blogs, blogs, blogs, blogs.
Short blogs, long blogs, tall blogs, skinny blogs, fat blogs, whit blogs, black blogs, great-big-homosexual blogs and tiny-little-hetero blogs (but no lesbian blogs). Blogs of all shapes and sizes pollute the internets with their rubbish opinions and reviews of things people don’t care about. Some blogs have the good luck to be described as “Birmingham based hate blog, spearheading the Jade Goody backlash” in the national press (this one, apparently. Someone told me but I didn’t know. I didn’t even so much as get a cursory email saying that they were going to misrepresent my opinions and willfully fail to understand the idea of writing under a persona, but ho hum, that’s tabloids for you. Little better than Vice. If any of my viewers know what the actual article was, let me know. Yeah, cheers.), and some don’t, but all of them, without exception are shit.

Except for a few. This one, obviously, because it is endlessly awesome and insightful and ahead of the zeitgeist, and a couple of others which I read, which aspire to be nearly as good as this.

Me in my favourite T-shirt, yesterday

So apart from your favourite pop-culture/ Hollyoaks/ Dog-shit website, what is out there that is really worth reading? Well, not exactly fuck all, but not much. So here they are. For now. Until I change my mind.

This Is Happening Without Your Permission - Aces blog (that could probably do with a bit of editing every now and then) that bleeds music and lifestyle up and down the country. Though mostly Birmingham and London, but really, where else exists? Anywhere further north is just pointless. A bit wordy, but where else can you find three and a half thousand words on Hawnay Troof? Fucking nowhere, that’s where. Not even his mum cares that much.

Cute Boys Make Me Nervous - Look, it dosen’t make me gay, alright. I just like the pictures, yeah. I think they look good… There’s nothing gay about wanting to spoon, is there?

In The Butt - I know how this looks, but it’s not. Christ, just cos a fella likes pictures of cute boys and a blog called In The Butt folks point fingers. Anyway, it’s not about that, it’s about stickers (yeah, in the butt, fag.).

Uber Brum - Photo/Style blog from Birmingham, natch. Maybe a few to many ginger people and bowties for my liking, but you can’t have everything. What? No. No he hasn’t taken a photo of me to put on there yet. es. It must be some oversight, I am incredibly stylish. Those blue combat trousers, Nose trainers and flourescent green Carter USM t-shirt I used to wear did have the girls come a runnin, thanks for asking.

Created In Birmingham - yeah, it’s a bit local but it will let you know pretty much everything that is going on in Birmingham. Due to an oversight on their part, they have so far failed to mention, or indeed even notice the existence of me. They are sure to put that right soon.

Awesome Mixtapes From Africa - Genuinely amazing blog with tons of wicked downloads. Ideal if you like to think of yourself as musically multicultural but don’t want to actually take a risk on buying say, a Living Is Hard comp or anything on Honest Jons, really. I’m listening to the Slow Music one as I type. How cool am I? Too fucking cool, that’s how cool.

Better Never Than Late - Just a cracking photo blog. I mean it’s more than just a photo blog. But generally. It’s good. Have a butchers. And there’s an insane story about Ken from Ken and Barbie on it somewhere. Great stuff.

Y’know what? that’s about it. I’ll update this shit as and when, y’allzzz.

Do you ever wish that your life had, like… worked out completely differently?

In what fucking universe is this girl a minger?
The universe of Hollyoaks, of course, where the likes of Jacqui Molata, Mercedes McQueen and Archie Carpenter (of which more, and later) are world renowned lookers. It seems that for once Hollyoaks are actually broaching an interesting and not often looked at subject; body dysmorphic syndrome. Hmm, well, I’ll keep an eye on it let you know how it goes.

And so, pantomime dame Kris has decided to use his vast musical knowledge to manage The Somethings. A duo (at the mo) featuring Rhys - Nuts magazine made flesh and the most earnest man in the world - Josh (played by Garth Marenghi’s ego). Kris, simply working on the radio does not mean that you know about music. Look at Chris-fucking-Moyles, gypsy-hating George-fucking-Lamb or Jo-fucking-Whiley. I reckon that Rhys, what with his love for keeping it in the family, will fix his miniature eyes on Josh and give him a poking on the first night on the tour bus. I loathe and despise them both.

Still can't act, yesterday

Am I the only one who gets a little bit of sick in their mouth when Archie and Zoe are on screen together? Not just for the sub-Crossroads acting “talent” of archie (the only man who can be out acted by the dynamic duo, Dom and Tony [how the fuck have they lasted so long in the acting industry when neither can act?{I say ‘neither’, everyone knows it’s one man and a full length mirror}]) but for the palpable sexual tension that burbles between them. Exciting to think that they will be using two incest plots in a year.

Exciting times.

Be seeing you…

The person chosen for execution by the sinister world government this time is model, musician, scene queen and internet celebrity (oh yeah, we’re down with the kids, here) Amor Nicolai Hilton. She is from America, which I have heard of but never been to. I believe it is one of the colonies. Just outside Cambridge. I think wars come from there. Wars and fat people, of which she is neither. Unless you count her hair as an act of war.

Amor Hilton, yesterday

I have a suspicion that she may have been utterly baked when she filled this out (because she told me she was), and we don’t really have much of a clue as to what she is on about a lot of the time but last wishes are last wishes. So here is the last day of an extremely self-possessed young woman with a speciality in romance at short notice.

What will your last words be?
No pity for a coward.

Who is your last phone call to?
My mom.

What would you want to do on your last day?
I would smoke a lot of weed, take some party, write my last song, and lay with Kent ‘Karma’ again.

What will your last thoughts be?
Ciggg breaaak?

What reading material do you want?
None? I think?

What do you want for your last breakfast?
Nothing. I’m on the Hollywood diet.

What will you have for your last meal?
Turkey mother fuckin sandwhich and peanut butter and chocolate ice cream.

What sort of a day do you want it to be?
Never lol

What album will you listen to?
Guns’n'Roses, Bless The Fall, Lil Wayne. (Technically three albums, but we will let it go this time. Don’t nobody else try it, y’allzzz)

What film will you watch?
Wristcutters (As advertised and reviewed right fucking here.)

Who, or what will you miss most?
The goals I never accomplished.

Who, or what will you not miss at all?
L.A traffic LOL long times at Starbucks.

Where do you want to go?
Somewhere like Corpse Bride went.

What do you want done with your remains?
Cremated.

What do you want to do as your last action?
One last photograph.

How would you like to be remembered?
For my brains, not my beauty.

What will you regret?
Nothing

What will you remember most fondly?
Little Nick and Josh days. Kiki and Georgia homeless 15 year old adventure.

Who would you like to spend your last three hours with, forsaking all others?
Kent, Anthony666 or my mom.

What does God look like?
Pink hair.

What happens when you die?
I get cremated, and then I go party in heaven like a rockstar

There is only a very short time left now, but you can fit in one song, what do you want to hear?
“BABY WE’RE INVINCIBLE”

Thank you very much, Ms Hilton. And off she trots to be beheaded for the good of a one world government.
Be seeing you…

Just to keep y’all abreast of developments, this is the complaint letter I have sent to my ISP to whinge about the appalling service. It’s a bit wordy, so I’ll stick some pictures in to liven it up a bit for you.

Yes, I did send this.

To whom it may concern,
I am writing to you to express my disappointment with the service I have received from you since moving house. I notified your agents in excess of two weeks before I moved in order to give plenty of time for whatever arrangements you needed to make so that my services were transferred as fluidly and efficiently as possible. My first shock was when, despite having signed up with yourselves less than 1 month previously after being cold called I was told that I would incur a £30 admin charge for moving house. Whilst I appreciate that admin procedures, such as pushing a button or changing an address can be costly, when I had signed up I had told your agent that I would be shortly moving so would it be better for me to wait to sign up until after I had moved. I was told no, it would be fine and Talk Talk could quite simply be transferred across. Not strictly speaking a lie, but I am sure you will accept that a certain amount of sleight of hand has been employed with the truth. I was then given a date for connection within the first week of having moved.

A different Talk Talk, yesterday

On the morning of this date I received a phone call informing me that the gentleman who was to connect our phoneline would not be able to make it that day as his van had broken down. I then called your offices in Outer-Mongolia from the landline phone in my flat that had somehow miraculously connected itself to find out when someone would be around next to connect it. I was also told that although I was talking on a particular line, it was not connected and it did not exist which was an interesting state of affairs to find myself in. I should perhaps have asked, as the line did not exist, whether the conversation was happening and as an extension, did she or even I actually exist? This would perhaps have been pursuing the metaphysical aspect of the situation a little too far. I do not doubt however that she would have given me a phone number to call where they would deal with my issue. In any event I was given a new connection date of a few days later, between 1pm and 6pm.

On the morning of that day I called again to see if the time could be narrowed down at all and was told it would be between 3pm and 5pm. This was handy for me as, being severely mentally ill I had an appointment that I should not miss at 1pm. I returned at about 2.30pm and settled in to wait for the engineer. 6pm came and went so I called your offices in Adis Abbaba to find out if he was running late. I was told that he had called at around 2pm but no one had been in. Stroking the dent my head had made in the wall due to repeated thumping I explained that I had been told that the engineer would be here between 3pm and 5pm and I had made sure I had been home in time. Apparently I should not have been told that. Perhaps, I thought, it was remiss of me to take someone at their word and I resolved to redouble my efforts to be at home the next time someone called around. I would, from now on, put all of my efforts in to being in one place for 24 hours at a time.

On the next date I was given for connection I stayed in all day, crouched in front of the front door, one hand on the handle, waiting, softly waiting in a nappy so that I never had to leave that position. At around 2pm I got a call on my mobile phone. It was the engineer telling me that my phoneline was connected and activated and he didn’t need to come in. I mumbled a thank you through teeth ground to a fine powder, connected my router and so forth and expected to be in a pornography and masturbation fueled fug within minutes. But, alas, this was not to be. I placed another call to yourselves enquiring why my internet was not yet working and was told that you could not put through an order for broadband connection until the engineer had confirmed that the line was working. I explained that I had spoken to him within the last ten minutes and he said it was. Your agent then told me that once you had conformation of that you would be able to activate my broadband. That night I slept fitfully, a dreamless, harsh realm engulfed me and I wondered if my poor nerves could take much more of this. Ultimately I was very nearly happy because within two weeks of me moving in, and four weeks of me contacting you initially, I would have what I was paying for.

The next day seemed full of promise, the sun was high in the sky, blazing on both the good and the bad, birds sang and the grass was green. I connected my router and attempted to access the internet. At once the sky tore asunder and was as black as sackcloth, a taste of ashes filled my mouth and there was no connection. I returned to bed to cry bitter tears of impotent rage. I phoned you again, like a spurned lover, desperate to know what I had done wrong and was told that I should not have been told that it would not connected on that day as it can take up to 4 weeks.

I waited and waited, being forced to employ archaic methods of self-abuse such as my imagination which, having withered over years of under use was no substitute for simulated sex.

My life with the internets, yesterday

On the 25th of March my internets were connected, for which I thank you, but my eyesight doesn’t.

Regards,
xxx

I’ll let you know what response I get.

Be seeing you…

PS. This blog is now sponsored by Chicks Dig Jerks. Which is to say that I really like them and everything they do, and so should you. They are wholeheartedly NOT complicit with this sponsorship. But they are ace as fuck.