I'm dubious. About what, Jacob? I hear you cry. Don't cry. Well, I've thought long and hard, and I'm dubious about exam boards. Oh. Well, quite, and I'm aware that all of what I'm about to say is slightly tenuous and even more slightly boring, so I'll get to the point.
Essentially, I took computing, for my sins, and if not then for the sins of some unknown ancestor of mine, sins the Universe has only ever recently been able to settle through some perverse version of inherited karma. I say only recently because until recently (for some sins) there simply wasn't enough bad stuff in the world to pile onto the judgement day bandwagon before it was pushed off the cliff onto the relevant sinner* with sufficient load to provide enough heathen punch in order that the bastard be payed back. Computing tipped the balance, in a manner of speaking, and is now a handy fallback for any supernatural deity wishing to find a modern-day lightning bolt of sufficient magnitude. It's sorted out a lot of problems, I can tell you.
Okay, I admit I may be slightly over-exaggeration my dislike for the subject. A lot of it I find interesting and worthwhile. There is one thing in particular that irritates me however, and that's just everyone involved with the subject's formidable ability to show off**. You're going to have to take my word because I need to move on relatively quickly, but they really can blow their own trumpet, trombone and national ukelele ensemble all at once, and it gets worse when they get together and form, hey, an exam board, or something like that. An exam board so possessed by its own power high that it sets compulsory page numbering styles throughout all controlled assessments, eats babies, and worst, worst of all it constantly constantly brags about its omniscient, mentioned-only-in-whispers-and-also-shouted-loudly-about-moderately-regularly indestructible plagiarism machine. Now I'm against plagiarism, as it tends to mean that while my work is still perfect to the syllable, so is everyone else's, which somewhat spoils the effect (not arrogant. Not arrogant). However, irritating *** is the reminder each lesson that our work will be fed through the matrix and if we've used any words that we didn't invent ourselves our computer will explode, throwing fragments of LCD into our vile, undeserving eyes. Nothing has been explained about this machine aside from it checking the entire Internet for any slight matches with our writing. What I don't doubt is that software such as this exists, there are brilliant people out there who've created amazing things and this seems like an extremely useful and perfectly realistic one. What I refuse to believe is that something as crappy as Edexcel has one. It would be entirely wrong for something mediocre to have at association with something so cool. And so if you're out there listening, I'm calling you bluff. Please find enclosed the entirety of my Computing controlled assessment task 3. Enjoy, and if I feel a sudden sharp sensation around the eyelids, well. I'll go a bit red. Very red.
Program CA3;
Uses Crt, Sysutils;
Var BinString1, BinString2, BinSum: string;
x, y, z, i, w, a, error: integer;
Begin ClrScr;
Writeln('Enter binary string 1');
Readln(BinString1);
Writeln('Enter binary string 2');
Readln(BinString2);
For i:=0 to length(BinString1) do
Begin
Val(BinString1[length(BinString1)-i], a, error);
x:=x+trunc(exp(ln(2)*i)*a);
End;
For i:=0 to length(BinString2) do
Begin
Val(BinString2[length(BinString2)-i], a, error);
y:=y+trunc(exp(ln(2)*i)*a);
End;
z:=x+y;
w:=z;
While (z<>0) do
Begin
BinSum:= (IntToStr(z mod 2) + BinSum);
z:= z div 2;
End;
If (w=0) then
Writeln('Addition gives zero');
If (w<>0) then
Writeln('Addition gives ' + IntToStr(z));
Readln;
End.
Come at me.
*'s descendant
**Apart from my dad. But then, he doesn't set me exams, so maybe I wouldn't notice if he did.
***I'm not sure why it sets me on edge. I'd love to say it was the insult and patronisation, but that's fair enough. Now that I'm at the bottom of the page I feel slightly better about considering the possibility that my incandescent fury has to some extent been summoned my Miss confiscating my sandwich last lesson, while telling us about the machine. Hmmm...
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Sunday, 9 December 2012
It's Good to Be Bad
It's a fact of life that, when a boy reaches a certain age, he has to start to shave. I am informed that this happens to girls too, in some bodily areas, although I'm rather dubious. Just glad we got that clear. As much as it is a fact of life that, to as far an extent as I am currently aware, is universally accepted, I must, with a grind of the teeth, vent my frustration at an increasingly common conversation to which I am now constantly exposed. It occurs, as much as it pains me to say, only with the aforementioned females, and begins with me making some menial comment about the also aforementioned shaving routine that befalls boys who at a certain point develop a particular fluffiness around the cheekbones, and ends with a dead person. I'm writing this, so that ain't me. What they do is so unbelievably stupidly irritating, I can't even muster the willpower to believe it's not done deliberately to annoy me, a possibility that will be discussed further later. They say this:
"Ahaha, oh Jacob you say you shaved this morning, but you hardly have any facial hair, you really don't need to shave, why do you do it? Hair flick, pretentious giggle, oh hilarious you, by which I mean hilarious me."
Now.
Let's just consider.
But before we consider.
Let's growl.
Grrrrrr.
Many people reading this will have spotted a slight gap of reasoning here. Many people reading this will have spotted a gaping gap of reasoning here. Many people reading this aren't stupider than a wind farm on the moon. The rest of you, however, you're very stupid, and I'm not even going to explain for your benefit what was wrong with that *genuine quote*, as if you're docile enough to find it acceptable, then you're idle to have come up with it yourself, and there must be only a small number of people on this fair earth simply moronic enough for that, suggesting that if a person cannot understand the brownian meander around the garden of logic cited above, then they are statistically fairly high into the category of people who have said it, which makes the risk of bringing it to light unacceptable. I just can't have people angry at me like that. I live peacefully, I do my homework (sometimes), I order special non-minty toothpaste from the internet to satisfy my pedantic taste-buds, I'm absolutely and entirely unsuited to conflict on such a level.
As opposed to those producing things such as this: I see no reasonable explanation as to where these immortal, beautiful mannerisms are coming from other than out of a deep and religious need to antagonise me. This isn't the only case. Not only have the unrelenting grammar Jews* of this world continued to put on a convincing and very, very annoying show, but politicians, journalists, international high-earning commercial franchises, and of course Lisbon have all grated at me as I slide down the razor blade of life. And you can see why.
It's Christmas, right?** The season of festive spirit and Yuletide, of presents, of the nativity, of cheesy songs, of Santa Claus and his lists. Have you been naughty or nice? Well, as I've spent the last few paragraphs describing, it appears many have decided that this year they will be bad, bad children and they will cut disability benefits in the year of the Paralympics, they will invade the privacy of innocent civilians, they will continue to put prepositions at the end of sentences and split infinitives. Now before I go any further, I'd like to draw your attention to the price of toys nowadays. Okay, it's fairly high in the ultimate scale of time of things and most importantly toys, it not altogether ridiculous. Now, my dear chaps, I'd like to draw your attention also to the price of coal (see where I'm going with this?). Now, it is no insult to the common reader (because they're so goddamn common) to assume little or no expertise in the field of pyrotechnical commerce, and so I shall inform you. Coal costs the fudging Earth in this economic era. Literally, you can not even begin to image how expensive coal is. Think platinum, then imagine platinum being sold for a penny a tonne, and then ink of the Eurofighter Typhoon. In black. With Stephen Hawking built in in the wheelchair that housed Jesus when he broke his leg and encountered the typical Darth Syphodius situation. (Film three, scene in the senate, look it up). It's pretty bloody costly. I mean, you're forming an impression but literally you're nowhere near. Anyhow, this is beginning to explain our fellow humans' shoddy behaviour, innit? Upon gaining access to the naughty list, they will be presented with their stocking of coal, and will immediately become extremely rich, spread their wealth amongst all those who've been hurt, take up the cello and the whole world is moving happily onwards. Osborne, Murdoch, Google, it's alright. We know you've got our backs.
*for anyone reading this blog unaccustomed to and possibly shocked by this admittedly seemingly crude turn of phrase, it should be pointed out that this expression stems from it's counterpart, "Grammar Nazis."This obviously makes it all better.
**WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"Ahaha, oh Jacob you say you shaved this morning, but you hardly have any facial hair, you really don't need to shave, why do you do it? Hair flick, pretentious giggle, oh hilarious you, by which I mean hilarious me."
Now.
Let's just consider.
But before we consider.
Let's growl.
Grrrrrr.
Many people reading this will have spotted a slight gap of reasoning here. Many people reading this will have spotted a gaping gap of reasoning here. Many people reading this aren't stupider than a wind farm on the moon. The rest of you, however, you're very stupid, and I'm not even going to explain for your benefit what was wrong with that *genuine quote*, as if you're docile enough to find it acceptable, then you're idle to have come up with it yourself, and there must be only a small number of people on this fair earth simply moronic enough for that, suggesting that if a person cannot understand the brownian meander around the garden of logic cited above, then they are statistically fairly high into the category of people who have said it, which makes the risk of bringing it to light unacceptable. I just can't have people angry at me like that. I live peacefully, I do my homework (sometimes), I order special non-minty toothpaste from the internet to satisfy my pedantic taste-buds, I'm absolutely and entirely unsuited to conflict on such a level.
As opposed to those producing things such as this: I see no reasonable explanation as to where these immortal, beautiful mannerisms are coming from other than out of a deep and religious need to antagonise me. This isn't the only case. Not only have the unrelenting grammar Jews* of this world continued to put on a convincing and very, very annoying show, but politicians, journalists, international high-earning commercial franchises, and of course Lisbon have all grated at me as I slide down the razor blade of life. And you can see why.
It's Christmas, right?** The season of festive spirit and Yuletide, of presents, of the nativity, of cheesy songs, of Santa Claus and his lists. Have you been naughty or nice? Well, as I've spent the last few paragraphs describing, it appears many have decided that this year they will be bad, bad children and they will cut disability benefits in the year of the Paralympics, they will invade the privacy of innocent civilians, they will continue to put prepositions at the end of sentences and split infinitives. Now before I go any further, I'd like to draw your attention to the price of toys nowadays. Okay, it's fairly high in the ultimate scale of time of things and most importantly toys, it not altogether ridiculous. Now, my dear chaps, I'd like to draw your attention also to the price of coal (see where I'm going with this?). Now, it is no insult to the common reader (because they're so goddamn common) to assume little or no expertise in the field of pyrotechnical commerce, and so I shall inform you. Coal costs the fudging Earth in this economic era. Literally, you can not even begin to image how expensive coal is. Think platinum, then imagine platinum being sold for a penny a tonne, and then ink of the Eurofighter Typhoon. In black. With Stephen Hawking built in in the wheelchair that housed Jesus when he broke his leg and encountered the typical Darth Syphodius situation. (Film three, scene in the senate, look it up). It's pretty bloody costly. I mean, you're forming an impression but literally you're nowhere near. Anyhow, this is beginning to explain our fellow humans' shoddy behaviour, innit? Upon gaining access to the naughty list, they will be presented with their stocking of coal, and will immediately become extremely rich, spread their wealth amongst all those who've been hurt, take up the cello and the whole world is moving happily onwards. Osborne, Murdoch, Google, it's alright. We know you've got our backs.
*for anyone reading this blog unaccustomed to and possibly shocked by this admittedly seemingly crude turn of phrase, it should be pointed out that this expression stems from it's counterpart, "Grammar Nazis."This obviously makes it all better.
**WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Friday, 30 November 2012
Strange.
Short one today.
By gradually changing the style of music we listen to, with each new song tending slightly towards a particular genre but retaining enough of the stuff that made us like the old song, we can become able to listen to pretty much anything (Aside from Crazy Frog. May God show no mercy to his soul or any other body parts. May the pearly gates fall on and suffocate him like an oyster mafia. May he rot in the fieriest chasms of obscurity that constitute the history of child pop. That creature filled my infant life and was creepier than the set for a Tarzan movie. I detested). You can imagine a string of songs that would link Nirvana to Red Hot Chilli Peppers to Kasabian to Snow Patrol to Mumford and Sons to I dunno, Damien Rice, to No Surprises by Radiohead, to Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Part, to Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber, Chopin prelude opus 9 number 2 in E flat major to Rachaninov's prelude opus 23 number 4 in D major to Le Grande Porte de Kiev by Mussorgsky to Beethoven's fifth symphony. Easy (By the way I'm perfectly aware there are probably people existing for each progression I just stated that would find it offensive. It's meant to give an impression, okay?) So then, if we can't distinguish between music because "That's just what we like", as we can like anything if we really set our minds to it, what can we judge it by? Well surely we should be judging it by how, well, musical it is. And it's hard to deny that while we may not always entirely adore it (Although all the pieces I mentioned above I must assure you are hot stuff), the most technically proficient music is classical music. So what is it that makes us not listen to Bach's unaccompanied cello suite, and turn instead to the slightly less scholarly but certainly sexier Take That? And why is Queen just obviously infinitely better than Europe? And why is Liam Gallagher an utter arse? Beats me.
By gradually changing the style of music we listen to, with each new song tending slightly towards a particular genre but retaining enough of the stuff that made us like the old song, we can become able to listen to pretty much anything (Aside from Crazy Frog. May God show no mercy to his soul or any other body parts. May the pearly gates fall on and suffocate him like an oyster mafia. May he rot in the fieriest chasms of obscurity that constitute the history of child pop. That creature filled my infant life and was creepier than the set for a Tarzan movie. I detested). You can imagine a string of songs that would link Nirvana to Red Hot Chilli Peppers to Kasabian to Snow Patrol to Mumford and Sons to I dunno, Damien Rice, to No Surprises by Radiohead, to Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Part, to Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber, Chopin prelude opus 9 number 2 in E flat major to Rachaninov's prelude opus 23 number 4 in D major to Le Grande Porte de Kiev by Mussorgsky to Beethoven's fifth symphony. Easy (By the way I'm perfectly aware there are probably people existing for each progression I just stated that would find it offensive. It's meant to give an impression, okay?) So then, if we can't distinguish between music because "That's just what we like", as we can like anything if we really set our minds to it, what can we judge it by? Well surely we should be judging it by how, well, musical it is. And it's hard to deny that while we may not always entirely adore it (Although all the pieces I mentioned above I must assure you are hot stuff), the most technically proficient music is classical music. So what is it that makes us not listen to Bach's unaccompanied cello suite, and turn instead to the slightly less scholarly but certainly sexier Take That? And why is Queen just obviously infinitely better than Europe? And why is Liam Gallagher an utter arse? Beats me.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Facebook annoys me politically. Twitter annoys me socially. Hello, Blogspot.
It's entirely true though. Facebook, once a paragon of internet freedom and worldwide communication, has become ever more commercially centred as it's reached the height of its bubble as one of the top dogs of the business world. Twitter, ah and Twitter, once also a shining symbol of the bright new age, has become a breeding ground for crowd anonymity as corpses of what used to be opinion skulk in the shadows, slamming any subject of their vulgar gossip machine and using considerable social might to line up against the wall and publicly execute anyone who so much as flicks a butterfly of a leaf in the Himalayas, causing tornados and cyclones to be dispensed with a self-righteous passion that borders on the holy back here in our great country of cynicism. Sorry, is this meant to be funny...
I posted a Facebook status yesterday which is fairly self-explanatory and which conveys my general points, but that frankly I can't be bothered to write out again, and so shall appear as a direct quote: "Oh so what's that Facebook, you're now offering an exclusive service allowing me to pay £5.01 for my statuses to be publicised to a wider audience and appear on more peoples' news feeds? Diddums, did someone's share floatation go badly? And while this is an entirely valid status, unfortunately no-one will see it of course. Because I'm not paying £5.01 to enforce my crappy opinions upon the world." Now several things annoy me about this move from Facebook. First is the penny. What the hell* is it doing there? Is it some taunt from the man that no reasonable convenience will be spared? Not satisfied with the bizarre move to add a price to popularity (I've noticed that they retain their "It's free an always will be." tagline. Hs Ryanair expanded into the Internet business? One can only wonder.), they seem determined to pule as much inconvenience as is humanly possible (Okay, it's not ridiculously inconvenient, but then neither are the Welsh and they get plenty of stick) on their customers' users' user's head. (<- c'mon, the first joke was economic satire, the second was just pure goddamn grammatical slammage). One penny? Has Zuckenberg ever tried getting a bus? That would teach him how much anger a simple penny can give rise to. Now a penny and a fiver on a bus as Facebook is requiring, that would just add insult to injury, it would warrant an immediate ban from the service provider if I'm not mistaken. Of course, it has occurred to all the rest of us that in this modern age of Internet finance that £5.01 is no more or less convenient than £5. Computers, y'see, they just don't tend to get bothered. Perhaps they're more patient and the painstaking handling of coppers is no water under the bridge, or perhaps, just perhaps the bloody things were designed to outstrip our outdated need for meaningless worthless pieces of metal, and a few binary digits are pretty easy to handle whether they add up to 500 or 501. Really Mark, you think you can intimidate us and satisfy your twisted power complex by squeezing a few extra seconds of time out of us? Well hah, we went and invented computers so that we didn't have to be intimidated anymore, not by genuine real life confrontation and certainly not by you. Now if you'd like to harness the power of the Internet in controlling your own little pet race, at least have the decency to do your research, master double clicking before ou try and rig up the matrix. You insult our intelligence. Extra bloody penny. Pah. And perhaps this fundamental lack of understanding is what led your entire franchise into monetary despair and is the reason you're needing all the extra pennies your greasy little palms can cling on to.
Interlude: this goes against practice but I need to talk to you guys now (theses posts tend to amass over a period of days or weeks as I'm so damn busy nowadays but every now and again I'll be forced to the break continuity and appearances, like here. And here again, as now I'm hurriedly editing (the fact that I'm hurrying gives you a sneak peak as to what occurs a couple of lines down. Oh god I love doing that. Back to me. Today I did a talk burp. I was walking along with a girl, a perfectly normal, charming person, our conversation was just delightful, when out of nowhere "I really thin-ARRRRP". How humiliating, right? I kept a brave face of it and to her credit so did she, we made light of it, but deep down we both knew fine well that it was over. Any pretences of merry dialogue were to be replaced there and then by any soulless small-talk we could desperately wrench out of the gaping chasms of our panicking brains. It was MORTIFYING. Stomach, how could you let me down so. AND you decided to fart that time I was in the hairdresser and me and lovely lovely gay Alan gave a particularly raucous laugh, that was a desperately tense moment, trying to slyly waft away fumes I was convinced were not merely tangible but visible. You could have ruined everything, and you know what you have. You know what, this what meant to be an interlude but I have nothing else interesting to say, and this is a big well of emotion inside me that needs opening up, so that all the Chillean miners of my soul can wander blindly back into the daylight of comfort with myself. So for that reason, and that reason alone I end this blog now, the inevitable spelling errors that come with a speedy editing and all. oh, and the people are here to take me to my new home, where they assure me burps and humans can live in peace for all eternity.
It was bound to happen.
Might have happened to my grandparents before me though.
That would have been a bit better on the old ego.
Ah well.
*fuck. It's my new policy to leave swearing to the footnotes, and so I shall, yet I just feel that fuck is my word of choice for the situation, and that you should know this. And if you're my employer in ten years time frowning disapprovingly at obscenities you encounter, browsing my internet records (which seems to be a real and genuine threat), I promise that I fully intend to work harder in my life and do better jobs than any other employee you've ever encountered**. Swear down. Or if you're me in a similar length of time, suffering a cringe at your embarrassing previous tendency to abuse foul language, I really am sorry to cause you such devastation***.
**Twat off you nobless cuntcheese.
***You better be bollocking getting some.
Thursday, 22 November 2012
Bits and Bobs and Flowerpot Men
So lots of things have been happening in the last few hours/days/weeks, and I've been gone near as makes no difference a month, and I'm sorry but I'm not sorry because this little sideline of intrigue in the periphery of my experience really is second to many things. Like slouching. And sleeping. And I thought we might all just have a little catchup. And I've just started lots of sentences with and, my primary school teacher would have my guts for not just garters, but as a noose for my execution as well. Anyhow. Well. Catchup. I'm gonna tell you lots of things that have happened to important me, and you're going to listen. Feel free to skim through at will, pick up the bits that seem interesting. Okay, I know what you just said and it was rude.
I want to start with a little encounter between me and my little brother Luke, which I found sweet to the point of near-as-makes-no-difference painfulnes:
"Hey, Jacob, do you wanna watch a film?"
"Yeah, sure, what film?"
"I think we should watch a scary film."
"Yeah sure, but isn't that Nanny McPhee you've got there?"
"Woooahh, no I didn't say that scary. I was just putting this away."
Don't you just want to curl up in a ball and stroke the world?
Has anyone else realised "opposite day" is a paradox? It's entirely likely that everyone else has in fact come to this conclusion, which makes it a really bad thing to put near the start (or include at all...), but listen I worked this out myself and I'm dead proud. You could argue that I'm already prouder than Simba on Prozac without this added fuel for the egotistical fires, but this is dead proud. In that people have died for my pride*, and they might just die again when I unleash this stinkbomb of a revelation unto the world**. Retreating hastily to the relatively solid ground of my point, let's consider how the possibility of an opposite day is entirely implausible. There are two situations to consider:
1) Noone declares it to be opposite day. We can fairly safely assume it to be a normal day.
2) Someone declares it to be opposite day. By the definition of opposite day, this must mean that it's a normal day.
I.e. it is opposite day if and only if it isn't opposite day.
Of course, this doesn't apply if the opposite day is planned, i.e tomorrow will be opposite day. But as most opposite day's are spontaneous, I think I may just have spared the world of a common and bewilderingly tedious topic of year seven conversation.
On the subject of year sevens, some have started following me around. They're very giggly, female, and convinced that my hair isn't real. To them I am known as "Wiggy", wherever they got that from. As per my typical helpful, friendly and conversational nature, I extended a hand of friendship towards them in order to teach them what is going so terribly wrong with their lives and generally to make fun of them at any turn. Strangely enough, they've not just taken the hand they're practically nibbling at it's wisdom. I asked for fangirls but this is just odd and I'm not prepared to go on with it.***
Next, I'm getting old, and for this I cite two pieces of evidence. Firstly, I've started making unnecessary and unwanted noises under strain. Where have you gone, oh happy days of lifting (hypothetically. Lifting is a fairly standard exercise, and I'm using it because examples of genuine effort I've made sportingly are are far too few and far between for this. "De ye even lift?" No. Never) without an involuntary accompanying grunt? I miss happy hours of silence, silence free from the embarrassment and strange glares that accompany a slight hum of strain as I ascend the fifth stair. Silence free from the rapid outward breath with the throw of a tennis ball that sounds EXACTLY like a fart. Secondly, a long story involving a glockenspiel happened to me the other week, and I've told the same person six times. Six times. Even more befuddling is that each time they forgot about it as well, until I reminded them I'd already told them. So we're all getting old together, which is entirely normal. Nothing to worry about? No I'm not going to tell you about the Glockenspiel (with a capital G).
Why do viola players stand outside houses? Because they can't find the key and don't know when to come in.
Why are violas like bombs? By the time you can hear them there's nothing to be done.
What's the difference between a viola player and a washing machine? Vibrato.
What's the difference between a viola and a coffin? With a coffin, the dead person's on the outside.
Why can't viola players play hide and seek? Because noone will look for them.
I finished my computing (programming. Not to be confused with IT. Not that I'm derisive) controlled assessment. I could rattle on about how unfathomably complicated JavaScript validation of radio forms is, or I could just tell you that I really am very very clever. And that is what I shall do.
Are we looking forward to The Hobbit? I certainly am, if nothing else it'll produce a new spurt of comments about my hair looking like Frodo's. People never seem to notice that I'm five foot eleven and fifteen sixteenths. Probably because I'm not, but I will never admit to being six foot in height (In width maybe. They sell boxes of cheese at our school now. A box, of cheese. Who's idea was that? Wherever you are, cheese man, I pray that a service is done unto you when you fall into a massive salt shaker, and, to quote the gay cruising website, "Grindr". Wherever you are, cheese man, I hope you realise that what you've done in both confusing, pathetic and oh god irresistible. I can't take my hands off them). It's an unflattering number. But yes, the Hobbit, and by association re-watching Lord of the Rings (don't have time to re-read them) often late at night in dangerously influenceable moods. It's made me realise how much I want to go on an adventure. How much I want to move into the world and do bad things and good things but what's important is that I'm doing things. I want to fight what I believe in, or at least have something in which I believe. Proper belief, belief that can inspire a person to do great things. I want something to define me for better or worse, I want to be a character in someone's story, whether it's my own or a friend's or a strangers, whether I become remembered or disappear into the uncaring centuries. It's forced me to think lots of deep thoughts, which was bizarre, and finally to bounce back, which was easy with the new cheese installations in my torso, with a fully formed philosophy "Things just happen. What the hell.", which was plagiarised. Things will happen, and I promise that I'll be here to merrily take the piss, for my year seven following, for the greater good, for Frodo, and for you.
*Notably not me. Funny how these things happen.
**I say unleash, it's fairly likely to be quite a bit tamer than that. What I'm doing is taking my revelation and gently prodding the world with it, as if to say "Uhmm, hey, I've got this." My revelation is a teenage boy's desperate attempt to show off to the girl he likes, with inevitable disastrous consequences, as he hasn't quite caught on that the girl's seeing a man with legs to break rocks upon. I'm marching in what I hope is a confident manner but is obviously internally squeming to the world, declaring that I have something absolutely hilarious to say, in the hope that this forlorn idea will somehow lead to us making love. This is me going "Hey world, I'm really clever honest. Should we make out?". Judging from experience, this is when the world slaps me.
***I made a pact to myself never to use emoticons on this blog, but if I hadn't, and let's imagine I hadn't, O.o
I want to start with a little encounter between me and my little brother Luke, which I found sweet to the point of near-as-makes-no-difference painfulnes:
"Hey, Jacob, do you wanna watch a film?"
"Yeah, sure, what film?"
"I think we should watch a scary film."
"Yeah sure, but isn't that Nanny McPhee you've got there?"
"Woooahh, no I didn't say that scary. I was just putting this away."
Don't you just want to curl up in a ball and stroke the world?
Has anyone else realised "opposite day" is a paradox? It's entirely likely that everyone else has in fact come to this conclusion, which makes it a really bad thing to put near the start (or include at all...), but listen I worked this out myself and I'm dead proud. You could argue that I'm already prouder than Simba on Prozac without this added fuel for the egotistical fires, but this is dead proud. In that people have died for my pride*, and they might just die again when I unleash this stinkbomb of a revelation unto the world**. Retreating hastily to the relatively solid ground of my point, let's consider how the possibility of an opposite day is entirely implausible. There are two situations to consider:
1) Noone declares it to be opposite day. We can fairly safely assume it to be a normal day.
2) Someone declares it to be opposite day. By the definition of opposite day, this must mean that it's a normal day.
I.e. it is opposite day if and only if it isn't opposite day.
Of course, this doesn't apply if the opposite day is planned, i.e tomorrow will be opposite day. But as most opposite day's are spontaneous, I think I may just have spared the world of a common and bewilderingly tedious topic of year seven conversation.
On the subject of year sevens, some have started following me around. They're very giggly, female, and convinced that my hair isn't real. To them I am known as "Wiggy", wherever they got that from. As per my typical helpful, friendly and conversational nature, I extended a hand of friendship towards them in order to teach them what is going so terribly wrong with their lives and generally to make fun of them at any turn. Strangely enough, they've not just taken the hand they're practically nibbling at it's wisdom. I asked for fangirls but this is just odd and I'm not prepared to go on with it.***
Next, I'm getting old, and for this I cite two pieces of evidence. Firstly, I've started making unnecessary and unwanted noises under strain. Where have you gone, oh happy days of lifting (hypothetically. Lifting is a fairly standard exercise, and I'm using it because examples of genuine effort I've made sportingly are are far too few and far between for this. "De ye even lift?" No. Never) without an involuntary accompanying grunt? I miss happy hours of silence, silence free from the embarrassment and strange glares that accompany a slight hum of strain as I ascend the fifth stair. Silence free from the rapid outward breath with the throw of a tennis ball that sounds EXACTLY like a fart. Secondly, a long story involving a glockenspiel happened to me the other week, and I've told the same person six times. Six times. Even more befuddling is that each time they forgot about it as well, until I reminded them I'd already told them. So we're all getting old together, which is entirely normal. Nothing to worry about? No I'm not going to tell you about the Glockenspiel (with a capital G).
Why do viola players stand outside houses? Because they can't find the key and don't know when to come in.
Why are violas like bombs? By the time you can hear them there's nothing to be done.
What's the difference between a viola player and a washing machine? Vibrato.
What's the difference between a viola and a coffin? With a coffin, the dead person's on the outside.
Why can't viola players play hide and seek? Because noone will look for them.
I finished my computing (programming. Not to be confused with IT. Not that I'm derisive) controlled assessment. I could rattle on about how unfathomably complicated JavaScript validation of radio forms is, or I could just tell you that I really am very very clever. And that is what I shall do.
Are we looking forward to The Hobbit? I certainly am, if nothing else it'll produce a new spurt of comments about my hair looking like Frodo's. People never seem to notice that I'm five foot eleven and fifteen sixteenths. Probably because I'm not, but I will never admit to being six foot in height (In width maybe. They sell boxes of cheese at our school now. A box, of cheese. Who's idea was that? Wherever you are, cheese man, I pray that a service is done unto you when you fall into a massive salt shaker, and, to quote the gay cruising website, "Grindr". Wherever you are, cheese man, I hope you realise that what you've done in both confusing, pathetic and oh god irresistible. I can't take my hands off them). It's an unflattering number. But yes, the Hobbit, and by association re-watching Lord of the Rings (don't have time to re-read them) often late at night in dangerously influenceable moods. It's made me realise how much I want to go on an adventure. How much I want to move into the world and do bad things and good things but what's important is that I'm doing things. I want to fight what I believe in, or at least have something in which I believe. Proper belief, belief that can inspire a person to do great things. I want something to define me for better or worse, I want to be a character in someone's story, whether it's my own or a friend's or a strangers, whether I become remembered or disappear into the uncaring centuries. It's forced me to think lots of deep thoughts, which was bizarre, and finally to bounce back, which was easy with the new cheese installations in my torso, with a fully formed philosophy "Things just happen. What the hell.", which was plagiarised. Things will happen, and I promise that I'll be here to merrily take the piss, for my year seven following, for the greater good, for Frodo, and for you.
*Notably not me. Funny how these things happen.
**I say unleash, it's fairly likely to be quite a bit tamer than that. What I'm doing is taking my revelation and gently prodding the world with it, as if to say "Uhmm, hey, I've got this." My revelation is a teenage boy's desperate attempt to show off to the girl he likes, with inevitable disastrous consequences, as he hasn't quite caught on that the girl's seeing a man with legs to break rocks upon. I'm marching in what I hope is a confident manner but is obviously internally squeming to the world, declaring that I have something absolutely hilarious to say, in the hope that this forlorn idea will somehow lead to us making love. This is me going "Hey world, I'm really clever honest. Should we make out?". Judging from experience, this is when the world slaps me.
***I made a pact to myself never to use emoticons on this blog, but if I hadn't, and let's imagine I hadn't, O.o
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Socks Tucked Over Trousers.
Some things are unacceptable. Blatant outright homophobia is one, Jan Moir is another, although you could call those two slightly potato potato* (Ouch, he didn't). Genocide is yet another. I could go on for a long time about how many unacceptable things there are. Really, I mean, there are so many things in this pretty little world of ours that are unacceptable, it defies belief. Lots and lots. Many many. To demonstrate, think of all the things you can do right now, sitting/standing/lying/urinating wherever you are. It's not a massively drawn out list is it? It might well go something like this:
-Continue reading
-Stop reading
-Stand up
-Sit down
-Lie down
-Urinate
And you can't even do all of them- the first two contradict each other, and we've established you're already doing one of the latter. So that's, what, four options for your one choice**. Now think of all the things you can't be doing:
-Riding a bike (if you are, seriously, look up lunatic, this blog has caused enough trouble without your death on its admittedly moderately proportioned conscience).
-Being on a plane (again, if you are I'm going to have to play flight attendant's pet and remind you that internet usage is strictly prohibited, unless you want your captain's instruments to be giving him the impression that he's making an immediate approach on North Korean air territory. Which isn't really fair on him, now is it? Oh and for the record, I would be a flight attendant's pet any day, they are in general to use the technical term "Hot pieces").
-Slaying a badger with your bare hands (yet on this occasion if you are, I can only applaud you for such prestidigitation. Look it up. Although bad form on killing the tiny black and white horses).
The list could and will go on, as, happily for you, I have decided to dedicate this particular post to things perceived by the supreme moral arbiter of life (moi, myself and me and I) to be entirely, wholly and loathsomely unacceptable. Without further ado, well, yes, without further ado. Usually I'd finish a sentence begun by "without further ado" with, ahhm, a fair amount of ado. Very eloquent and sophisticated ado, admittedly, but still ado. Just glad that this time I've risen all above that and am getting to the point immediately. You can trust me that today I'll cut the shit and talk turkey. Well, do you want to know what Turkeys say? Gobble gobble gobble. Clever old Turkeys.
1) Penis jokes. They're coming thick and thin these days... Seriously though, nothing with a bit of unnecessary obscenity every now and again, and occasional childishness can just be good fun and endearing, but there's a word for people who expand childishness to perpetuate every moment of their day: children. I tire of being woken up by the sound of cock, and I only wish it would be of the doodle-doo sort.
2) Marmite. What even is Marmite? Is it some form of hellish black squelched misery coerced into occupying a jar that is entirely pointless, as the Marmite will seize without fail every chance to escape it's restraints, and will accompanied at every turn by it's lingering pong? Yes. Yes it is. Stop it right now.
3) Damn bitches who say my blog uses to many long words and doesn't make sense. I try really hard to moderate my language, I'll have you know. I spendhours minutes ages editing out my more extravagant terminology and bizarre sentence structures, not to mention the hours minutes length of time I spend writing the stuff in the first place, and all for you. And yes, this entire post was a subterfuge to conceal in its ranks this paragraph, to prevent seeming like the only thing I ever talk about on my blog is my blog. And I hope you've noticed how much effort I've put in to making this one vaguely legible, and if you haven't, well then I really hope you've regretted the last few minutes you've spent "deciphering"*** and have thoroughly detested every second, and that you fall into a giant salt grinder. And get grinded. Ground. No, grinded, grinded sounds more vicious. Do you want to know what the real message of this whole thing is?
There are lots of things in this world that are unacceptable, so many it makes your head hurt counting. And when people say "You always have a choice", they're lying, because you never have a choice and if it so happens that you do, the choice will be negligible. Unimportant. Trivial. Potato Potato, without even pronouncing the second potato differently. And I will continue listing things that you can't do in order to restrict your personal freedom, and I will continue using indecipherable language, because to all intents and purposes I cannot presume to impart to you how sincerely that brings an overwhelming potential for resonating schadenfreude throughout every particle of my being. Basically I'm a fairly happy person and will continue to delight in your suffering. Good day.
*I appreciate that the saying potato potato doesn't really work written down. But actually when you think about it, it sort of makes the point even clearer.
**I should point out I get really worked up when people say "You have one/two/no choice/s". You have one choice, and one/two/no options. What? I'd rather be a grammar nazi than a grammar Jew.
***Deciphering, I mean, really. The cheek of some people. Try living in my head, go on try it, and then tell me this stuff isn't deciphered. Actually, after the impression you've given me, you can fuck off, you're not having my brain. And by the sounds you probably wouldn't want it. Get scurvy, in the face.
-Continue reading
-Stop reading
-Stand up
-Sit down
-Lie down
-Urinate
And you can't even do all of them- the first two contradict each other, and we've established you're already doing one of the latter. So that's, what, four options for your one choice**. Now think of all the things you can't be doing:
-Riding a bike (if you are, seriously, look up lunatic, this blog has caused enough trouble without your death on its admittedly moderately proportioned conscience).
-Being on a plane (again, if you are I'm going to have to play flight attendant's pet and remind you that internet usage is strictly prohibited, unless you want your captain's instruments to be giving him the impression that he's making an immediate approach on North Korean air territory. Which isn't really fair on him, now is it? Oh and for the record, I would be a flight attendant's pet any day, they are in general to use the technical term "Hot pieces").
-Slaying a badger with your bare hands (yet on this occasion if you are, I can only applaud you for such prestidigitation. Look it up. Although bad form on killing the tiny black and white horses).
The list could and will go on, as, happily for you, I have decided to dedicate this particular post to things perceived by the supreme moral arbiter of life (moi, myself and me and I) to be entirely, wholly and loathsomely unacceptable. Without further ado, well, yes, without further ado. Usually I'd finish a sentence begun by "without further ado" with, ahhm, a fair amount of ado. Very eloquent and sophisticated ado, admittedly, but still ado. Just glad that this time I've risen all above that and am getting to the point immediately. You can trust me that today I'll cut the shit and talk turkey. Well, do you want to know what Turkeys say? Gobble gobble gobble. Clever old Turkeys.
1) Penis jokes. They're coming thick and thin these days... Seriously though, nothing with a bit of unnecessary obscenity every now and again, and occasional childishness can just be good fun and endearing, but there's a word for people who expand childishness to perpetuate every moment of their day: children. I tire of being woken up by the sound of cock, and I only wish it would be of the doodle-doo sort.
2) Marmite. What even is Marmite? Is it some form of hellish black squelched misery coerced into occupying a jar that is entirely pointless, as the Marmite will seize without fail every chance to escape it's restraints, and will accompanied at every turn by it's lingering pong? Yes. Yes it is. Stop it right now.
3) Damn bitches who say my blog uses to many long words and doesn't make sense. I try really hard to moderate my language, I'll have you know. I spend
There are lots of things in this world that are unacceptable, so many it makes your head hurt counting. And when people say "You always have a choice", they're lying, because you never have a choice and if it so happens that you do, the choice will be negligible. Unimportant. Trivial. Potato Potato, without even pronouncing the second potato differently. And I will continue listing things that you can't do in order to restrict your personal freedom, and I will continue using indecipherable language, because to all intents and purposes I cannot presume to impart to you how sincerely that brings an overwhelming potential for resonating schadenfreude throughout every particle of my being. Basically I'm a fairly happy person and will continue to delight in your suffering. Good day.
*I appreciate that the saying potato potato doesn't really work written down. But actually when you think about it, it sort of makes the point even clearer.
**I should point out I get really worked up when people say "You have one/two/no choice/s". You have one choice, and one/two/no options. What? I'd rather be a grammar nazi than a grammar Jew.
***Deciphering, I mean, really. The cheek of some people. Try living in my head, go on try it, and then tell me this stuff isn't deciphered. Actually, after the impression you've given me, you can fuck off, you're not having my brain. And by the sounds you probably wouldn't want it. Get scurvy, in the face.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
FootYYYYYY -Greeks.
Football, ey? What to do with it. I don't think in all of my years I've encountered a topic as absolutely hell bent on shredding to pulp anyone commenting for either side, merciless, damning anything that speaks out. Debate on immigration? Pah, move over, the football row would eat you with it's mouth closed. Euthanasia can go hang itself. Wait, no...
So why do people hate it so much? Is it the mass sycophantic audience worship that befalls multi-millionaire crybabies who sometimes can't even find time to beat their wives because they're too busy making racist slurs at their teammates, and who enjoy a hero's welcome for giving a percentage of their income (so minute it could be compared with their brain) to charity, only to find do-gooding bores them, and they'd much rather buy a nineteenth iPad? Is it the angry crowds that make merry and glass one another when one person they're never going to meet and who is probably throughly dislikeable shows slightly superior dexterity and skilled manipulation of their feet*, thus outwitting another person they're also never going to meet, but that they feel some extreme impulse of loyalty towards? Is it the scarring memories of year upon year of frostbitten torture in the school field, being shouted at for failing to "Go long", whatever that may mean? Or is it perhaps equally scarring memories of the old doddery PE teacher's dazzling ability to "Go long", perhaps given incentive by calls to "Man on", "Ball to hand" and other practices which must be against some sort of law. Lots of laws. So many laws.
And if all of these are genuine reasons to detest football with heart, body and soul, why then does it have the largest fanbase of, well, anything, apart from maybe the Beatles? Now I think this we have a proper answer to, and that's something along the lines of it being a universal language, you can hold up a vaguely round thing to pretty much anyone in the world, throw down two hoodies and make a sort of jazz hands gesture. You just know what you're getting, it's standard fare, you don't have to learn any improper verb conjugations and you can have a good laugh with a fare amount of violence thrown in and it doesn't matter that the people you're playing against speak an entirely different language and share next to no other aspects of your culture. Everything's dandy.
What I just find amusing is the entire concept of sport. I think it's fabulous, the idea that once upon a time some Greek** was sat in a field, getting ready to go and give someone a damn good war, when he noticed another similar Greek on the other side of the field doing pretty much the same. He says in his politest most dignified voice:
"Uhm, hey. I was just over there, doing my thing, and, you know, I saw you over here doing pretty much the same, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, I really just can't help feeling that I'm better than you."
And thus an area of life regarded as a figurehead for equality, peace, and friendly companionship throughout all of time was born. Read what you will***.
So, I don't really have massive new insights to shed on football when it comes down to it. The truth is for many it's a drug that they just can't get out of their system, and they'll spend hour after hour of their life honing to perfection their control of objects flying towards them so that they can be carefully manipulated and sent flying back, which will perhaps prove useful someday, when spherical projectiles about a foot wide but really really light get employed against our young hero with his flexible phalanges. Meanwhile vast crowds will employ every embittered trick in the book to smear the name of the people with the sculptured hair and the nice thighs. What I will say is my own justification for the real reason so many people dislike football: Let's face is, it's not actually a ball. Any damn fool can see that that bitch ain't round. I did my research, it's actually a truncated icosahedron, which sounds about as unround as you can get. It's this sort of impertinent, gross, lamentable terminological inexactitude, or lie, that really sums up everything that annoys me about these people. No attention to detail, the simple name of their sport is just incorrect. Can they really claim to love it truly, with this gaping chasm, this inconsistency, lurking at their heart? It is my belief that this is the real cause of discontent and damn pure angst amongst footballers, and the source of ridicule and scorn amongst haters. All this anger over geometry. Damn you Pythagoras****.
*I mean, their feet, for God's sake. Could it not be their eyebrows or something? Now that I would watch. Christiano Ronaldo furiously waggling his upper forehead, because he knows if he fails he'll get a tickle on the chin from Lionel Messi's (admittedly nonexistant. He'd grow one) monobrow.
**Probably a Greek. Most people were Greek in those days.
***Which I suppose is your job, really. I tend to deal with the writing side of things, it's your job to read. Dat's how we roll.
****Yet another Greek. They really did just have it in for us.
So why do people hate it so much? Is it the mass sycophantic audience worship that befalls multi-millionaire crybabies who sometimes can't even find time to beat their wives because they're too busy making racist slurs at their teammates, and who enjoy a hero's welcome for giving a percentage of their income (so minute it could be compared with their brain) to charity, only to find do-gooding bores them, and they'd much rather buy a nineteenth iPad? Is it the angry crowds that make merry and glass one another when one person they're never going to meet and who is probably throughly dislikeable shows slightly superior dexterity and skilled manipulation of their feet*, thus outwitting another person they're also never going to meet, but that they feel some extreme impulse of loyalty towards? Is it the scarring memories of year upon year of frostbitten torture in the school field, being shouted at for failing to "Go long", whatever that may mean? Or is it perhaps equally scarring memories of the old doddery PE teacher's dazzling ability to "Go long", perhaps given incentive by calls to "Man on", "Ball to hand" and other practices which must be against some sort of law. Lots of laws. So many laws.
And if all of these are genuine reasons to detest football with heart, body and soul, why then does it have the largest fanbase of, well, anything, apart from maybe the Beatles? Now I think this we have a proper answer to, and that's something along the lines of it being a universal language, you can hold up a vaguely round thing to pretty much anyone in the world, throw down two hoodies and make a sort of jazz hands gesture. You just know what you're getting, it's standard fare, you don't have to learn any improper verb conjugations and you can have a good laugh with a fare amount of violence thrown in and it doesn't matter that the people you're playing against speak an entirely different language and share next to no other aspects of your culture. Everything's dandy.
What I just find amusing is the entire concept of sport. I think it's fabulous, the idea that once upon a time some Greek** was sat in a field, getting ready to go and give someone a damn good war, when he noticed another similar Greek on the other side of the field doing pretty much the same. He says in his politest most dignified voice:
"Uhm, hey. I was just over there, doing my thing, and, you know, I saw you over here doing pretty much the same, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, I really just can't help feeling that I'm better than you."
And thus an area of life regarded as a figurehead for equality, peace, and friendly companionship throughout all of time was born. Read what you will***.
So, I don't really have massive new insights to shed on football when it comes down to it. The truth is for many it's a drug that they just can't get out of their system, and they'll spend hour after hour of their life honing to perfection their control of objects flying towards them so that they can be carefully manipulated and sent flying back, which will perhaps prove useful someday, when spherical projectiles about a foot wide but really really light get employed against our young hero with his flexible phalanges. Meanwhile vast crowds will employ every embittered trick in the book to smear the name of the people with the sculptured hair and the nice thighs. What I will say is my own justification for the real reason so many people dislike football: Let's face is, it's not actually a ball. Any damn fool can see that that bitch ain't round. I did my research, it's actually a truncated icosahedron, which sounds about as unround as you can get. It's this sort of impertinent, gross, lamentable terminological inexactitude, or lie, that really sums up everything that annoys me about these people. No attention to detail, the simple name of their sport is just incorrect. Can they really claim to love it truly, with this gaping chasm, this inconsistency, lurking at their heart? It is my belief that this is the real cause of discontent and damn pure angst amongst footballers, and the source of ridicule and scorn amongst haters. All this anger over geometry. Damn you Pythagoras****.
*I mean, their feet, for God's sake. Could it not be their eyebrows or something? Now that I would watch. Christiano Ronaldo furiously waggling his upper forehead, because he knows if he fails he'll get a tickle on the chin from Lionel Messi's (admittedly nonexistant. He'd grow one) monobrow.
**Probably a Greek. Most people were Greek in those days.
***Which I suppose is your job, really. I tend to deal with the writing side of things, it's your job to read. Dat's how we roll.
****Yet another Greek. They really did just have it in for us.
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