Hurray! Let's party! I know, I know. The Royal Wedding was yesterday. And I forgot. And lots of people have mistook my loudly proclaimed forgetfulness as a sarcastic announcement that I couldn't give a s***. Or rather, did give a s***, negatively. As disturbing as the mental image of a negative s*** is (ingrowing toenails ain't got nothing on this), the fact is I do give a s*** (I know, I'm overusing the word. Only a couple more). I'm just s*** forgetful. For any of you who've just taken a knock to the head, you're not seeing stars, I'm just profanitising.
Right, look, I'm not the sort to hang Union Jacks out my bedroom window and shed salty tears of admiration over a William and Kate mug, but I do think we owe these people a certain amount of respect. They're a Prince and Princess now, part of our royal family. And even though we all known the royal family is really a figurehead monarchy, they're still meant to mean something to us. Because they represent Britain, or England, or whatever you want to think of it as. We're meant to be proud of them. If anyone insults them, from our country or elsewhere, we go along merrily and invade them. Because we know our country's the best country in the world, and even if we sometimes wouldn't like to admit it, we love it.
I'm not talking all out lets-go-die-for-our-country patriotism. Not even walking along the street waving a flag and singing the national anthem. Just not the cynical, sarcastic way we always seem to talk about anyone in a position of authority. I hear you gasp in horror, but don't worry, I will return to cynicism and sarcasm later, I just think there's a time and a place for it. And this isn't it.
From what I can work out, there's four attitudes towards the royal family, and also government in general: 1) God, they've made a mess, I hate them all, has anyone seen my pitchfork? 2) Come on, look, other people have it worse off, wheelie bin collection isn't that pivotal to human survival. 3) Geez, I'm a turtle, why would I give a fuck? 4) -Sings national anthem loudly- LET'S GO INVADE SOMEONE :D.
The first view I can't relate to at all. If we can't help but criticise our own government, what do you think everyone else in the world is doing? The government's job, as much as looking after us, is to keep us there with the top countries. And how they going to do that if we're all having a right laugh at them and being bitchy with the first person we can grab. People who openly protest about what the government are doing that afternoon ninety nine times out of one hundred are doing it because it might help them hit the power jackpot. And our countries never going to keep up if there's always someone having a go.
The second is slightly better, but still annoys me. Why should we have to look at kids so starving they look look like drums made out of rib cages to find anything good about ourselves? The most recent statistic I could find was from 2008, so you might have to forgive me for being a couple of places out, but in 2008 we were the sixth richest country in the world. And that's out of 195/196. So we really don't have that much to complain about, and the attitude of complaining about it shouldn't be one we're even considering in the first place. So let's go blow a few million on a fancy wedding for some people we're meant to be fiercely loyal to.
-Editors note- This blog isn't actually written for turtles, and the third point of view expressed was placed their by the writer simply, and I quote "For the crack".
The fourth point of view, while to some extent slightly exaggerated is what we should be going for. I'm not saying we should put the open sign back up on the old empire idea, just maybe not complain so much. About absolutely bloody everything. And maybe hang up a few flags here and there. Go to any other country, even Scotland or Wales, as close as that, you'll see flags all over the place. Yet someone the other day was trying to convince me that putting up a flag was racist. The sad thing is I'm not even joking.
Which brings me on to my penultimate point, that the boundary between "Patriotic" and "Racist" has become a little foggy, because the last thing I want to look like is a Griffin wannabe. When I say we should remember we're the best country in the world, I don't mean that makes anyone lower than us, in any way. They can have their country, we can have ours, the two can mingle completely, and it shouldn't even be noticed as a prominent detail that someones a different colour or race. At the end of the day though, they can be proud of there country, and we can be proud of ours, and we can spend many happy ours arguing thus. Cos arguing fun.
Anyway, your eyes are probably getting tired by now, and my keyboard definitely is. And I have English to do. So, to sum up in typically anti-climatic style, yeah.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Greenpeace has failed, call in the Spitfires.
For really quite a while now, the spitfires, hurricanes, etc. have been lying around uselessly, carefully cultivating rust and enjoying the journey to legendhood. As have their pilots. If we're honest, they're all getting just a bit on the comfortable side, with their vintage couches and vintage wives. I bet if you invited your grandad to have a whirl in one of his old buddies he'd be absolutely useless. When I say old buddies, I mean the planes, obviously.
Speaking of uselessness, in our attempt to solve the whole problem of our planet dying slightly faster than is comfortable, we've had a go, and so far the massed intelligence and originality of the planet has come up with the G-Wiz and Windmills. Pathetic. Admittedly, some of the really bright sparks secluded themselves in volcanoes with foil on the inside of their doors, but now they've all gone and exploded, which is hardly going to help.
I think, after seeing off Hitler, the challenge of dealing with some of the problems wouldn't be too much of a strain on the tired old RAF fighters. Sure, they'd need a bit of practice, but I'm confident it wouldn't take very long to reacquaint themselves with all the flying and shooting.
I'm thinking of acid rain here, in particular. I did a bit of research about this, and it turns out that acid rain is fairly much a self-explanatory title. So, what do we need? An alkali, obviously, if you've been paying attention in science. Where, I hear you ask in a slightly exasperated voice, with much eye rolling and tutting, are we going to find one of those? And this is the real genius of my plan. Bath bombs.
In a gargantuan effort that had me sweating like a pig's nether regions in a shiny volcano house, I went on wikipedia and did even more research, finding that spitfires used standard 20mm cannons. This left me feeling so well informed I publicly disagreed with Ian Hislop, Stephen Hawking, Jeremy Paxman and Steven Fry all at once.
Once my ego was back to normal, I consulted the National Bath Bomb Appreciation Society's website (I am not joking), and it turns out the your average bath bomb diameter is as near as makes no difference 20mm. Coincidence? I think not.
So, you've got your Spitfires and grandads out of retirement (saving money for the government, incidentally. Ah, sometimes my genius amazes me), you've got your acid rain clouds looking evil, like Hitler, you've got your alkali bath bombs which fit perfectly into the Spitfire's guns. All that remains is to watch in awe as a terrifying yet slightly one sided air battle ensues, with clouds, bath bombs and hip replacements flying about the atmosphere. And at the end of it, people no longer have to drive cars that look and sound like genetically modified plastic kitchen accessories which have come to life. Touché.
I won't be posting for a couple of days, as I am going on holiday. Enjoy your drab, wretched lives, or at least the next couple of days of them.
Speaking of uselessness, in our attempt to solve the whole problem of our planet dying slightly faster than is comfortable, we've had a go, and so far the massed intelligence and originality of the planet has come up with the G-Wiz and Windmills. Pathetic. Admittedly, some of the really bright sparks secluded themselves in volcanoes with foil on the inside of their doors, but now they've all gone and exploded, which is hardly going to help.
I think, after seeing off Hitler, the challenge of dealing with some of the problems wouldn't be too much of a strain on the tired old RAF fighters. Sure, they'd need a bit of practice, but I'm confident it wouldn't take very long to reacquaint themselves with all the flying and shooting.
I'm thinking of acid rain here, in particular. I did a bit of research about this, and it turns out that acid rain is fairly much a self-explanatory title. So, what do we need? An alkali, obviously, if you've been paying attention in science. Where, I hear you ask in a slightly exasperated voice, with much eye rolling and tutting, are we going to find one of those? And this is the real genius of my plan. Bath bombs.
In a gargantuan effort that had me sweating like a pig's nether regions in a shiny volcano house, I went on wikipedia and did even more research, finding that spitfires used standard 20mm cannons. This left me feeling so well informed I publicly disagreed with Ian Hislop, Stephen Hawking, Jeremy Paxman and Steven Fry all at once.
Once my ego was back to normal, I consulted the National Bath Bomb Appreciation Society's website (I am not joking), and it turns out the your average bath bomb diameter is as near as makes no difference 20mm. Coincidence? I think not.
So, you've got your Spitfires and grandads out of retirement (saving money for the government, incidentally. Ah, sometimes my genius amazes me), you've got your acid rain clouds looking evil, like Hitler, you've got your alkali bath bombs which fit perfectly into the Spitfire's guns. All that remains is to watch in awe as a terrifying yet slightly one sided air battle ensues, with clouds, bath bombs and hip replacements flying about the atmosphere. And at the end of it, people no longer have to drive cars that look and sound like genetically modified plastic kitchen accessories which have come to life. Touché.
I won't be posting for a couple of days, as I am going on holiday. Enjoy your drab, wretched lives, or at least the next couple of days of them.
Goodbye, my friend.
That's it. The end. My loyalest friend, the swingball, finally gave in what little ghost was left today. It's had a tough life, filled with duct tape, superglue and alternate affection and violent rages from a thirteen year old boy who displays an alarming tendency to when the mood possesses him hit it with a bat. This will not be a long post, as surprising though it may seem, the recent departure of a swingball from this planet does not provide much writing material for your blogger. So this is me, paying my respects and apologising for all those times I thwacked it till it was dizzy. R.I.P.
Hypersomnia
Firstly, I have to thank Ma Soeur Ruth (because she is making me) for going and buying me some milk this morning. It took some persuading, namely explaining the pros and cons of AV, the promise of a thank-you on my world famous blog, and some chocolate, but eventually she left the house, screaming in that slightly petulant way of hers that if I'd have got up earlier than 11 o'clock, there might have been some milk left, which brings me very nicely on to the point of this post.
All the way through my childhood, I have woken up at unholy hours of the morning, dragging a string of parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins and even friends* out of bed with me**. This seemed, for reasons I couldn't fathom, to annoy them quite acutely. Often I would sit and wait for HOURS outside their bedroom door, until at the entirely reasonable hour of seven o'clock I would knock politely, run in, scream and most likely jump on them. On one occasion I interrupted a slightly... intimate... ritual in the making (the screaming was for another reason on that occasion), on another I landed directly on my poor tea-sipping grandma (yet another reason to start screaming). So, after quite a few scoldings and scaldings, and a fair bit of innocence lost, I learned to amuse myself. Oh, not in that way. You're making your own jokes here, you realise? There's really no point me righting this if you're going to collapse in a fit of giggles at your own perverse humour before I've even got to the point. So yes, I really couldn't see what the rest of the world enjoyed so much about bed, even after I'd learned a bit about what some people, ahem, enjoyed about bed.
That's all changed now. I will emerge from my bedroom now at an hour so holy it has it's own patron saint, scratching the bits of me that can't be mentioned and generally looking like I'd rather still be asleep. Apparently this is called Hypersomnia, which is strange, because there really isn't anything hyper about my sleep-befuddled behaviour. It's not complete opposite of insomnia, because even if you have trouble getting to sleep you can still have trouble waking up. In fact, in a house filled with as much bloodshed and inter-sibling feud as mine***, I've often wondered while lying awake at night if I'd wake up in the morning. But that's an entirely different matter.
The problem is I'm just a bit lazy, and in the same way I know I won't have time to do the homework properly the next night, but still leave it until the last minute, sometimes not even then, I know that if I want a good breakfast, I'll have to leave the comfort and warmth of my bed. But I won't
*Yes, I have a couple of those.
**Their beds, not mine.
***Most of the time, we actually get along really well. But when we do battle, we do battle properly.
All the way through my childhood, I have woken up at unholy hours of the morning, dragging a string of parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins and even friends* out of bed with me**. This seemed, for reasons I couldn't fathom, to annoy them quite acutely. Often I would sit and wait for HOURS outside their bedroom door, until at the entirely reasonable hour of seven o'clock I would knock politely, run in, scream and most likely jump on them. On one occasion I interrupted a slightly... intimate... ritual in the making (the screaming was for another reason on that occasion), on another I landed directly on my poor tea-sipping grandma (yet another reason to start screaming). So, after quite a few scoldings and scaldings, and a fair bit of innocence lost, I learned to amuse myself. Oh, not in that way. You're making your own jokes here, you realise? There's really no point me righting this if you're going to collapse in a fit of giggles at your own perverse humour before I've even got to the point. So yes, I really couldn't see what the rest of the world enjoyed so much about bed, even after I'd learned a bit about what some people, ahem, enjoyed about bed.
That's all changed now. I will emerge from my bedroom now at an hour so holy it has it's own patron saint, scratching the bits of me that can't be mentioned and generally looking like I'd rather still be asleep. Apparently this is called Hypersomnia, which is strange, because there really isn't anything hyper about my sleep-befuddled behaviour. It's not complete opposite of insomnia, because even if you have trouble getting to sleep you can still have trouble waking up. In fact, in a house filled with as much bloodshed and inter-sibling feud as mine***, I've often wondered while lying awake at night if I'd wake up in the morning. But that's an entirely different matter.
The problem is I'm just a bit lazy, and in the same way I know I won't have time to do the homework properly the next night, but still leave it until the last minute, sometimes not even then, I know that if I want a good breakfast, I'll have to leave the comfort and warmth of my bed. But I won't
*Yes, I have a couple of those.
**Their beds, not mine.
***Most of the time, we actually get along really well. But when we do battle, we do battle properly.
Monday, 25 April 2011
Meine Familie
I know I said I was going to stop two posts ago this evening, but everyone has started making blogs so I thought I might do another to keep up with these younglings. For the German community, who can read the title, you may struggle a tad, as the rest is written in English. For you English people, I'm sure you'll manage.
Right, there's a lot of us, so I'll get right to it.
Luke- The youngest, and my only brother. Despite possessing bewilderingly good hand-eye co-ordination, IT skills, and general comedy ability for someone his age, he is still six at heart. Let me give you an example. At a river today, me and Luke were playing a game where he threw a rock up and forward, and I had to hit it out of midair with another. The first half of this he managed fine, but the forward velocity required to really keep his throw safe was somewhat lacking. He watched it go up, up, up, then watched it go down, down, down. Needless to say, he didn't really think the rock posed a threat to his skull, and stood his ground with admirable bravery. In the end, his head won, he was even conscious after a couple of minutes. To get his revenge, he took the rock to the river, flung it as far as he could, overbalanced and fell in. I give you my brother.
Sarah- There's no real easy way to say this. Sarah has green hair.
Ruth- If you want to know about Ruth you should probably look at her blog (http://awesomesauceand coolio ketchup.blogspot.com/) as she understands herself better than I understand her, or would want to. Ruth occasionally taps into the life of someone poetically named Goodside10. I've never seen Ruth on her own Email, Runescape*, Google Account, etc. She always chooses to have a peek into her little friends' private life. I've put this down to her being a complete stalker. Either that or a lack of originality. Bizarrely, I'm almost certain she'd prefer being labelled the former. Lastly, she has an obsession with saying random words in a different language. She thinks this sounds clever.
Louise- Mum. While Dad's is going to be serious, I'm afraid this is going to be nostalgically sincere. I get the feeling Mum sometimes feels we don't realise how much she does. This is true, but (typically, I suppose) I'm not really to blame for it. I appreciate hugely what she does, I just don't have the ability to comprehend the enormity of her work. If she, say, accidentally fell in the cooker and died, beginning to not only heal the emotional wound but also more practically keep up with the workload and stress she goes through daily would simply drive me insane, within, let's say five minutes. There you are, Mum, but that's just about drained up my warm feeling to the world, so you're going to have to do without for a while.
Steven is going to get his little paragraph at some other point, because it's quite big, and as I've mentioned in Mum's, my goodwill river is flowing about as fast as the concepts of danger and forward planning flow through Luke's head. I don't think it would do him justice. Bye for now.
*For the record, she doesn't play on that anymore, nor does anyone, I'd hope.
Right, there's a lot of us, so I'll get right to it.
Luke- The youngest, and my only brother. Despite possessing bewilderingly good hand-eye co-ordination, IT skills, and general comedy ability for someone his age, he is still six at heart. Let me give you an example. At a river today, me and Luke were playing a game where he threw a rock up and forward, and I had to hit it out of midair with another. The first half of this he managed fine, but the forward velocity required to really keep his throw safe was somewhat lacking. He watched it go up, up, up, then watched it go down, down, down. Needless to say, he didn't really think the rock posed a threat to his skull, and stood his ground with admirable bravery. In the end, his head won, he was even conscious after a couple of minutes. To get his revenge, he took the rock to the river, flung it as far as he could, overbalanced and fell in. I give you my brother.
Sarah- There's no real easy way to say this. Sarah has green hair.
Ruth- If you want to know about Ruth you should probably look at her blog (http://awesomesauceand coolio ketchup.blogspot.com/) as she understands herself better than I understand her, or would want to. Ruth occasionally taps into the life of someone poetically named Goodside10. I've never seen Ruth on her own Email, Runescape*, Google Account, etc. She always chooses to have a peek into her little friends' private life. I've put this down to her being a complete stalker. Either that or a lack of originality. Bizarrely, I'm almost certain she'd prefer being labelled the former. Lastly, she has an obsession with saying random words in a different language. She thinks this sounds clever.
Louise- Mum. While Dad's is going to be serious, I'm afraid this is going to be nostalgically sincere. I get the feeling Mum sometimes feels we don't realise how much she does. This is true, but (typically, I suppose) I'm not really to blame for it. I appreciate hugely what she does, I just don't have the ability to comprehend the enormity of her work. If she, say, accidentally fell in the cooker and died, beginning to not only heal the emotional wound but also more practically keep up with the workload and stress she goes through daily would simply drive me insane, within, let's say five minutes. There you are, Mum, but that's just about drained up my warm feeling to the world, so you're going to have to do without for a while.
Steven is going to get his little paragraph at some other point, because it's quite big, and as I've mentioned in Mum's, my goodwill river is flowing about as fast as the concepts of danger and forward planning flow through Luke's head. I don't think it would do him justice. Bye for now.
*For the record, she doesn't play on that anymore, nor does anyone, I'd hope.
Anyone unscared of horror films is a mutant freak.
Paranormal Activity and The Walking Dead are two films that have scared me s***less, and just to add to the embarrassment, I haven't even seen them. It took maybe two minutes of advert to reduce me to a quivering sweating wreck lying in my bed that night, wearing an expression that would have made a rabbit caught in headlights collapse to the floor in helpless mirth. I can't deal with them at all. But isn't that meant to be how they make their money? Slightly strangely, the original idea of horror films, as far as I can work out, was to induce an adrenalin rush with frightening scenes, which leaves the viewer on a bit of a high, as it were. Like drugs, you'd get addicted to them, the film producers make money, you get enjoyment which doesn't wreck the inside of your nose or... elsewhere... and in general everyone's happy.
So what's the point of watching the sixth film about a man with a diseased mind setting up a nice little games with his friends which, probably due to immaturity on the part of the friends, always seem to end with gruesome deaths and our diseased friend muttering "Game Over" to himself in a disappointed way which never seems to sufficiently reflect on the intestines that can be found dangling from the chandelier, if we're not even getting excited by it? Sorry about the unnecessarily long sentence, but what I'm getting at is if scary films aren't scary, they're a bit pointless.
My theory is that, while I'm undoubtedly at the shallow end of the gene pool when it comes to dealing with scary films, other people have been bred to watch them and giggle. Which makes me look a bit like a pussy*, everyone else look a bit bored, and the film makers look a bit poor.
Footnote: If my sister reads this, she will inevitably point out that mutants are people affected and altered during their lifetime, while what I'm talking about is more selective breeding. But can you imagine the Teenage Selectively Bred Ninja Turtles? Just wouldn't have the ring. So mutant it is.
*Which I am, but we must HIDE this.
So what's the point of watching the sixth film about a man with a diseased mind setting up a nice little games with his friends which, probably due to immaturity on the part of the friends, always seem to end with gruesome deaths and our diseased friend muttering "Game Over" to himself in a disappointed way which never seems to sufficiently reflect on the intestines that can be found dangling from the chandelier, if we're not even getting excited by it? Sorry about the unnecessarily long sentence, but what I'm getting at is if scary films aren't scary, they're a bit pointless.
My theory is that, while I'm undoubtedly at the shallow end of the gene pool when it comes to dealing with scary films, other people have been bred to watch them and giggle. Which makes me look a bit like a pussy*, everyone else look a bit bored, and the film makers look a bit poor.
Footnote: If my sister reads this, she will inevitably point out that mutants are people affected and altered during their lifetime, while what I'm talking about is more selective breeding. But can you imagine the Teenage Selectively Bred Ninja Turtles? Just wouldn't have the ring. So mutant it is.
*Which I am, but we must HIDE this.
A review of the scrabble dictionary.
Just a quick little post here, you might find it educational. These are all words I have encountered, and attempted to use in scrabble, bananagrams, etc. Only to find they have been missed by the word compilation that doesn't miss words. Boy, it makes me grrrrr.
- Popple: In the first Skulduggery Pleasant book (Which my blogging friend Michael Crowder wrote about in his blog), Valkyrie Cain, or Stephanie Edgely at the time claimed she was looking through the dictionary while she was actually reading one of Gordon Edgely's books. She tells her mum, and therefore me, that "popple" is a word, losing me valuable scrabble points. Not that "popple" would have a good score anyway, but hey, I was on a triple word.
-Stug: In the Andkon arcade games Battle Gear/Battle Gear 2, a "stug" is basically a crappy tank. What I didn't realise was that after losing my game for me by failing against foot soldiers it blatantly should have annihilated, it would also fail me in a game of Scrabble Apple with my uncle and sister.
-Taw: Unless you're a girl, the dangerous book for boys is a book you either read a long time ago and still pick up occasionally, or a book you will never read and will have missed out on, ya fail. In the "How to play marbles" section, it says the "taw" is a well, marble, that you, ermm, play marbles with. It's basically your favourite marble. Like, maybe rainbow coloured or something. Anyway, doesn't exist either if the Scrabble Dictionary's to be trusted.
Yeah, that's probably it for tonight, I'm going somewhere, possibly even bordering on the realms of having a life for a brief period. Just for the record, that wasn't a vent, more of a gentle letting off of steam, like a kettle. I don't really get annoyed over dictionary definitions. That would be so sad.
One other thing. I was reading the SAS Survival Guide, a thoroughly good book, when a randomer came up to me and asked if I was expecting to be in a survival situation any time soon. I thought he'd rather missed the point.
- Popple: In the first Skulduggery Pleasant book (Which my blogging friend Michael Crowder wrote about in his blog), Valkyrie Cain, or Stephanie Edgely at the time claimed she was looking through the dictionary while she was actually reading one of Gordon Edgely's books. She tells her mum, and therefore me, that "popple" is a word, losing me valuable scrabble points. Not that "popple" would have a good score anyway, but hey, I was on a triple word.
-Stug: In the Andkon arcade games Battle Gear/Battle Gear 2, a "stug" is basically a crappy tank. What I didn't realise was that after losing my game for me by failing against foot soldiers it blatantly should have annihilated, it would also fail me in a game of Scrabble Apple with my uncle and sister.
-Taw: Unless you're a girl, the dangerous book for boys is a book you either read a long time ago and still pick up occasionally, or a book you will never read and will have missed out on, ya fail. In the "How to play marbles" section, it says the "taw" is a well, marble, that you, ermm, play marbles with. It's basically your favourite marble. Like, maybe rainbow coloured or something. Anyway, doesn't exist either if the Scrabble Dictionary's to be trusted.
Yeah, that's probably it for tonight, I'm going somewhere, possibly even bordering on the realms of having a life for a brief period. Just for the record, that wasn't a vent, more of a gentle letting off of steam, like a kettle. I don't really get annoyed over dictionary definitions. That would be so sad.
One other thing. I was reading the SAS Survival Guide, a thoroughly good book, when a randomer came up to me and asked if I was expecting to be in a survival situation any time soon. I thought he'd rather missed the point.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Easter eggs will kill you in so many different ways
At about seven o'clock this morning, my dad woke me up, because we're going on a walk up a hill. Fair enough, except next time I see him, he knows nothing about any of this, which leads me to believe it was a dream. CRUEL. Particularly after last night where I was texted at an, uhm, unusual hour by someone who'd clearly forgotten the differences in time zone between England and the Dominican Republic. However, good things did come out of me lying awake for annoying amounts of time, particularly the unraveling of Easter eggs' plans to kill us.
So, the evil little things' plot to annihilate us, stage one. In an extraordinary show of suicidal bravery, they get eaten. Basically all at once. While this is a vile and disgusting metaphor for the sickening human greed the perverts the world, it's actually quite good for the eggs. I can just picture it now. I'm sitting happily on the sofa after a meal, swollen distendedly, while the chocolate takes over my whole body. It glues up my arteries with saturated fat, it even smothers my annoyingly unshaveable little moustache (in case you're put off this blog, it really isn't that much of a moustache. I get the feeling it's only because of my obsessive self-consciousness I realise it's there).
Next there's the danger the things bring when you thwack them off your head. Who can honestly say they don't celebrate Easter most passionately when it come to break open your Easter egg time? And why is it so irresistible to do so with your head? Clearly, humans still have aggression issues. In that respect we haven't really moved on from cavemen. In fact we're worse. They clubbed deer, we quite often bomb people. But I'm getting off the point.
Finally, these are eggs, delivered by a bunny? I have a friend who claims his rabbit lays eggs, but he is not to be trusted (and is likely to mistake shit for egg anyway, he keeps on trying to incubate thesis), and his rabbit is the most evil in the world. But if a bunny is laying eggs and having them infiltrate our stomach, we must be raising whole new colonies of evil bunnies, inside our stomachs!
It's got to stop, people. As an alternative to Easter eggs, I propose we start eating the Easter bunny. Cut off the malignity at it's source. Goodbye.
So, the evil little things' plot to annihilate us, stage one. In an extraordinary show of suicidal bravery, they get eaten. Basically all at once. While this is a vile and disgusting metaphor for the sickening human greed the perverts the world, it's actually quite good for the eggs. I can just picture it now. I'm sitting happily on the sofa after a meal, swollen distendedly, while the chocolate takes over my whole body. It glues up my arteries with saturated fat, it even smothers my annoyingly unshaveable little moustache (in case you're put off this blog, it really isn't that much of a moustache. I get the feeling it's only because of my obsessive self-consciousness I realise it's there).
Next there's the danger the things bring when you thwack them off your head. Who can honestly say they don't celebrate Easter most passionately when it come to break open your Easter egg time? And why is it so irresistible to do so with your head? Clearly, humans still have aggression issues. In that respect we haven't really moved on from cavemen. In fact we're worse. They clubbed deer, we quite often bomb people. But I'm getting off the point.
Finally, these are eggs, delivered by a bunny? I have a friend who claims his rabbit lays eggs, but he is not to be trusted (and is likely to mistake shit for egg anyway, he keeps on trying to incubate thesis), and his rabbit is the most evil in the world. But if a bunny is laying eggs and having them infiltrate our stomach, we must be raising whole new colonies of evil bunnies, inside our stomachs!
It's got to stop, people. As an alternative to Easter eggs, I propose we start eating the Easter bunny. Cut off the malignity at it's source. Goodbye.
What does everyone have against Jeremy Clarkson?
James May is the coolest person in the world. Just to get that clear. You may say that's a bit off the subject of this post's title, and well, yes, it is, but I need to say this as a disclaimer. To disclaim, as indeed most disclaimers do. I need to make sure people know that none of what I'm about to say about Jeremy makes him cooler than James, in any way. Right, now I can get started.
First point. His great-great-great-grandfather, John Kilner, invented the Kilner jar, a container for preserved fruit. I ask you, in all seriousness, can you get any cooler than that? This point needs no elaboration, so I will leave you to mull it over in awe and wonder, while I move on.
Next, he's a big Genesis fan. Genesis are named after the first book in the bible. Not only does this make him extremely holy and therefore bulletproof from all criticism, it also establishes a connection with things that come first, surely a good thing to be connected with when you're a car fanatic.
If I'm entirely honest, I got those two first points by quickly scrolling down his wikipedia page, and although they are undoubtedly solid, good points, I think I can do better. So I will slowwwwwly scroll down his wikipedia page and see if there's anything better up for grabs.
So, let's ask the public, in an anonymous internet poll, where they don't risk being labelled a petrol-headed unenvironmentally friendly racist. Two buttons. One, vote "Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister". Two, vote "Never, Ever Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister". What would you vote for? It doesn't matter, the poll closed in 2008 and even if you had voted, it wouldnt have made any difference. He won, by erm, forty-nine thousand, three hundred and fifty nine votes. BOOM.
Thing is, being a Jeremy Clarkson fan, I have to mimic him somewhat if to be recognised as a believer, which means changing my mind half way through any argument. So, uhmm, he's a fat, bigoted, stupid, brown (as in not green) excuse for a human. Plus he cheated on his wife, just a couple of years after she bought him a Mercedes-Benz 600 for his birthday. The wanker.
First point. His great-great-great-grandfather, John Kilner, invented the Kilner jar, a container for preserved fruit. I ask you, in all seriousness, can you get any cooler than that? This point needs no elaboration, so I will leave you to mull it over in awe and wonder, while I move on.
Next, he's a big Genesis fan. Genesis are named after the first book in the bible. Not only does this make him extremely holy and therefore bulletproof from all criticism, it also establishes a connection with things that come first, surely a good thing to be connected with when you're a car fanatic.
If I'm entirely honest, I got those two first points by quickly scrolling down his wikipedia page, and although they are undoubtedly solid, good points, I think I can do better. So I will slowwwwwly scroll down his wikipedia page and see if there's anything better up for grabs.
So, let's ask the public, in an anonymous internet poll, where they don't risk being labelled a petrol-headed unenvironmentally friendly racist. Two buttons. One, vote "Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister". Two, vote "Never, Ever Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister". What would you vote for? It doesn't matter, the poll closed in 2008 and even if you had voted, it wouldnt have made any difference. He won, by erm, forty-nine thousand, three hundred and fifty nine votes. BOOM.
Thing is, being a Jeremy Clarkson fan, I have to mimic him somewhat if to be recognised as a believer, which means changing my mind half way through any argument. So, uhmm, he's a fat, bigoted, stupid, brown (as in not green) excuse for a human. Plus he cheated on his wife, just a couple of years after she bought him a Mercedes-Benz 600 for his birthday. The wanker.
Never try to "Know your enemy", you'll end up obsessed with them.
Robin Hood. Moulin Rouge. Rise Against. Shrimps. Lion King. Robin Hood AGAIN. These are all things I've sworn vows of hatred against. And now I love them all. Admittedly, the first Robin Hood (Kevin Costner version) is only on my love list because of his Rickman-ness playing Mr Sheriff. But apart from that, they're all things I didn't watch/listen/ to/eat because I knew I'd hate them if I did. Then I did. And now I know how awesome they are.
This is all very good and dandy, and it means I can eat shrimps and watch Moulin Rouge more than I would have been able to do otherwise, but I can just tell it's going to happen with Doctor Who, which is bad, bad, bad. Because I KNOW I hate Doctor Who, but I'm going to watch it anyway, my justification being that it obviously won't convert me, and I'll know what I'm talking about when I scathingly criticise it.
And now I've gone and watched it. And it's AWESOME. It has a guy so mental I'd like to think he reminded me of myself, and aliens who look and sound like Darth Vader (obviously without the mask, moron). And to put a little grape on the top of the cake, as I don't like cherries- never tried them, I just know- it has a Scottish person. How could I have been so stupid? I've missed out on most of a lifes worth of Doctor Whos.
Basically, I've done it again. Which is annoying. Yet not, because I have something else to do now on my lonely little evenings staring at a computer screen. Goodbye.
This is all very good and dandy, and it means I can eat shrimps and watch Moulin Rouge more than I would have been able to do otherwise, but I can just tell it's going to happen with Doctor Who, which is bad, bad, bad. Because I KNOW I hate Doctor Who, but I'm going to watch it anyway, my justification being that it obviously won't convert me, and I'll know what I'm talking about when I scathingly criticise it.
And now I've gone and watched it. And it's AWESOME. It has a guy so mental I'd like to think he reminded me of myself, and aliens who look and sound like Darth Vader (obviously without the mask, moron). And to put a little grape on the top of the cake, as I don't like cherries- never tried them, I just know- it has a Scottish person. How could I have been so stupid? I've missed out on most of a lifes worth of Doctor Whos.
Basically, I've done it again. Which is annoying. Yet not, because I have something else to do now on my lonely little evenings staring at a computer screen. Goodbye.
Hello there everybody
Hello.
I'm afraid my first paragraph blogging is going to have to be commandeered to house a slight admission. To be completely honest, this whole idea was somewhat stolen from Michael Crowder's blog (www.3yearoldtrappedinateenagersbody.blogspot.com), which I'd strongly encourage you to read. When I say strongly, I mean in a death threats sort of way.
Anyway, the whole idea of this is for me to talk about what I want to talk about, whether it's free range eggs, the house of commons shop, how annoying Nick Clegg is, etc. I will almost inevitably also start venting my fury on whatever it is I darn well feel like venting about. That's how this works, you see. I write, you read, you roll your eyes, I feel like I'm getting some attention.
Before I start writing (and venting), I'd like to ask how you can tell if there's fish in the bottom of your page?
I'm afraid my first paragraph blogging is going to have to be commandeered to house a slight admission. To be completely honest, this whole idea was somewhat stolen from Michael Crowder's blog (www.3yearoldtrappedinateenagersbody.blogspot.com), which I'd strongly encourage you to read. When I say strongly, I mean in a death threats sort of way.
Anyway, the whole idea of this is for me to talk about what I want to talk about, whether it's free range eggs, the house of commons shop, how annoying Nick Clegg is, etc. I will almost inevitably also start venting my fury on whatever it is I darn well feel like venting about. That's how this works, you see. I write, you read, you roll your eyes, I feel like I'm getting some attention.
Before I start writing (and venting), I'd like to ask how you can tell if there's fish in the bottom of your page?
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